Psycho Bitch: A Love Story

  I wasn't sure what was bothering me. As I faced him, I was struck by how relaxed he looked. The lines that had been creeping in around his eyes were gone. His skin had a bronze glow to it as if he was spending a lot of time outside.

  I said the first thing that popped into my head, "What are you doing here?"

  He laughed and it was the carefree laugh I remembered from when we first met, not the tight, too sharp cackle it had become. The truth was, he looked amazing, he seemed happy and I felt … nothing.

  Horrified realization dawned. Henry had been one hundred percent right. And Adam, despite the harsh way he'd left, had been too.

  "I work here, Char. I took the job."

  For the first time, I noticed he was in jeans and a button down, not his usual suit and tie.

  "I didn't realize," was my lame reply. I was floundering.

  I had never kept in touch with a single ex-boyfriend and all my partings had been ugly. Seeing Adam and realizing my complicity was a bit overwhelming. Adam saved me by kneeling and scratching Hugo. My traitorous canine sprawled and rolled to give Adam access to his belly. The satisfied groans he made had us both laughing.

  Adam was still smiling as he stood and I was no closer to being sure what to say. Again, Adam took the lead.

  "I have to admit; I was pretty surprised when Nadia told me you'd adopted Hugo."

  "Nadia?" my brain still hadn't caught up to the situation.

  "The receptionist," he cocked his head and scrutinized my face.

  "What?" I said, flushing.

  "What changed, Char? You were so anti-dog when we were together."

  I shrugged and looked away as I spoke without thinking, "I thought my new place was dangerous and decided a guard dog was the solution."

  Adam had the grace to flush before saying, "Char, about that—"

  "Adam, stop," my voice was gentle, but I didn't want an apology from him. From the corner of my eye, I saw the mastiff and his owner vacate a nearby bench. "Will you sit with me for a minute? There are a few things I'd like you to hear."

  He tensed, but agreed, moving with the wariness of someone expecting punishment. We sat and Hugo settled himself between our feet.

  Turning to face Adam, I said, "I want to apologize, Adam. You were right." His expression was so shocked, I almost laughed. Continuing, I said, "I can't say I'm happy about how you left, but I think I needed a good kick in the ass."

  I proceeded to tell him my assumptions about Louis and my mishaps with Hugo. I kept it light and funny.

  "So, Hugo and I have figured out how to live with each other and, truthfully, I'm happy where I'm at," I finished.

  Adam was still laughing at my description of Hugo and Señor's first meeting.

  "Wow," he said, "I gotta tell you. I never would have imagined this for you."

  I smiled, "Me either."

  "I did love you, Charlotte. It just didn't work." He wasn't looking at me as he spoke, maybe that made it easier for him to say. "I do apologize for the way I left. I don't know if it makes a difference, but I didn't think I could stick to it if I did it any other way."

  Reaching out, I squeezed his arm. "I can understand. As hard as it was for me, it forced me to take care of myself."

  We sat silent, each in our own thoughts until a woman came out from the shelter and called to Adam. I rose with him as he said, "I'd better go. Charlotte, I have to be honest, especially since you'll be here with Hugo." He drew a deep breath. "I don't think I'm ready to be friends, but I think it could happen in the future. I need time and space to let some things fade, though."

  Picking up Hugo's leash so I didn't have to look at Adam, I said, "I understand. I wish you well, Adam. Truly."

  Much to my surprise, he hugged me tight saying, "Ditto, Char. Take care of yourself."

  He didn't look back as he returned to the life he'd chosen for himself.

  * * *

  During the drive home, I was distracted by thoughts of the encounter with Adam and the strange reactions it had provoked. He'd once referred to me as an immovable object. He'd said that when an immovable object meets an unstoppable force, only one of two things can happen. Either the immovable object is destroyed or it's bypassed.

  He'd been right. In the end, he'd bypassed me. I'd tried to fit him into a box that was comfortable for me and it hadn't worked. So, he'd gone around me. I was grateful he hadn't chosen destruction.

  As I thought back over my life, I saw a pattern of callous disregard for the men who had shared space with me. Hell, I'd fallen more in love with Hugo than I had any of the men in my life.

  I gasped, hitting the brake hard enough to lock the seatbelts. Hugo woofed a complaint, thank goodness he was strapped in. I'd had a moment of clarity so palpable, I'd stunned myself.

  My reaction to Adam, to every ex I'd ever had when I happened across them was not true awkwardness. It was the subconscious awareness of the bad blood I'd created. A pseudo fight or flight response because I'd harmed these men. I had only felt peaceful and resolved after talking with Adam because I had acknowledged my complicity and apologized.

  Beads of sweat bloomed across my skin as I imagined the people I'd harmed in life as small beacons of hatred holding malice in their hearts for me. I shivered. In this new reality in which I found myself, I saw that I was wrong. I had always been aware that I was using and exploiting them, that was their purpose, but I'd never cared before.

  I did now. I grew more uncomfortable with the notion that there may be people out there holding a grudge against me.

  I made a snap decision and pulled over, parking at a vacant meter. I had time before the Prius was due back. Ducking into the store, I brought two boxes of blank note cards.

  It was going to be a long night.

  * * *

  At midnight, I put the last stamp on the final card. It had taken a while, but I'd found the last known address of each previous boyfriend and one non-boyfriend.

  I was exhausted and the trip down memory lane had not been a pleasant one. Especially when I thought of Rathin, the non-ex. Remembering what I'd done to him actually nauseated me.

  Rathin Choudhary attended the same high school I did. He was a senior when I was still a junior. We'd had a low key rivalry as we were in some of the same extra curriculars. To my surprise, he'd invited me to be his prom date. I'd already been to prom with my previous boyfriend, Jake, but saw Rathin's invite as a two-fer: my parents would hate it because he was Indian, and, I'd get another notch in the prom category.

  He took me to dinner, gave me flowers, was the perfect gentleman. I, in turn, refused to dance even once, barely spoke to him, and, I'm sure generally ruined what was supposed to be a highlight of one's high school years.

  He'd done nothing to deserve it.

  It had been a nice surprise to see he was an optometrist with what appeared to be a thriving practice. I hoped that meant my actions had done no permanent damage, but I'd decided to send him an apology as well.

  I added Rathin's card to the stack and grabbed my laptop.

  * * *

  Blog Post: On Walking Down Memory Lane

  Life Inside the Echo Chamber

  Dear readers, I did something I have never done before. I spent last night writing apology notes to all my past boyfriends and one non-boyfriend. As I walked down this rather uncomfortable bit of memory lane, I couldn't help but notice a pattern in my past relationships.

  They haven't been emotional relationships, they've been transactions. Bluntly stated, I've whored myself out. Not for money, but in other ways, primarily company. I gave up my virginity at fourteen to a boy who remained my boyfriend for the next three years. We barely spoke to one another, had little in common, rarely spent time together and when we did all we did was screw, but … he was my boyfriend on tap. If I needed a date, he was there. If I needed a ride or use of the car, I got it. When I wanted company he was quick to grant it … so long as I continued to have sex with him.

  I didn't ques
tion this arrangement. I didn't feel bad about it. It worked for me.

  As with any relationship that has no emotional value whatsoever, he cheated on me. I'd warned him it was coming, I saw how the girl was pursuing him, but he ignored me. When it happened, I did what was expected. I cried, broke up with him then took him back three weeks later after making sure he understood the parameters of our relationship. We stayed together another year. When he broke up with me, he told me I was the coldest person he'd ever met.

  I was dating someone else within three weeks.

  This guy was so sweet he bled sugar. He would have done anything for me. I exploited that. In return, I gave him the sexual experiences he'd never had before. He was a virgin when we met. I never once stopped to consider what I was doing to him. He was religious and made it clear he didn't want to have sex right away. I ignored him and just took matters into my own hands. I wanted to ensure he stuck around. What I failed to understand was that I bonded him to me in a way I hadn't counted on—emotionally. Eventually, he went to college and that meant he wasn't around 24/7 to serve whatever role I wanted him in, so I found someone else. I'll never forget his face when I broke up with him. It still haunts me.

  The litany continues. I've by no means got a huge track record. I've barely broken double digits and I can name every single person I've ever been with, but I do see that sex was a drug of sorts for me. It was a means of escape by orgasm, regardless of whether or not they were self-administered. When I look at the majority of the sexual partners I've had in my life, it is more participatory masturbation than sex. There's no connection, no communion. I wanted a dick and they provided it. In return for ready access to my vagina, I wanted the illusion of a relationship so I didn't feel like a whore. But, I was definitely whoring. I see that now.

  I grew up believing men wanted nothing from women other than sex. My parents didn't spend time in the same room with each other … ever, but we always knew when they were screwing. My oldest sister was getting her ass beaten on the regular by her husband and my other sister screwed someone new every weekend. Add in a gigantic dose of Christian guilt and sexual repression and you don't exactly have a recipe for sexual maturity.

  Only now, that I've been celibate for more than a minute, and I've come into contact with some good people, have I begun to consider what sex can be between two people. I've never experienced that communion of body and mind. I've never experienced the freedom that comes with dropping your boundaries and baring your body and soul to another individual that you trust. I would like to. Maybe one day I will.

  I only know one thing unequivocally, after realizing what I've actually been doing, I'll never whore myself for company or empty sex again. I'd rather be alone.

  6. The Lies I Tell Myself

  "WHAT IS IT THAT YOU find so bothersome about this?"

  Dr. Scribens sat across from me, a notepad on his lap and made notes as he spoke. It was my third session with him and I was undecided on whether I'd be returning. Nothing about my life was normal, but, if this were all just some delusion, I wasn't sure I wanted to snap out of it.

  "I feel vulnerable and out of control. And, I don't like feeling this way. I'm so exposed."

  "Why?"

  I sighed and picked at the sofa cushion. It was so hard to explain. For me, it just was. It was like walking. I knew how to do it, but I couldn't necessarily explain it.

  "My experience is that people use things like this against you. I don't want to put myself out there and get sucked into someone's twisted game. Just have them fuck with my mind, you know?"

  He didn't flinch at the profanity but I got the impression he didn't like it. I did that sometimes just to see if he'd say something. So far, he hadn't said anything judgmental. Much like Henry, I was beginning to think the doc was too good to be true.

  "I mean, let's take Henry for a moment." I leaned forward as I spoke, the agitation I felt was bubbling, making it hard for me to sit still. "He's kind. He's funny. He calls me out on my bullshit. He accepts me. He hugged me. He's never asked me to be different. And now, he takes one measly trip and I feel like I'm missing something important. There's an empty spot now." I sighed again, smoothing my jeans as I did.

  "Why do you keep doing that?" The doc asked.

  "What do you mean?" I didn't follow that non sequitur.

  "Every time you start to connect with an uncomfortable emotion, you sigh, and brush at your pants. It's like you’re trying to brush away what you're feeling."

  I stopped and stared at him. I saw only curiosity in his face, but I still felt scrutinized. My first response was to snap at him, but I clamped down on that impulse as well as my hands. I stuck them under my thighs.

  "Charlotte, doing that is not addressing the issue," he pointed to my lap with his pen. "Do me a favor, close your eyes and just say whatever comes to mind."

  I raised an eyebrow, knowing my skepticism was clear, but in the end, this is what I was paying for, so I complied.

  Closing my eyes was disorienting. I had no point of reference like this. It was almost dizzying. I began to open my eyes again, but the doc said, "Go on."

  "I don't want to rely on anyone. Relying on someone means you need something from them. When you need something from them, then they have power over you. They can hurt you. They can deny you. If they deny you, and you need it, then they can destroy you. Henry can hurt me. I don't want to be hurt."

  I couldn't take it anymore, I opened my eyes.

  The doc wasn't looking at me; he was consulting his pad. He made one final notation before he spoke. "What you’re feeling is common among survivors of emotional abuse. But I want you to consider your own words. You said that life was 'more satisfying' and that you felt a sense of 'satisfaction' that you hadn't experienced before, yet enjoyed. So, wouldn't you say that this is a positive experience?"

  I nodded, but some part of me still resisted.

  He must have sensed this, because he continued. "Have you considered that your feelings about Henry and your new friends is really fear of losing them?" I didn't respond. "Answer a few questions for me. Okay?"

  It would have been a waste of money to refuse, so I nodded.

  "If Henry were to disappear right now, what true harm would there be to your life?"

  The thought of Henry disappearing had my stomach churning, but he wasn't asking me how I would feel.

  "Nothing." It was the honest answer.

  "Would you lose your home, your work, or your health?"

  "No."

  "So, what is there to fear if you lose Henry?"

  I wanted him to stop saying those words. They made my lungs hurt.

  "This!" I flung that word at him. "Feeling like this!" I said. "I feel like my skin will burst at the idea of losing Henry. Any of them."

  "What makes you so convinced you're going to lose them?"

  I wasn't thinking about what he was saying anymore. Whenever we got this far, I wanted to vomit. I had this horrific image of Henry's face contorted with disgust as he understood the cruel things I'd done and then cutting me loose. It was one thing for me to be honest with the folks in my life now, I hadn't harmed any of them. But, what if they found about my past? What then?

  Dr. Scribens continued to write on his pad as he waited for my answer. The positioning of his chair placed him in the midst of the late afternoon sun. A beam of light cut across his bald pate. His skin gleamed and I wondered how it would feel under my hands.

  "Charlotte," he drew me from my imaginings, "What are you thinking?"

  "I'm wondering what it would feel like to rub your scalp." He asked for it.

  His only reaction was to raise an eyebrow. "Trying to shock me is a defense mechanism. We've discussed this before. Besides, I've heard much worse. Answer the question."

  I looked away and resumed picking at the sofa. I didn't want to talk about this.

  The doc sighed and said, "Okay. Let's leave that topic for now. Why did you feel compelled to send those car
ds?"

  I shrugged, "I'm not sure. It occurred to me that I had been mean to them and I should apologize."

  "Yes," he said, "but why now? You've never felt this compulsion before."

  "I. Don't. Know." I bit off each word, making no effort to hide my frustration. It was true I didn't know. "Ever since Adam left, nothing has been normal for me. At every turn, my expectations are thrown back in my face and nobody responds the way I expect them to."

  "In other words, you've come into contact with a group of people who won't let you manipulate them."

  I didn't say anything. He was right, but I was feeling mulish.

  "Yes or no, Charlotte?" He wasn't backing away, but I wasn't saying anything.

  "I'll take that as a yes. Let's talk about Henry."

  "No!" I surprised myself with my fervor. I'd talked about Henry quite enough for one day. Dr. Scribens knew all the details anyway and I didn't want to analyze it any further.

  He looked at me for several long moments, drawing conclusions, but saying nothing.

  "Have you thought about our discussion last week?"

  "Yes."

  "How do you feel about what I said?"

  "I'm not a criminal. I've never broken the law. Well, traffic laws, but never anything else. I like rules. I like structure."

  "The concept of criminality being necessary to diagnose someone as a sociopath has been debunked. New science shows that sociopaths have all the same emotions and drives as naturally empathic people, but their brains are wired differently. Empathic emotions are not their default, so they must be taught how to access these things."

  I stood and began pacing. My skin was shrinking and I was feeling claustrophobic, just as I had when he'd introduced the idea at our last session.

  "So, you're saying that I'm a head case. Completely mental?"

  "No," his unflappable calm was annoying sometimes. "Labels are irrelevant. I'm saying you're wired a little differently and will therefore react differently and perceive differently. That's all. I'm also saying, that's why your recent behavior, which is completely normal, empathic, and even moral, by the way, seems so foreign and uncomfortable for you."