Stalker (a prelude)

He wasn’t really a stalker.

That’s what pops into my head when I say it. Almost simultaneously, my mouth says “the stalker” while my head says “he wasn’t really a stalker” in a snotty, bitchy, almost condescending voice. As if the look on the voice’s face would be snarled and ugly and judging. As if it would have one of those faces that I would never make eye contact with.

I don’t know why I used that label – it just stuck. I don’t know what he was. Even now, years later, I sit here and type, delete, type, delete, type, delete. I try to find another title that encompasses the bottled rage, hatred, ugly, angry mean that he was; there isn’t one.

I hate talking about it. HATE it. It never makes sense – people never understand. I don’t even understand. My memory of it is skewed anyway and the whole thing was so surreal that I usually have to call and fact-check. I still make phone calls to The Goddess consisting of “did that really happen?” even though I know it all happened but she was there and she was not the one on the verge of having a nervous breakdown. Oh look – there’s the other part I hate talking about.

Every single time me and myself have this conversation about how much I hate talking about this, I say to myself “this is bullshit. Don’t you give him all that power. YOU are in control – if you still can’t talk about it, he is still winning. BUCK UP BABY. THIS IS YOUR SHOW. RAWR!” and then my stomach caves in and my throat closes up and 2,125 miles from where I lived back then, I check the lock on the front door. Stupid (says the bitchvoice).

I’ve told most of it to my husband. All out of order and shaky and disconnected. I waited till none of my stories made sense without the mysterious part I kept leaving out. I think I blurted it all out after a bottle of wine. Then The Goddess came and put it all in order and cleaned up the ragged edges and I guess he got all the major events down. He didn’t ask me to elaborate unless something just wouldn’t add up without more details and I left some out that I knew would make him cringe too painfully. I know it is hard for him to hear about me hurting and being afraid – he wants to jump in and rescue me. I know what that feels like, because the whole ordeal sounds like it happened to someone else and when I hear it, I want to jump in and rescue me too.

Recently, Janet showed up – she was there too. Her nearness and my fear of it conjuring up old ghosts has made me realize that it’s time to get it out. I have no idea how long it will take or how many parts it will be broken into but in the words of the almighty Shrek, “Better out than in, I always say!”.

to be continued..