WE MEET AGAIN (Part Two)

Getting out of an abusive relationship brought an obvious sense of relief but the freedom I’d gained sometimes felt tentative. So many times during our final year living under the same roof—no longer technically together, yet still living side by side in separate bedrooms as renovations sloooowly got done—he’d pleaded for me to give us another shot. Those moments felt as out-of-left-field and (almost) as unpleasant as his abusive tirades. I’d finally broken things off; I didn’t want to think or talk about “us” anymore. I didn’t like having to sound like a cold, callous cad, as if I were responsible for everything falling apart. 

 

I moved to a rural area a ferry ride away. I could afford a house there, but my daily commute to work took five hours (two and a half each way). Most of the year, I only saw my home in daylight on weekends. The water between my ex and me wasn’t exactly a moat filled with crocodiles, but it created distance. 

 

His mother once told me he’d come over on the ferry and “staked out” my house. (Her words, not mine.) For six years, he would periodically send me emails—more apologies, more begging to get back together. This correspondence concerned me greatly. What might happen if and when he accepted the fact there was were no more chances?

 

I never deleted the emails, thinking that if he murdered me, the police would go through my laptop and find a trail that would lead them to him. (How’s that for dark?) I know that people who’ve never been in an abusive relationship would say I should have gotten a restraining order. Sometimes that does work. Sometimes it only enflames matters. I’ve read too many times about people being killed by an ex for whom they’d taken out a restraining order. In a variation of the Rock, Paper, Scissors game, rage beats paper.

 

I have no doubt he’s Googled me many times. I started this blog anonymously and created a Twitter account using a pseudonym, in part, so I could express myself more freely without him getting any personal updates. For all I know, he could read this post. (He works in the tech industry. There are always ways to track someone’s virtual footprint.) He would take offense to me portraying things as abusive. It’s easy for someone to do when their rages occur as blackouts. I once recorded one of his rages so I could play it back to him as proof of his Mr. Hyde side. I needed him to know how bad it was. I thought it would lead him to seek help. I cannot recall if he refused to hear it or if I decided not to share it. (I suspect the latter since my gut told me that the fact I had recorded him would only enrage him more.) 

 

Deep down, I believe he knows how bad things were.

 

When I moved back to Vancouver six years ago—I managed to sell my three-bedroom house to afford a teensy condo—I ran into him (almost literally) after just one month. I was jogging the sea wall on a sunny evening and there he was, standing, smiling and waving. I held up my hand—Was it a wave or a stop sign gesture?—and kept right on running. I’d escaped the moment, but he knew I was back. It felt like a bad omen. It was a big city, I reminded myself. There was enough space so that the two of us could coexist, our paths never crossing again. And so it went. 

 

Until last week. I’d gone to the gym and then ordered takeout pizza (lose some, gain some) to sit and eat at a waterside while reading a book. It was a gorgeous, sunny Friday evening. I hadn’t treated myself to pizza at my favorite joint in more than a year. As I walked home along the water, I was calm, even happy (a mood that is hard for me to reach). To head to my condo, I didn’t take my regular route, instead cutting through a courtyard I’d never passed through before. A man stood at the end of the walkway, looking directly at me, smiling way too broadly. At first, I didn’t recognize him. His face and body were a bit fuller—part of aging—and the sun was in my eyes. As we walked toward one another, his smile got bigger, if that was possible. It became clear it was him. My face remained stoic, a sense of dread surged. 

 

He wrapped me in a big, extended hug as my arms remained at my sides. I never let down my guard as he filled me in on his family and the latest job he’d lost. He’d called his female boss the c-word. “It’s not like I said it to her face. I texted it.” Somehow he thought that made it less offensive. It would never have occurred to him to pause before pressing the send button. 

 

He never stopped grinning. “I live here now,” he said. He pointed to a building within view. “Where are you living?” Answer: only a five-minute walk away. Oh, god. I didn’t tell him and he knew not to repeat the question. My pizza served as my exit pass. The box was empty—let’s just say it was an individual pizza—but I was carrying it home so I could recycle it. “I’ll let you go since your pizza’s getting cold. Yes, so cold. Just like my demeanor. 

 

Saved by a cardboard box. 

 

I’ll never walk down that walkway again, but I pass by the area, walking, jogging and biking multiple times a week. Now it feels highly likely our paths will cross again.

 

I don’t feel unsafe anymore. I’ve blocked so much of what happened. No amount of therapy can dig it up. Honestly, I’ve expunged so many specifics from my memory. It sounds improbable, but it’s true. It’s how I’ve recovered.

 

Still, in the next eight days after seeing him, he popped up in my dreams five nights. Nothing scary. Everything happy, with the two of us together, in love. Each time, I’d abruptly sit up in bed, horrified. Sometimes happy dreams are nightmares.