Smitten with Him

grown-up stuff happens here sometimes

My Psychotic Break (Part 1)

on November 29, 2018

After I told all you folks that I was completely done with Alaska and never ever in a million years going to take him back,

I took him back.

I was so ashamed that I couldn’t write about it.

Just like all those other times before I stopped writing because of him.

Because I didn’t want to hear your objections.

Because you were right.

And at the end end of it all, I ultimately broke.

After finding different excuses for 3 weeks out of 4 and then on the 5th week, “hyperextending” his knee. I was done.

There had been incidents during that month spent mostly apart which caused me to distrust him more and more.

One episode was petty and small, like our normal disagreements, but (like he had before) he called my feelings stupid and referred to all women as crazy, but this time he called me a MOTHER FUCKER, too!!!!! I was enraged! No matter how mad at him I was, the worst I would ever call him was selfish or conceited. I would never call him a mother fucker (even if he was being one).

The following weekend he “threw out his knee” so he wouldn’t be able to come over to see me for our customary Saturday visit.

Which I thought was odd because all the other times he threw out his knee, he still came over to my place on Saturday…

The very next weekend, he couldn’t visit me because he was going home to Alaska for a week.

When he got back the weekend after that and took me out to a movie (totally out of character for him – it seemed like he was finally trying, except), it felt uncomfortable and forced; almost like a blind date.

Before the movie, while normal people converse, I asked him about his trip home: what he did, who he saw, if he went fishing…

His response to every question was a grunt.

Sometimes he would get that way, just non-conversant. I never knew what caused it, and whenever I pressed him about his reticence, he would get noticeably upset with me and tell me nothing was wrong.

After the movie, when we were driving back to his place, I tried again to make idle conversation.

It didn’t work. It only upset him more….

Then I asked a different question about his trip. This time my question was much more straightforward/aggressive because I was sick of his shit:

I was at the point of not believing anything he told me. Everything he said felt like a lie; my mind was constantly forming evil thoughts in my head about him and what he was “really” doing.

A couple of weeks prior, he had mentioned going to Las Vegas with his brother – the time frame was coincidentally exact to that of his trip back home to Alaska. That’s where I thought he really was – Vegas.

But I chose a different line of questioning instead, because both of the “stories” I was telling myself seemed equally as likely.

“Remember a long time ago when you told me that you always used to keep your girlfriend/s in the dark about your illegal and illicit business/es? You said that it was because, if she didn’t know, she couldn’t incriminate you. Are you doing that now? Is that why you won’t talk to me about what you were doing while you were there? Were you checking up on your dealers and making sure your whores could still suck dick?”

At first he chuckled and asked, “Is that really what you think?”

I replied, “Of course. Why wouldn’t I think that? You won’t tell me anything about your trip back. It’s shady. Didn’t you do anything at all while you were there?” (I’ve used that word, shady, with him before when he was being suspicious. He didn’t like it.)

He was much angrier with his next response, “Why won’t you let it go? I just went home. It’s not a big deal!! Why are you being such a mother fucker?”

Again with that fucking name!!!

Seething now, I said, “If I went away for a week, even if it was just to my old stomping ground, *I* would want to tell you about it.”

“Well, I’m not you!”

The rest of the ride was silent.

When we got to his place I said, “Have a good night. See you later.”

“What? I thought we were going back to your place?”

“You know, after the movie and the ride and our lovely conversation where you called me a mother fucker again, I’m not really feeling it and kinda just want to go home and be alone.”

What he did next was both surprising and appalling:

He reclined his seat, unbuckled his pants and unzipped them, then said to me, “Get over here and suck my cock, bitch.”

I wish I could have seen the face I gave him! I’m not sure if it was disgust or horror (or a combination of both), but I’m sure it surprised the hell out of him.

I said, “Do you think I want that thing anywhere near me!?!? I don’t know where it’s been for the past few weeks and I certainly won’t trust what you tell me after how you’ve been treating me recently!”

He huffed, rezipped his jeans and rebuckled his belt, put the seat back to upright, grabbed his backpack from the back seat and left.

That was the beginning of my mental collapse…

2 responses to “My Psychotic Break (Part 1)

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