PART EIGHT: THE WRONG ONE

DISCLAIMER: This entry involves experiences of bullying, sexual misconduct and/or assault, and self-hate and could possibly trigger a reader who may have (or is still) struggling with any of those issues. Please be cautious.

As with all of my entries and stories, each piece of writing I post here is from my personal perspective, experience, logic, and truth. I do not, and nor will I ever claim, that I know best, or all there is to know, about any topic or experience another individual may have experience(d). These are my words, my thoughts, my feelings, my truth.

I remember the day I met my son’s father. I’d seen him around of course. We had mutual friends. But the day I started to get to know him was a beautiful sunny, summer day. A group of us decided to go to the beach, or what consisted of a beach near us, and go sea-dooing. At one point, my son’s father jumped at the chance to go on and I volunteered to go with him. We enjoyed the speed and splashing for a short time and then suddenly found ourselves stuck in the middle of the river. Our sea-doo had run out of gas. I can’t remember how long we were stuck for, but it got us talking. And somehow, we found things in common. To this day, I don’t know what they were. When we were finally rescued and towed to shore, we made plans to go on a date.

He was a smooth talker. He knew how to flirt, and compliment, and make a girl feel good. In my naivety, it never dawned on me that these were just words, plays from a playbook he carried in his arsenal, to attract and keep a girl. I’d confessed to him about most, if not all, of my past. I told him about how I’d been hurt and betrayed, and he promised me he would never do anything like that. I guess because I was always a person of her word, I automatically took him at his. We were soon exclusive and spending all of our time together.

The abuse came later and at a very slow and methodical pace. Now, I’m not saying he did it all with meticulous and malicious intent. He was probably a product of his environment, or his trauma, his experiences. So much toxic masculinity, and he loved it! He grew up idolizing the roles that Arnold Schwarzenegger and Jean-Claud Van Damme played (not the actors). The strong, silent type who never show emotions and have to ‘be a man’. You know the kind, that often lead to stereotypical and misogynistic behaviours. Having said that, I believe that a part of him knew he was unkind to me.

I’m sure there must have been good times between all of the bad. But when I reflect, I only have a lot of bad memories.

I remember going to a party at one of his friends’ place. There was a lot of drinking and smoking weed going on, but I only drank. By this time, I had sworn off drugs, only indulging once in a very blue moon. As often happened then, the girls would congregate in one area, while the boys hung out in another. I could hear the boys joking and laughing and they were all terrible jokes degrading girls and women, some even about the very women in the room. That bothered me, so I went to sit with them. I wanted to try and get a word in to let them know how offensive they were. I thought I was so smart by trying to do it by pretending to be ‘one of the boys’. I’d laugh at some and then chime in my own personal thoughts intermittently. After I’d spoken once or twice, my son’s father made a joke to the effect of “shut up woman, and go make me sandwich”. All of them laughed, but I quipped something back. Something clever, attacking his masculinity. They all laughed again and I felt my ego swell. We went back and forth a little bit until I got him good enough for the rest of the boys to turn on him and start teasing him. I could see the teasing was upsetting him, so I moved to his side, hugged and kissed him and told him I was just joking. He kissed me and I went back to the girls. As soon as we got in the car to leave some time later, he blew up at me. “How dare you embarrass me like that!” “You fucking bitch!” “Who do you think you are?” Things to that effect. He was so angry with me and he scared me. It took some time and a lot of placating to calm him down. That was my first very obvious red flag, but I ignored it.

Over several months, he began to get very jealous. At first, I thought it was sweet. I’d never had a boyfriend feel so threatened and react so strongly. For some reason, I equated it to love. But when I went out for coffee with an old friend I hadn’t seen in a long time, a girl with a really deep voice, and he wouldn’t stop calling because he was sure she was a man and I was cheating, it was embarrassing. I felt so much shame trying to make excuses for him while I was with her. And another time, I went to play pool with some girlfriends. We wanted a no-boys night, but he ended up just showing up at the pool hall shortly after because ’he didn’t trust other guys’. He stayed close to me, keeping a watchful eye on the other men in the bar and I felt like a piece of property. He was behaving as though he owned me and I hated it. But I allowed myself to believe him when he said he behaved that way because he loved me.

I remember the first time it got physical. We were watching a movie and somehow got into a fight. His temper flared big time and I grew scared. He started yelling and waving his arms and hit me across the face. He swore it was an accident, though he didn’t apologize, but my brain told me not to allow it. So, I hit him and told him never to hit me again. I’d hoped that would knock some sense in to him and let him realize I wouldn’t take his shit. Unfortunately, he grabbed me by the throat and pushed me up against the wall. I remember the sinking feeling in my stomach, the want to throw up. I didn’t know if he was going to rape me, beat me, choke me. I wondered if my father would come running from upstairs if I screamed. He held me there for a few seconds, which felt much longer, and told me “Don’t ever hit me! I’m the man in this relationship!” And he stormed off. I’m pretty sure I fell to the floor and cried, alone.

Things were always that up and down. I never knew which version of him I was going to get. There were definitely softer and kinder moments, otherwise I wouldn’t have stayed, but then again… I just remember loving him so hard. I wanted to make him happy. I wanted to make things work. I wanted to be the reason he became a better man. In those moments of kindness, we’d talk about kids. He’d get a little spark in his eye and I remember thinking, maybe having a child would be a good thing for us. Thankfully, that didn’t last long.

A few weeks after my nineteenth birthday, I broke up with him. I’d given him over a year and wasn’t happy, and not only did I not like the way he was treating me, but I didn’t like who I was with him. I found solace and strength in my older sister and dumped his ass. I brought his stuff over to his parents’ place when he wasn’t there, and that was it. I was too scared to tell him face to face. I knew I didn’t have the strength to hold my ground. I knew what his reaction was going to be and I didn’t want him to convince me to stay with him. I spent the next three days or so with my sister and her boyfriend and I got to see what a healthier and happier relationship looked like. It reaffirmed my feelings and I felt confident in my decision.

As days passed, I got phone calls from his friends, and their girlfriends, all telling me how fucked up he was about the break-up. He was drinking non-stop. He was drinking and driving because he didn’t care if he died. He would cry to them and go on about how he couldn’t live with out me. Supposedly. There was a part of me that was so angry at these people because it was so mean and manipulative of them to harass me and keep telling me these things. Like they wanted me to feel guilty about breaking his heart. There was absolutely no consideration about how I was feeling and why I broke it off in the first place. At the same time though, my heart strings were being plucked. Still, I refused to give in. I refused to see him.

He finally showed up at my dad’s house with roses and begged me to just go on a walk with him. For some stupid reason, I agreed. We walked and he listened as I told him how he hurt me, how he’d treated me so badly and I was afraid of him. He listened so attentively, without interrupting, I was impressed. When I finished, he immediately spouted his love for me, how he couldn’t live without me, how he totally understood everything I said and was going to make up for it. He was going to be the man I deserved. Though a part of me was screaming not to, he pushed and pulled and begged and pleaded, so I took him back. I didn’t want to be mean. I didn’t want to hurt him!

The first few weeks of our being back together were nice. He was sweet, he was attentive, he was loving. But it wasn’t long before we were right back where we left off. And then not long after that, I was pregnant.

Stay tuned for PART NINE

Ⓒ May 2022. Beki Lantos. All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means without prior written permission of the author.