Silk Stockings

Hour 2 into Braveheart, which also coincided with hour 4 in the morning, I was ready for bed. Chrstopher paused the movie long enough to turn down his bed for me and I collided into the pillows. He turned the bedroom TV on for me even though I told him I was too tired to need it. He then kissed me goodnight, turned out the lights and closed the door.

Hour 6 in the morning, I awoke to a lit bedroom. Christopher was standing at the base of the bed. "Where's the TV remote? I can't find it."

"Just press the button on the TV. We'll find it tomorrow," I mumbled.

"No, help me find it now."

I sighed and pushed back the covers. And then I did what I always do when I lose a remote in bed. I laid on my stomach and dangled my head under the bed.

I didn't see the remote. What I did see, however, was a pair of women's stockings. I reached under and grabbed them. Silk. Nice. I've never owned a pair of silk stockings in my life.

"You forgot these," I said flatly as I flung them at Christopher.

He spread them out across the bed. "Ooohhh," he whispered.

I abandoned the remote search and flopped back under the covers annoyed. Heavily annoyed.

"These are old," he started.

"Mrmph." I know. I know they are old and I know he isn't cheating. I know all of this.

"I know who this belongs to. I haven't seen her since November of 2007."

"Hmph." I know all of this because this isn't the first time I've found another woman's calling card stuck somewhere in the bed area.

In college, it was in Poet's bed that I removed an entire green tank top that was stuck between the wall and the bed while I was making it. It belonged to a neighbor that he used to sleep with and was now close friends.

After college, it was black panties. Black panties always look skanky when they aren't yours.

I was cool the first two times. Understanding like a supergirlfriend. This time I was not. I inquired as to why he hasn't cleaned under his bed in two years, and then told him I didn't think he was being very empathetic. He told me he didn't do anything wrong. He slept with a girl two years before me; I couldn't possibly be upset. I ignored him while he apologetically spooned me.

For me, it was more than the silk stockings. It was the bubble bursting. Right or not, I held him to a higher standard. Christopher was now like all the other boyfriends who inexplicably don't clean around their beds. He's capable of hurting me. He's capable of leaving me.

And, god, with him I just didn't think it was going to be this way.

Lovelike

"I have to fart right now but I'm holding it because I love you."

I lifted my head off of Christopher's lap and looked at him and smiled. Not only did I appreciate the not farting with my head in such close proximity, but he said those three words in succession when he wasn't on the phone with his parents. And I was the only person in the room. I think. I'm not sure where the dog was.

"I mean, I like you," Christopher corrected.

"Are you serious?" I exclaimed. "You're just going to take it back?" I sat up and threw a pillow at him.

"I'm not ready to say it yet," Christopher spoke quietly. His brows furrowed and I think he was talking to himself. He straighted up and looked at me. "Hey, Medium is back on. Turn up the volume."

"Do you love Medium? Or do you like Medium?" I teased.

We laughed and as I adjusted myself back in his lap, my knee popped loudly.

"Was that your knee?" he asked.

"Yeah." I made googly eyes at him, "Do you love my knee? Or do you like my knee?

"I hate your knee!" he laughed back at me. "I love you as a person," he tried.

"Eww, that's what people say about their grandmas!" I squealed.

"What? No they don't." He paused for a moment, "Look, I lovelike you, okay?"

"Lovelike?"

"Yeah."

And that's the status as of now. Lovelike. It's the first time I ever heard that sentiment. On one hand, I'm kind of disappointed he didn't own his slip up. However, on the other hand I'm kind of glad the memory of I love you wasn't over a fart. I made a pact with a friend at work that neither of us would be the first ones to say it; we were going to wait for the cues of our men.

And so I continue to wait.

Yesterday

The first time I read his response, I laughed at the utter ridiculousness of it. Then I read it again and noticed the veiled threat of the last sentence. Fuck you and your family and I hope you don't see any of mine because it won't be pretty. If he is acting this way sober, then this is his true nature. I know firsthand that he isn't all threats and no action. There have been a number of incidents besides the car one.

I used the private number my therapist gave me for emergencies. I told her I was frightened of the threat and considered it real. She trusted my judgment, saying I was now able to see him for who is really is instead of the person that I loved. She said I needed to do whatever it took so that I would feel safe. She advised contacting the rehab center and reporting that I received a threat from him and to forward them the e-mail. She said they would hold him accountable for his response. She also told me to contact the police and file a police report on him since he has a history of hurting me.

I called Christopher when I got home from work. I asked him to come over and watch TV with me. Told him he could have sole possession of the remote control. Maybe that's weak of me, wanting to be with him that night so I wouldn't feel so scared. I never told him about the letter nor the e-mail I received back. Christopher was so not understanding of the relationship itself that I knew he would be even less understanding of my attempt at closure.

The e-mail doesn't surprise me. It's pretty indicative of how he spoke to me. However I was surprised to discover the effect it had on me was the same. The first time I saw it for what it was, but with each subsequent read of it, I began to doubt myself more and more. Did I say something wrong? No, I had it approved by a mental health professional. My intent was not to blame him, but explain the effect of his actions on myself, although that concept might be a little too intellectual for him. But the doubt of myself continues to grow, exactly how I explained in my letter. It's just like when he would tell me that no man would ever love me. It sounded absurd the first time he said it, but when you hear something over and over and over, you start to believe it. Kind of like how some children begin to believe their own lies that explain missing parents. My daddy is a secret agent. I am unlovable.

The next morning I woke up with Christopher's arms around me. His body was pressed up against mine. I lazily got out of bed and slowly started getting ready for work, just like I do every morning. I dropped Christopher back at his apartment, just like I do when he sleeps over on school nights. My new life had resumed, despite the miserable pause I had the day before. I didn't feel the crushing need to file a police report to protect myself anymore. It was literally a new day. He was my yesterday.

Letters

This is the letter I wrote in therapy that my therapist encouraged me to mail to him.

Dear S,

This is not going to be the same kind of letter you wrote me. I don't think you understand how horrible you made me feel. You would come home from work very arrogant, armed with evidence of your co-workers' and family's opinions about me, and you would tell me I was weak. I would beg you not to air our problems at work, and you told me work was your family (and essentially more important because you chose to tell them instead of honoring me). And I guess I was weak, because not only did I let you tell me I was nothing, but I believed you. I honestly felt this was as good as it gets and I didn't deserve more from a partner.

You write you're sorry. That you couldn't tell me the truth because I wouldn't love you anymore. My therapist (who has worked with both of your rehab facilities) says that anything after "I'm sorry, but..." is B.S. According to the 12 Steps, you are not to make excuses, and you are certainly not to place the blame on me. And the thing that gets me is not that you were never honest, it's that you continue to lie.

I know that you didn't "graduate" from Uxxxx. You up and quit. Your father called them and spoke to them. And my therapist says Sx is not related to Uxxxx, so it isn't the next step in the program like you said. You called me from Gxxxx Hospital and never told me you were there for your tooth; I had to find that out from your old counselor, making me look like an idiot. And he confirmed to your family that you never had "the flu/pneumonia," but chest congestion. It makes me think that you haven't learned anything. He already told me you weren't doing the program at the old place.

And when are you going to be really honest with me? You act like drinking a case of beer a day was some big revelation, but when are you going to admit about the CRACK? I know, S. I'm sure there is more I don't know, but I know about the crack. And your family does too. It all makes sense now: the constant muggings, your inability to control your bowel movements (crack is cut with laxatives; I've gotten quite an education since I left), the disappearing money you would accuse me of taking, my money you took, and my things you pawned. Not in the name of alcohol. In the name of crack. Your alcoholism is an excuse and a cover up for your crack use. I know what all those beer cans hidden in the bathroom are really for. And when I think about how long I've been finding those cans, I am physically sickened. You stole my car, smoked crack, defecated your pants and then drove home. It makes me feel disgust, rage and unforgiveness.

The fact that you continue to lie to everyone around you makes me think you congratulate yourself for your deceit. You think you are so smart for being able to cover up your crack use while living with someone as straight-laced as me. I am a good person, S, and I did not deserve to be put through that. I have to live with the fact that I lived with someone for years and never really knew him.

I also don't think you understand the effect your lying has on others. You think all you are doing is protecting yourself, but you also really hurt others. You would tell me the things I believed were not real. That the truth was not real. It made me feel crazy. Because of your chronic lying, I was taught not to trust myself. This is what happens when someone has a feeling and we're told it's wrong or inappropriate. Or when we confront a lie or inconsistency and we're told we're crazy. I lost faith in that deep, important part of myself that senses truth, feels appropriate feelings, and has confidence in my ability to handle life's situations.

I believed what you told me about myself, that I was crazy and wrong. It made me think, "You're okay. You must be because you told me so. So it must be me. There must be something wrong with me." So I abandoned myself.

Do you understand? Your lies made me lose faith in me. One thing I've learned from my own therapy is that I was right in my feelings more often than I gave myself credit. I'm not as wrong as I thought I was.

The one thing that I've wanted to tell you—that I need to tell you—is that your lies and manipulation of me stop now. That's what you were doing when you called me and told me I had to decide in that instant whether I was going to speak to you again. It was emotional blackmail. And I wasn't ignoring you; I was waiting until my next therapy appointment so I would know how to respond in a healthy manner. I don't want to feel wrong anymore. But you had to have a response that moment, and when you didn't get one, you used pressure to intimidate me. That tactic will not work anymore. Unless you can approach me humbly and honestly, I don't want to have any contact with you. Even one more lie. I'm serious. I am done with the lies. And lying is a symptom outside of addiction, S. Just because you're currently sober doesn't mean you are honest. It is a character trait and a personality trait.

I'm doing well. I've learned to trust myself again. I'm standing up for myself. I'm happy. My job is secure and I love my new apartment. The Femme Fatale no longer hides under the bed and acts three years younger. I'm direct. I ask for what I want and I move on if I don't get it. I expect more from people. I'm not wasting any more time. I'm no longer going to let any man treat me the way you did. You hurt me physically, emotionally and mentally.

I gave you everything, S. My heart. My home. I supported you on several occasions after you had gotten fired from Fxxx and Cxxx. I loved you. And you threw it all away for drugs and alcohol. Not only was work more important that me, but so was crack and beer. And Erica. I sat in our apartment and watched you go out with another girl. You've already admitted to me you were trying to start a relationship with her and I am sick of you now trying to deny it. No more.

By the way, I no longer believe you found that gold earring on the floor at work and brought it home. And I no longer believe that cocaine baggie I found in your dopp kit was old. I no longer believe most of what you told me. Like we were going to get married. You had it made taking everything I had to give.

In the two years we were together, you never made a single move towards anything. Not to get your license back. Or to pay your bills. Or for us to have any semblance of a life together. But I believed in you and thought one day you would turn your life around. I believed I was that important to you. But I know better now. My leaving wasn't good enough for you to get help. You had to wait until you were squatting in an empty apartment with no power and no scooter. You were perfectly happy doing what you wanted and living in squalor.

You choked me. You lied to me. You took swings and me and you bloodied my nose with a book. You write you're sorry, but you never acknowledge any detail, instead just providing a blanket apology. A one-size-fits-all fix-it. I deserve better than all of this, S. I know that now too.

Sarah

This is the e-mail I received from him yesterday.

i received your letter the other day and i have to admit i laughed but i guess you expected that. look i did alot of really stupid shit under the influence of alcohol and drugs. the reason i contacted you when i went into treatment was to appolgize for the things i did to you and us. now i realize how you feel and all of the sudden your completely right and i was wrong for everything. yeah when hell freezes over. my therapist has told me you were just as stupid as i was and i have to agree this time. good luck on your life from here on out because you will need it! and FUCK YOU and your family and i hope you don't see any of mine because it won't be pretty, good day you waste of life!

Decoder

Trying to figure out the L-O-V-E situation. Does he or doesn't he? Do I? Don't I?

"What do you like about me?" I asked Christopher. We were cuddling in front of the TV and he had stepped things up a notch by resting his head on mine.

"What?"

This is Christopher's response when he doesn't want to answer a question.

"What do you like about me?" I repeated.

"What?"

"Stop deflecting."

"No seriously, what's the question?" he asked.

"What do you like about me? What makes me special?" I said exasperated.

"I like everything about you right now," he answered nonchalantly.

"No! You can't do that! Wait... right now? As in 'Now, but not later?' You attached a clause to why you like me?"

"You picked up on that? And who says clause?" he laughed.

"Do you like me for my astute observations? Or for my grammatical wit?" I pressed.

"I like everything about you."

In Man World, this is probably a great compliment. However, in Woman World, this means I don't like you enough to give you one specific reason, or even to make one up, but I don't feel like being in trouble with you right now. I huffed.

Christopher squeezed me. "You don't like that answer?"

"I'm disappointed."

"Why?"

"I'm disappointed that you can't articulate why you like--"

"You're the best friend and the best girlfriend I ever had." He spat it out so quickly that it sounded more like You're thebestfriend andthebest girlfriend Ieverhad.

"What makes me a good friend?" I prodded, still looking for one single, unique detail.

"You don't judge. You are a good listener. You think logically."

"What makes me a good girlfriend?"

"You put up with my bullshit. You watch football with me. You're honest. You're loyal."

And there it was. The single detail that I knew was mine: loyalty. I have a hard time giving myself compliments and finding good things about me, but one I can easily say is that I am the most loyal girlfriend you will ever have. I don't cheat. I don't try to upgrade. I don't even really crush on celebrities (except for Gerard Butler whom I openly call my boyfriend). I usually like to boast this to my boyfriends, but I never said this to Christopher.

"How do you know I'm loyal?"

"I just know."

A New Season

Saturday morning I woke up early, excited. Christopher was holed up in his apartment watching college football games of universities that neither of us attended. I had other plans.

I hopped out of bed and made myself a bagel. The sun was peaking through my french doors, but the air was still crisp. I think it's my favorite kind of weather. In my jammies, I began winterizing my apartment. The quilt on my bed got folded and put away and I fluffed the duvet across the mattress. Summer clothes were put in the back of the closet while the winter ones were moved forward. Boots took the place of sandals.

I cleaned, wiped, dusted, sprayed and vacuumed. I emptied out the vacuum bag. I even de-dog haired under the bed where the Femme Fatale sleeps.

In the bathroom, behind the paper towels and glass cleaner, I found a glass bottle pump that used to contain expensive lotion. In my old apartment it sat on the counter until my ex used up all of the (scented and sparkly) lotion masturbating. I quit buying moisturizer because I never got to use it, but kept the nice bottle in case one day I would like to refill it.

I smiled when I found it. Today was the day it would be refilled. I found a plastic bottle of some Victoria Secret lotion I always forget I have and married the bottles. The glass bottle sits back out on the counter.

I often forget how free I am. I still don't carry cash because my ex used to go in my wallet and take it. He would say we were together and everything is "ours," specifically my money. If he ever had money and if I ever needed it, I could have it, he would tell me. But we both knew that he never had money and I never needed his.

The other day I met Harvey and our group of friends for sushi. When the bill came, everyone put down a $20 bill except for me, who placed a credit card with CHECK ID written all over it in marker. Funny thing is, the places my ex used to take it to never checked the ID, but all the nicer places I go to do.

I don't use cash because my boyfriend used to steal from me, I almost joked. But I knew it wasn't funny, and I knew they wouldn't laugh. It still embarrasses me.

I used to like tuna. I loved mixing tuna salad with cold pasta. I loved heaping it on sandwiches. I loved dipping crackers into it. I even enjoyed Hamburger Helper's tuna tetrazzini mix. But the ex hated the smell and would complain so constantly and so loudly that I stopped eating tuna.

I think I'm going to have some tuna.

Man Jammies

Last night, I trudged over to Christopher's to watch some bad Wednesday TV. I went over there already in my jammies because I had been feeling tired and worn down—a lot of people are work are on the cuff of getting sick.

Christopher opened the door for me and I handed him a paper sack containing my leftover dinner I brought for him and a half of a bottle of red that I brought for me. I flopped down on the couch.

"Do you want a bubble bath?" he asked me.

I sighed. A bath sounded lovely. "Yeah, maybe in a little bit," I nodded.

"I already made you one."

"You didn't!" I stood up in disbelief and checked the bathroom. There was a bubble bath waiting in the tub. I peeked my head out the door, "When did you make this?"

"About 10 minutes ago. It's still warm."

Wordlessly I walked into his New York-style kitchen and poured myself a glass of red wine and headed back to the bathroom. "See ya!" I called out behind me.

Christopher followed me in, lit a candle, and put it by the tub for me. He got me my own fresh towel and left it on the lid of the toilet seat. He flipped off the light. "See ya," he called as he shut the bathroom door.

I never complained to Christopher that I wasn't feeling well; he did that entirely on his own. As I laid in the tub, I tried to figure out his motives for doing something selfless and nice.

I pulled the plug out of the drain and got out of the tub. I looked at my jammies on the floor and wished I had clean clothes. Magically, Christopher opened the bathroom door and handed me a fresh pair of his pajama pants and a white t-shirt.

I snuggled up to Christopher on his cream leather couch. "Why did you do that?" I prodded.

"What?"

"Be nice."

Christopher chuckled. "I can be nice," he said.

"Is it because I was unshowered and you were secretly trying to get me clean?"

"No, I was doing it just to be thoughtful."

I delicately brought up the insensitive comment that brought the tears. I didn't accuse him or make him defensive, but asked why he said it. I said it really hurt my feelings.

He said he misspoke and didn't mean how it sounded. I believed him; I knew that was the explanation all along. And even though it still upset me, I like that I knew him well enough to not blow it out of proportion or strike back accusingly. It didn't turn into one of those epic battles that happened so frequently with the ex. So many of those times I felt like a bad person for contributing to those fights, but when I realized that when I'm handled in a different way, I can respond differently. When I'm not being attacked, I don't attack.

***

Last week and Christopher brought over his laundry to do at my apartment. It was one of the first freezes of the season and we always use the coldness as an excuse to have sleepovers.

"I brought my men's pajamas," he confessed.

"You have man jammies?!" I shrieked. "I love man jammies!"

"Yeah, they are the kind that matches."

I got so excited my voice became a high-pitched whisper. "I LOVE matching man jammies!"

He put them on so he could wash the clothes he was wearing. Sheepishly, he walked back into the living room sporting his blue plaid matching man jammies. His belly poked out slightly and he looked about 54 in them. In my mind I pictured him wearing the blue plaid matching man jammies in our living room in winter as a family with children surrounding us when he was actually 54. In that moment I thought that I loved him. The power of matching man jammies is strong.

***

How do you know when you love someone? I know that seems a silly question to ask at 28, but I think in the past my idea of love has been somewhat skewed and unhealthy. And when I think about it, I've never had healthy love modeled for me. My dad left for another woman when I was little. My memories of their marriage consist of me sitting on the top of the stairs with my brother and listening to them scream at each other. I was too young to know what they were saying. Then my mother married this other man, and we know how that turned out. In my diaries when I was 9, I wrote that mommy married him to give me a daddy and that she was unhappy and getting divorced. I knew that 20 years ago. I've never even lived with a roommate that was in a happy committed relationship. I don't know how healthy things are supposed to be and it makes me question myself a lot.

I know that when I'm with him, I feel almost intoxicated. Days in which I get to see him, he's the highlight of my day. I feel all squishy inside when he looks at me gently. The affection that I once complained that I didn't get enough of is bountiful.

And I realize there is a stage in a relationship in which everything is gooey and rose scented. And I know that's probably when I am. I guess I want to know about real, lasting, we're-fighting-but-we'll-work-it-out, relationship love. My mom says I'm due for another therapy appointment to work some things out. I don't want to spend $45. So I'm asking you, Internets. How do you know when you love someone?

Is it man jammies? Or is it love?