Four Years of Crazy
He spelled the word "lips" wrong (lipps)
The only reason I can come up with to explain this bizarre relationship is that it was my first opportunity to really let the less-than-nurturing part of my childhood manifest in all its hidden glory.
I can’t even remember how it started. I do remember him running through the halls of high school (as a senior), yelling out my name but purposely mispronouncing it. (At that age, does teasing still mean a he likes you?)
I also remember that two weeks into our quickly and intensely codependent relationship, I first heard whisperings of him cheating. (There is truth in the saying “Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.”)
So this began our four years of crazy. In short: he cheated, I cried; he left me love notes on my car that told me he thought my “lipps” were pretty; he was sexually abusive and I never fended him off; he rode a motorcycle that was too small for him and had bald tires; he didn’t graduate from high school; he stole money from his friends; he stole money from me (once to buy me a bouquet of flowers in an attempt for forgiveness in his latest episode of “hid my baloney in another pony” -- one of his favorite phrases); and one time -- this is possibly one of the top, most cringe-worthy offenses -- he held me tight while serenading me (in his underwear) with the song “Under the Bridge” by Red Hot Chili Peppers. This was his idea of wooing me.
Some other tidbits:
While with him, I had the choice of watching either Married with Children reruns or porn.
I don’t think he brushed his teeth.
He could find me anywhere.
I was crippled with paranoia my first year of college, certain he was cheating on me. He was…with a 45-year-old woman in her car in the parking lot of the factory where they worked.
He peed in pop cans sitting in his room and then let it sit there for days. And yes, I once drank out of one accidentally and then gagged so hard I threw up on the floor. He laughed.
A date with him was the McDonald’s drive-thru and a trip to the car stereo store wherein I would sit in the car for hours, waiting for him. (Worthless time wasted, as he just ended up stealing all of his woofers and tweeters from various sources.)
And yet I had a shrine of pictures of him/us in my bedroom.
After four years of this insanity, it culminated in a scene with overtones of “Fatal Attraction.” After the last cheating incident and the last assault, and the last swallowed, sublimated rage, I finally broke.
I was on autopilot as I drove to his house, reckless and way over the speed limit, but utterly calm. Walked right in without knocking, said hi to his surprised parents (yes, he still lived with them), and proceeded to his bedroom door. Still utterly calm while internally noting that I could feel my pounding pulse even in my fingertips.
He opened the door. From nowhere, my formerly doormat self screamed something garbled and incoherent. When he looked confused, I slapped him hard across the face. When he looked even more confused, I slapped him again. Never have I struck another person, before that or since then. The sins of the father, the sins of the boyfriend -- all were being acted upon. When I went for the third slap, he caught my wrist, twisted it behind my back and shoved me on the bed, very COPS style (he loved that show).
So my face was buried and the rage just leaked right out of me. I went limp and he let me up. I looked at him and walked away. I never had to listen to Ozzy in his pimped-out Ford Escort ever again.
A few years later, he wrote me a letter from jail (he got nabbed for check fraud). He was thinking about the good ol’ days and was hoping we could get married. I told him not until he brushed his teeth on a regular basis and kept his “lipps” from getting chapped. (Ha ha, not really.) Never heard from him again. I can only assume he’s somewhere peeing in a pop can and watching grainy porn.