(no subject)
Hopefully I can wrap this up in two more chapters.
I abandoned the lease on the apartment after four months of paying rent by myself. And not only the rent but the utilities, the food, including food for his dog, and the upkeep of both our vehicles. We had lost our jobs with Steve Assmussen's barn around the same time we got evicted from the week-to-week. In the period of time that followed, he never held a job longer than two weeks, and would frequently take more time off in between than what he'd been employed for. On what I suspect were numerous occasions, though I only ever confirmed one, he would claim to be working and actually just kill some time until I left the house so he could come home and do nothing all day.
At one point he pitched a fit because he had "family" coming to visit and I refused to stay at a hotel so they could sleep in my bed. He didn't want word getting back to the rest of his family that he was fucking up staying with some woman again. Because that's what I was: a colossal fuck-up. Then he pitched another fit because I wouldn't give him money to buy furniture so the place would look like he'd made something for himself. I brought up the fact that he hadn't done anything for himself, he'd just been using me, and that appearances were more important to him than the reality of his situation, and it was on. I would be exaggerating grossly if I said he beat me within an inch of my life. He didn't. But he did knock me around some. Dented a wall with my head. Broke the TV stand and some dirty dishes sitting on it with some other body parts. Spilled his coke which was really a mistake. It took me another couple weeks after that, but for the first and only time in my life I finally took the advice of my mother: if he touches you again, leave him.
The truth about his visiting "family?" It was another woman. His "cousin," as he told me, whose picture had replaced mine as the screensaver on his phone, had also sent him topless pictures of herself. I know this because I went through his phone. He'd gotten into the habit of losing himself in text-land every time I bothered him, and when I voiced my suspicions he accused me of being paranoid. Did nothing to reassure me, just told me what a fool I was. Of course this only intensified my insecurity. I found pictures and explicit texts to not one but four other women, many indicating that physical encounters had already occurred. If there had been nothing incriminating discovered, I would have felt guilty for ever doubting him and likely never trusted my own judgement again. But when you find out you were right all along, well, then it's not really paranoia anymore, is it? And the saddest part is that he was accusing me of cheating the entire time. His guilty conscience speaking. You know it really is true that a person is always suspicous that everyone else is doing the same things behind his back that he's doing behind theirs. Paranoid schizophrenia must have it's roots in simple dishonesty.
By this point I was already mapping my escape, so rather than opening a bank account where my money would have been safe, which I reasoned would be pointless because my intentions of staying were fading faster than the life of a fetus scrambled and sucked through a tube (I'd just have to close the account again anyway, and there are fees for that) I instead elected to keep my money hidden (apparently poorly) around the house. So not only was I supporting him but he was stealing the rest of what I had from me. Like it was owed him.
What money he did make I never saw. At least not in paper form. But I did see lots of white powder go up his nose. No wonder his behavior was so erratic, his thought-processes so unreasonable. And why did he stop hiding it? Because he knew that once that lease was signed, I was legally bound to pick up the slack. Because he knew that I, unlike him, cared about my credit too much to break the lease.
I guess I showed him.
I have a strong preoccupation with money. Some would call it unhealthy, but, like seriously, it really does make the world go round. It's the only way to attain any degree of status or even security in society, and it's the only way to influence a damned thing, which is ultimately what I want to do. And I guess that was really the last straw; I got tired of my money walking off. Not the arguments that occassionally turned physical. Not the mind-fuck sexual manipulations where if I did what he wanted by paying the bills and cleaning the house without displaying any expectation of help from him, he would desire me, but the moment I balked at giving him more money for cigarettes or acted annoyed when he fed his dog my cat food or people food after I refused to take care of the little house-soiling brute for him, or reminded him that I would not be supporting his son, too, whenever he mentioned plans to regain custody, he would suddenly act like he couldn't stand the sight of me. Like I was such a total failure and disappointment as a woman that he couldn't fathom why God would bother wasting life on such an inferior creature.
I left him on Christmas Eve, a nice detail for the sob story he'll sell the next waif he can find to mooch off of. I certainly wasn't the first and sadly doubt I will be the last.
A big, stupid part of me still believed he would change. That he'd turn over a new leaf, get clean, buckle down and get his life together, make amends for all the wrongs he'd done people in his past, and beg me to come back. That I'd get my happy ending where everything is perfect. Shortly after returning home that dream went away.
Dooty, one of my cats, got sick with one of his blocked urinary tract things. I spent several hundred dollars at the vet to save him. After writing the check, I would have had something like eight ($8) dollars left in my account, which is cause for panic in Chris-land. I made a little money, deposited it, and asked for my balance. I was three hundred dollars overdrawn. The mother-fucker had gotten wind of my plans to leave him high and dry, stolen a check from my checkbook, made it out to himself to the tune of $500, and cashed it. There had been only a little over $200 in the account, but because of my then outstanding credit record, they covered the overdraft. Seriously, do they not even look at the signature cards when they process checks to see if they match?
In the process of bringing charges for this infraction, I found out about him calling the singles line on my dollar, and not only on the occassion I already mentioned but two other times as well. This was back when I thought we were going to be a happy couple and make it work. Thankfully, the $500 was recovered. What was spent on the singles line was not, and predictably, none of the cash he stole or bills he skipped out on has ever been repaid, either. My rage over the money is what it took to finally extract my head from my ass. Like, pain is one thing, because in idiot woman fashion you can always hope he'll come around to soothe and comfort you. But when you're really furious at someone who accuses you of being crazy for thinking he could possibly have done anything wrong, you know, it's a pretty humiliating slap in the face, but it's still the slap required to wake you up.
Jeez.
There are a number of details I'm sure I've forgotten here, but this brings us up to just past New Years of 2008. The rest should go a little faster. At least, here's hoping. Stay tuned.