Psycho Bitch: A Love Story

  Today, I witnessed that type of soul deep connection. An elderly couple at a restaurant I was lunching in was celebrating their sixtieth anniversary. They were so clearly in love with one another. It was something I simply couldn't make sense of.

  But then, I often feel this way. Like I'm on the outside looking in and there is a glass wall between me and everyone else in the world. People talk about their feelings and their responses but for the most part, I don't relate. Everyone I let into my life has value to me, but it is a very calculated and quantified thing, it isn't emotional.

  For instance, my guy, he represents stability and predictability and a lifestyle that I enjoy. His salary is necessary to my life being how I want it to be. That is his value to me and it has a mercenary aspect to it. The same goes for "friends" and "colleagues." I know exactly what each and every person represents in terms of their contribution to my life, but I feel no empirical connection to any of them. Should they disappear from my life, I'd find someone to replace them. They are fungible.

  Seeing that couple helped me realize that this may not be normal for other people. I think part of me knew this, but I don't remember being any other way, so it never truly rose to the top of my consciousness as something I should consider or maybe work to understand. This is how I think and has always been so. Would you ever consider if the way you moved your feet to walk was right or proper? No, and in this, it never occurred to me to contemplate whether or not this was good, healthy, or the right way to be.

  I wonder if part of the reason I'm unable to bond on such a deep level with the men I've dated has to do with my abhorrence for sex. For the vast majority of my life, I haven't enjoyed sex. At least not with the men I date, I masturbate regularly. I never want to be touched. I complain and restrict the ways in which I allow them to touch me. Sex itself feels like an imposition and I always have a ready excuse for why I'm not more sexually motivated. For me, the fact that I'm extremely horny in the beginning of a relationship only to have it fade over time is "just the way I am." I don't see a need to question it.

  I usually blame my partner for this state. Every man I've ever dated can never seem to leave touching me at affection. Instead they feel me up, grab my ass, or touch me in some way that screams "let's fuck." This happens all the time with my current guy. I've accused him of objectifying me and that everything with him has to be sexual and not about love or affection.

  But, now I'm wondering if I'm using sex as a form of control. Do I make him feel rejected time and again? Am I using sex in my life the way girls who become anorexic control food because they feel like everything else in their life is out of control? Have I made sex a battleground for domination?

  I'm not sure where to start. I've always labeled myself as non-sexual. I never ponder the feelings of embarrassment and shame that I experience during sex. Nor, do I generally experience a feeling of helplessness in my everyday life. I make sure of that. Everything goes with me so long as I come out on top.

  Could it be as simple as body image? I admit I am profoundly uncomfortable with my naked body. I am small, not fat by any means, but I'm not in great shape and I'm generally soft. Cellulite and I are intimate friends and I am flat-chested along the lines of Gwen Stefani or Kate Hudson. You don't see women shaped like me being paraded around as objects of desire. Having sex never captured my imagination nor have I ever been able to lose my self-consciousness in the midst of it.

  For the first time ever, I truly have no idea what to do.

  9. You're On Your Own

  THE SPACE BETWEEN MY SHOULDER blades burned as I pushed through the lobby doors of my building. It had been a long day, and I was hoping Adam had worked late so I could have a little peace to decompress before having to interact with one more human.

  My mind was stuck on the blog entry I'd posted. I wasn't usually so open. My blog had typically been a place to rant and vent, however anonymously, but that post was entirely too confessional. If anyone ever found out it was me that wrote it, they'd have info on me that I don't allow people to have on general principle. It was a stupid thing to do and much too risky. It would have to come down.

  I unlocked the door and took a deep breath in order to prepare myself in case Adam was there. The door swung open and my blood ran cold at the sight before me, or, more correctly, what I didn't see. Panic clogged my throat sending my heart galloping. My limbs melted into jelly and a slow tingle spread through my body. I thought I would pass out.

  My satchel slid from my shoulder and landed on my foot. It was the pain of my little toe being squashed that snapped me out of the fugue into which I was descending.

  Kicking my bag away, I turned and checked the number plate on the door. I had to be in the wrong condo. No, the door read 522, just like it was supposed to.

  Confusion fogged my brain. This wasn't making any sense. I ran from room to room hoping for answers. Hoping my eyes were playing tricks on me and doing my best to quell the nausea roiling in the pit of my stomach.

  Finally, standing in my living room, I closed my eyes and counted to ten, promising myself that when I opened them again everything would be as it was supposed to be. To be safe, I counted to ten twice, but when I opened my eyes nothing had changed.

  My condo was empty. No furniture, no art on the walls, no area rugs, no Adam. Where my beautiful suede couch had sat there was only a stack of books neatly arranged by size and author last name. Resting on top was an envelope with my name neatly penned in Adam's blocky print. Realizing that the front door stood open, I shuffled over and closed it. Panic was still surging through me. I could barely move.

  After locking the door, which seemed ridiculous as there was now nothing to steal, I turned and gave into the weakness in my legs, sliding down the door until I fully connected with the floor. The magnitude of what I was seeing developed in my mind like a negative strip. The picture was there, the individual pieces were sensical, but the color and composition seemed distorted and backward.

  As my brain worked to assemble the tableau in front of me into something I could comprehend, a single thought repeated in my brain like a record with a broken needle: “Be careful what you wish for.”

  * * *

  I don't know how long I sat there. It felt like mere moments, but the indigo sky fading into black outside of my now barren windows said otherwise. I forced myself to my feet and, feeling as if I'd aged several decades in as many hours, I retrieved the envelope and extracted a single printed page.

  Charlotte - As you can see, I've moved out. I took only what I contributed to the household. Your kitchen stuff, clothes, books, and mattress all remain. By the time you read this, I'll have changed my phone number, so don't bother calling.

  Funny, I hadn't even thought about calling him. I shrugged and continued reading.

  I'm sure you're surprised by my actions, but if you are it's only because nothing about me even registers for you. I've tried to make this work, but a relationship can't succeed when only one person cares. And, our last conversation proved something I've been ignoring … you don't care about my happiness. You only care about yourself and what you want.

  I'm sure you'll find a way to twist this to make me out to be petty and small, but you were willing to watch me sacrifice my happiness to get your little dream office. Bet you didn't think I figured that out, did you?

  He was right. I didn't think he'd figured that out.

  But, it's more than that. It's the way you ignore me daily. The way you tense every time I touch you. It's the way you control information and manipulate me (the reason I'm doing this by letter so you can't spin this to change my mind). And, most importantly, it's how self-centered you are.

  I finally realized that my needs, my desires, and my dreams have no meaning to you at all. I'm a prop in your life, here to give you what you want, and to shut up until spoken to.

  So, I'm done.

  The rent is paid through the end of the lease, but after that, you're on your own. br />
  Adam

  P.S. The dog you saved is recovering and is on the mandatory hold at the Rescue League before being adopted. I was covering the desk last night and did his intake. Your name was listed as the person originating the call. How could you not tell me?

  The letter fell from my fingers which were now too numb to hold it any longer. I looked around my empty condo and, for the first time in my life, I had no backup plan. I'd gone all in on Adam.

  What in the hell was I going to do now?

  Part II

  Constant Entertainment

  Watch for a constant need for stimulation. Stillness, quiet and reflection are not things embraced by psychopaths. They need constant entertainment and activity.

  Identifying Psychopaths with the Hare Checklist

  1. How Low Can You Go?

  WASHINGTON, D.C. IS A STORIED city that pulses with power. It is simultaneously rich with history and continuously morphing into something new and unique with each Administration. Most people who live in the District are transplants, coming and going with the politics. Native Washingtonians, such as myself, are rare. As a result, it is a dynamic city that is constantly reshaping itself. Its streets flow with people like blood through veins. One of my favorite aspects of D.C. is its pockets of eclectic enclaves, shopping districts, and vibrant neighborhoods restored to their original Art Deco glory.

  The same could not be said for the studio apartment I rented on Madison Street near Highland Circle. I lived close enough to hear the various up-and-coming power brokers as they went about their day, but I wasn't truly a resident there. I couldn't afford the rent.

  No, I live on the fringe of one of the most sought after neighborhoods in D.C. I had ended up in a no man's land where one look told the story. A few blocks away, the buildings gleamed with new steel and glass. There were fresh coats of whitewash and newly-tended plantings. My building had peeling paint the color of soap scum, brick that crumbled in places, and weather-beaten steps that were frayed like cut off denim at the edges.

  Inside wasn't much better. I had traded my floor-to-ceiling windows, stainless steel appliances, and laminate floors for "historic charm." Note the sarcasm there.

  My new "home" (cue the eye roll) was a 500-square-foot closet, something it didn't actually possess and that, in my rush to avoid homelessness, I hadn't noticed until after I signed the lease. The kitchen area lined the wall next to the front door. It was a straight arrow of refrigerator, sink, dishwasher, and stove. The cabinets barely held my groceries and dishes. I'd had to get very creative at the local hardware shop to hang my pots on the wall sporting my one, lonely window.

  The main area was lined with walls painted institutional white and was large enough for my bed and a small love seat I'd found at a local thrift shop. I had no television to worry about, so the rest of the space held my books on several mismatched bookcases—also courtesy of the thrift shop. My clothes were hanging on a rolling rack much like you would find at a laundromat where my nonexistent visitors could see them.

  The bathroom was so small I could stand in the middle next to the tub with my arms out wide and touch both walls with a minor shift of my torso. A tiny, shoebox-sized window provided the only ventilation, and the steam built up so heavily that the faded yellow paint bubbled and peeled at the edges of the ceiling.

  It was depressing with a capital D. I'd only been here a week and I still woke up disoriented and wondering where I was.

  I had hoped that being close to a good neighborhood would allow me to be comfortable living on my own. I'd moved out of my parent's house the minute I was legal, but I always had roommates. This was my first time living by myself, and so far it was hell.

  Where I lived wasn't Southeast, the sector of D.C. best known for violence and poverty, but it was a grey zone between affluent and respectable. As I walked home from the subway, I'd actually passed a crime scene. I had yet to sleep through the night, and I hadn't found a coffee shop nearby that could match Kona. As a result, I was humping across town on the subway, which I could not afford, in order to feel as if my life hadn't completely fallen apart.

  I tried to spend as little time here as possible, especially given that I couldn't afford Internet service and all my neighbors had their Wi-Fi encrypted. So, along with losing all my comforts, I couldn't even afford the basics for work and entertainment. I couldn't even watch movies on my phone. Adam and I had shared a family plan which he canceled when he changed his number. I managed to salvage my number, but I had to change to prepaid, which meant my iPhone was now nothing more than a doorstop. My new phone could text and email, but that's it. So, on top of everything else, I was literally running my business out of a coffee shop!

  Unable to stand the silence, I stay out as long as possible each day. I'm not a quiet, reflective kind of girl. I need activity or else I feel caged and edgy and you can only clean your apartment but so many times.

  I smoothed back the comforter on my bed and checked the clock—11 a.m. on Saturday. I couldn't sleep any longer, my place was beyond spotless, and the walls were closing in on me. I needed to get out and fast, but I didn't want to work.

  Sitting on my bed, I took my phone from the charger and scrolled through my contacts. Slim pickings to say the least. Most of them were business contacts, not exactly people I could call up and invite out. Hell, I didn't even know what half of them looked like as all our business was conducted virtually.

  The few remaining people I'd met through Adam I'd avoided calling because I was unsure of my standing with them. They weren’t people I was particularly interested in impressing or cultivating my own relationship with, but I was desperate to get out of my house and out of my own company.

  Running the list one more time, I settled on Nadia. She was a public defender, a little on the shy side with a frumpy style and a huge crush on her gay boss. Not that she realized he was gay. How she missed it was beyond me, all you had to do was look.

  Nadia had invited Adam and me to a Christmas party at the house she had inherited in the upscale section of 16th Street. Her boss and one of her male co-workers had emerged from her kitchen looking quite rumpled and highly sexed up when they were supposedly just topping off their egg nog. I mean her boss was advertising quite the package. When he saw me eying him, he flushed a deep crimson. Talk about a dead giveaway. But, I'd seen no use for the information and had just filed it away. Information was power, and I enjoyed collecting little tidbits about the people around me. It never hurt to have leverage.

  Nadia was definitely a good choice. Her frump would make me look good in comparison, and knowing she was pining after something she would never get certainly put my situation into perspective.

  I hit the send button, summoned up what enthusiasm I had, and waited. It rang three times, and then there was dead air before the call abruptly disconnected. I stared at my phone in confusion. Had she hung up on me or had there been a network screw up? Shrugging, I tried again and this time the call went straight to voicemail.

  I disconnected, leaving no message, and stared at my phone in dismay. That cinched it. The little bitch had hung up on me. The temptation to call back and leave a scathing message was almost unbearable. The words practically clawed their way out of my throat.

  I imagined how her face would crumple at hearing how the man for whom she'd made an utter fool of herself would never want her. I imagined the tears she would shed, the pain she would feel and smiled. So great was the desire to wound, I had to put the phone down and stand up. It was best to leave that a fantasy for now. Nothing tangible would result by crushing her. The day that changed, however, I would be there.

  Ten minutes later, I was anything but smug. Only one person had taken my call, Angie, and she'd been polite but blunt. She let me know unequivocally that she was Adam's friend and, while she bore me no malice, she wouldn't be hanging out with me.

  I had no idea what to do. Torn between anger and indignation, there was no way I was staying in
the apartment. I grabbed my purse, slammed the door behind me, and pretended not to see the flurry of plaster floating down from the crumbling walls as I locked all three deadbolts.

  I walked the few short blocks to the subway station with no destination in mind. Everywhere I looked were couples and groups enjoying the unusually balmy late summer weather, holding hands, and generally connecting.

  Why does the world suddenly seem overwhelmed by couples when a relationship ends?

  I was blank despite having only been separated from Adam for a month. It would have been expected that there would be some regret, or pain and longing to be back with him. Maybe even grief at the relationship's end. But, the only thing I longed for was my condo.

  Tears flooded my eyes at how far I had fallen. My chest clenched, and I fumbled for a tissue in my purse as I fought the burn in my eyes and throat. Adam had no right to have done this to me. I intended to let him know that, but I had been thwarted at every turn. True to his word, he had changed his phone number and refused all my calls at work. I was far from finished with him, but I had been forced to focus on finding a place to live that I could reasonably afford. Not an easy thing in the Nation's Capital where housing was not far behind New York City. Rather than wait until the lease ran out, I took the first spot that met my minimum requirements of close to the subway, within budget, and located in Northwest.

  Unfortunately, that had turned out to be The Closet. Just thinking about my studio had me walking faster. Luckily, tourist season was over, so I and my fellow travelers all knew the rules for escalators; stand to the right, moving people to the left. I was grateful not to have to ask the inevitable tourist laden with a camera and souvenirs to get the hell out of my way as I walked down the moving steps.

  The dimly lit platform was unusually crowded for a Saturday, which meant there must have been some event taking place. I didn't have to wait long. Almost immediately, the recessed lights began flashing along the edge of the platform signaling that a train was approaching.