Disposal
You're perfect. Now go away.
One day he casually mentioned he was going to visit his family in India for about a month. I assume he needed visa stamps, but I knew better than to question things.
I saw this as an opportunity to gather the little nerve I had left and ask him to define our relationship before he left. We arranged a time to talk, but I clumsily tripped over my words and he clicked his tongue in annoyance as he heard me out. He determined that we were, "just seeing each other." I asked what that meant, but he couldn't seem to answer. I was so embarrassed and disappointed! A good year after this, I was still trying to understand whether, "seeing someone," is really a recognized stage of dating.
After reluctantly contemplating my other prospects, I decided to wait for him. He seemed pleased! I felt glad but confused, and was glad he was getting the chance to visit family. We kept in contact daily with surface-level pleasantries on Whatsapp.
Once is an accident. Twice is a coincidence. Three times is a pattern. It's probably all deliberate.
When he returned from India in mid-December, on the increasingly brief occasions we got to meet he did not seem invested anymore. He cancelled plans more often, and I rearranged my schedule in an effort to make things easier. But he brought me a little painting back as a gift, so I felt better.
He commented that his lease in Foster City was coming up due for renewal and that he wanted to move to San Francisco. I personally felt like that was a terrible idea - nobody familiar with the city willingly lives in the denser areas of unless they want to fight a hellish commute. Regardless, I took a drive with him to a potential apartment, simply for the opportunity to spend some time together. He left me in the car for an hour, then we moved on to Little Italy in North Beach for food that I frankly didn't feel like eating; I felt physically ill at the lack of improvement between us.
In light of my growing attachment and a clear lack of progress for him, I asked for a period of abstinence until he was ready to define our relationship. He agreed, and I meant well, but the plan failed - not without badgering on his part. I admitted to a close friend that I had come to love my abuser but I was not about to be the first to confess it to him. I had notoriously been the first to admit feelings to past partners.
Withholding expressing my feelings to him was my last semblance of dignity.
The mistreatment escalated. The one and only time I stayed overnight in his apartment, he took advantage of my being too exhausted and sore from the previous night to accomplish more than groan an objection and ineffectively wave him away the next morning. He didn't stop. For some reason, I didn't feel traumatized by this... But as if to compensate, I was left in enough pain to cry myself awake the following day.
I felt like a helpless doll and I started drinking excessively to cope with my frustration - I didn't recognize the person I'd become. I texted drunkenly to a friend that I wanted this rough treatment while the big, fat tears rolling down my face told another story.
I just wanted to be loved.
Christmas passed and he, "didn't have time," for us. New Years 2018 passed and he, "didn't have time," for us.
His behavior reached a crescendo when, without warning, discussion or consent, he wrapped his fingers around my throat during intercourse. He pressed down and squeezed. Hard. I began to cry and he silently watched me grab at his hand. I was unable to speak, struggle and barely able to breathe - from physical pressure or shock, I can't say. If I'd had the ability to make any noise I would've sobbed. I gave up. I despaired. I felt that if he chose to kill me, it was my fault, and I would be as humiliated dead as I was while alive with him. I only felt sorry that my parents had tried so hard to keep me safe and I was the reason they'd have to find me this way.
I finally felt forced to accept that his actions were not evidence of love.
Would you believe that after this incident, I drove him to McDonalds? I had nearly forgotten, myself. He complained of being hungry and tired, and I was afraid he'd crash his car if he drove. I knew I wasn't happy, but I happened to be alive and I was too numb to care.
I sat, dead-eyed and robotic at the drive-through and listened as he made fun of the server's distinct Indian accent to me. I ceased to be surprised by anything.
I dropped him off at his apartment.
I went home as usual.
My throat and neck were sore following that incident. If there was bruising, then I couldn't tell it apart from the patchwork of fading hickeys. In the mirror, I mimicked his hand around my neck with my own to see if it really looked as bad as it had felt. I couldn't accept that he hadn't stopped when I cried and taking a photo would have anchored it in reality forever. So I didn't.
I didn't acknowledge it to him. I dismissed it and tried not to think about how betrayed I felt, instead deciding to push him harder for any small token of commitment. It was a risky move - I was already on thin ice.
It wasn't much longer before we agreed to meet for, "a talk" at his apartment. Suffice to say, my blood ran cold.
After several minutes beating around the bush about his busy schedule, he asked me what I thought he wanted to talk about. I told him, "I feel like you don't want to see me anymore." He responded with a feeble,
"I guess."
"It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing. "
-Macbeth