The Truth About Poets

***UNEDITED EXCERPT***

​

 

CHAPTER TWO

#Metoo!

 

†††

January 2, 2018

 

 

I can’t say I want to write this, but I must. It’s time. I realize there is currently a movement going on as well. It’s the perfect time to name people who need to be called out and that’s just what I’m going to do. I know the movement is about rapists and abusers. I know it’s to help women come together and what better way than to expose them to the world.

​

Unfortunately, I’ve had a stalker for nineteen years. In 1999, I was in an on-again off-again relationship with an abusive “nice guy” type. One who makes you feel like utter shit about yourself so you won’t truly leave, until you finally do. It was only five months of hell. I got a restraining order on him all those years ago, but once in a while he still tries to crop up in my life. To say it freaks me out is an understatement. Now, we have the back story, let’s get into the details.

​

In June of 1998, I was wounded in one of the worst ways a wife can be. My husband cheated on me. I found out and couldn’t forgive him so since things were so strained, I went to stay the weekend at my parents’ house. It was the end of us. Almost two months later, I found myself in a relationship with someone who claims they wanted to be with me for a long time. I wasn’t in my right mind. How can you be when your world is in shambles around your feet? I entered into a relationship with this “man” thinking it would be all right. I was wrong. He began to do and say things that made me question my decision and I would leave and go home to my parents. I spent many nights with a screaming child and a belligerent boyfriend at the same time, though. This isn’t an excuse, he was an alcoholic and a bad one. I will say, he never hit me. He didn’t have to.

​

This man made me believe I was worthless and stupid. I wasn’t good enough. Nothing I did was ever right. This mental abuse isn’t even the half of it.

One night, I was sitting in the bathtub, dark head pointed down, slowly bathing my parts, suddenly there was a warm shower hitting me in the head. He was peeing on me! (You heard me and read that correctly. Are you disgusted yet?) After he finished and went away, I stood up and showered, trying to scrub off more than just the pee, wishing I could crawl out of my own skin. I felt so very dirty. I don’t think I can ever wash that off mentally, but I’ve tried. It’s stayed inside because of embarrassment and disgust. No one on either side of the spectrum knows. Well, now they do and this isn’t all he’s done.

He also sexually assaulted me in front of one of his friends. He caused me to bleed in the doing of it as well. His fingernail scratched the inside of my vagina. The sick fuck didn’t care. He and his friend who was watching were getting off on hurting me.

​

Yes, I thought I was worthless. I thought I was nothing. He belittled me so much, it took me a long time to figure out he was wrong. To him, everything about me was wrong. My hair, my body, my legs, etc. It makes you wonder, if I was wrong, why was he with me? I wondered that myself. I wasn’t blonde like Buffy the Vampire Slayer and he thought she was hot. How about a better question, why was I with him? I wasn’t pretty enough for some reason, except that I was too pretty for the likes of him. (Something I should have known, but wasn’t thinking of at the time. It sounds conceded but it really isn’t, trust me on this. He was coined “Bug Boy” for more than his love of critters.)

​

The times we were on a break, I sought comfort elsewhere with other men because he wasn’t a satisfying lover in the least and the things he did to me made me seek people who weren’t so mean about it. In truth, I should have pursued my first ex-fiancé. If he would have taken me back, I should have went. I know he wouldn’t have been mean to me about sex. He never was. That wasn’t our problem. In 1999, if we could have reconnected, I might not be talking about this shit now. I am because I feel like it needs to be said. Everyone needs to know, including this abuser’s family. I feel bad for them, not knowing what they raised and I don’t blame them. The only person I blame for what he did is HIM.

​

I have a few more things to tell you about this “man” before I leave it lie. Before the restraining order, things got nuts. I went home one night because he was yelling at me because I wouldn’t have sex with him. I was on my period and frankly, I just didn’t want to. Which, this caused a kerfuffle that turned into the actual end of the relationship. I went home to my parents. He came at night and started screaming at me. He was loud enough for my dad to come out of his bedroom and tell him to stop and that if he wanted anything from me, he needed to be nice. I was sitting down and he was in my face, then dad was in his. My dad was in his underwear and socks, telling this creep to beat it. He left finally, but kept calling their house. We got an answering machine to catch it so we wouldn’t pick up. A few days of this and he left a message saying that if I didn’t talk to him he would call the cops and lie, telling them my brother stole some of his stuff. He drank like a fish in those days, so I didn’t put it past him to do it. He did, but that was after he drove by and threw a CD I bought him for Christmas out of his car. This CD contained a note that said a few nasty things about my parents. If memory serves, he called them psycho motherfuckers and stuff of that nature. (Pot and kettle much!)

​

Once he called the police, lied to them and they got to my doorstep, they told me to get the order and I did. I thought that would be the end of it. It wasn’t. He never violated the order, but since then, he lurks in the background, probably watching me. I don’t see him because I don’t live like a paranoid person. Or at least, I try not to. Back then, under the order, I locked the door every single day for the six months. My brother used to think I was crazy for doing that. I didn’t care. I did it anyway. I was alone all day until my parents got home from work. Living in fear is no way to live.

​

After this, it was years before I would see him again. It must have been between 2007 and 2009. My daughter was fairly small. We were walking home from the local store here in this small town. He saw us and stopped us. I was so scared and had nothing to defend myself with and am not sure I had a cell phone with me or not. Most of the conversation was small talk then he asked me to come with him into the mountains to search for critters. He always loved his creepy critters. I hate them. If he cared to actually know me at all, he knows it. So, asking me to go anywhere with him should have also been a no-no. He asked for me to go somewhere secluded. Does this sound like a sane person to you? My first thought was, why, so you can toss me off a cliff? Needless to say, I didn’t go. As soon as I could safely break away from the conversation, I got my ass home.

​

Since then, on social media, he’s tried to friend me, follow me, and now to add me to messenger so he can talk to me. I keep blocking and or deleting requests, but I want it known who this person is. If there is anyone else who has been abused by him, please know, you’re not alone. You’re never alone. You don’t know me, but I’m here for you. When you’re sitting alone, fighting the rage inside your mind, thinking about how wrong it was to think this madman loved you, I’m here for you. When you think about how wrong he is and how you finally know you’re worth it again, I’m here for you. You are worth it, ya know.

​

Well, I think you have enough to work with to expunge this soul from yourselves. So, here goes the cold water. I don’t like to drop names and legally I can’t or I would. I can say, he’s from the Carthage/Carterville/Joplin area. He’s dangerous and if you’re smart, you’ll stay away from him.

​

This is unfortunately one of my stories and I have no choice but to stick to it and tell it like it is. It took nineteen years to tell this story. Courage, ladies. You can do it too. I know you can. You can break free and tell people what they need to know. We are not victims, we are advocates.

​

This is only one story in the life and truth about a poet. Unfortunately, there’s more where that came from so hold tight, kids. I call this the tome of a tortured soul for a reason.