I never wanted her name to leave my lips. So, number 3 was who she became.
Emme. Taylor. Number 3.
And that, friends – is how it all began.
Like Hansel and Gretel
Loving a psychopath is a roller coaster. One thing they love to do is something called “intermittent reinforcement,” in which the psychopath gives his victim “doses” of attention and validation to keep them on the hook. Eventually, he begins to devalue you which begins to eat at your own self-respect thus causing you to tolerate more and more abuse because you crave the reinforcement. He then feeds you “crumbs of love” to which you attach to, and then he repeats the same cycle of taking it away. The more infrequently these are offered, the more hooked you become. Like a drug addict needing more and more of the drug. There is also something called “emotional rape” because the psychopath has quite literally manipulated your emotions into a place where you no longer have any control. You are at their mercy. And when you’re at your weakest, and they become bored of you, they discard you with malice and hatred which makes you feel betrayal, disappointment, and a profound sense of loss. And, in my case, I was already dealing with a huge loss which made his game that much more disgusting.
So, as you read this and feel tempted to judge me or the other women in this story, you have to try to remember how exceptionally powerful the crumbs were.
Now that you know who the players are, I think the rest of this story will make much more sense. Not that any of it actually made any sense, but you know what I’m saying.
After Emme had left and started a relationship with somebody else out of state, Taylor ended up changing jobs, leaving Joe (and her boyfriend) behind. She dated the boyfriend off and on and saw Joe, too. From my understanding she was seeing other men as well and not committing to anybody, much to Joe’s dismay even though he was now actively pursuing Number 3 and still coming to my house to lie on my couch drinking wine, asking me for advice on what to do next with which one. You’ll ask why I tolerated that, but you also have to know that, in between talking to me about that woman or this one, he would constantly insert this idea in my head that whenever he was done trying to sort himself out, that he would be coming back to me because at the end of the day, I was the one. In fact, he constantly told me that as I joked about his harem – that he just needed time but we both knew he would be choosing me when it was over. I was the one and had always been the one, and once he could rid himself of the “monster” inside of him, he would be back for me. As lame as that sounds on paper, it did not sound lame when he said it.
I was standing with my back to the kitchen sink, listening to whatever story he was telling me that day. He would often nervously laugh in between sentences. I think because even he didn’t fully understand why he was divulging all this information to me or why I was tolerating being in the same room with him. Maybe he could see the hurt in my eyes or maybe he had a four second bout with his consciousness, but he gently placed his wine glass down on the counter and strode into my personal space. My breathing quickened, as it did most times he was near me, and he brushed my hair behind my ear.
“You have no idea how beautiful you are.” I didn’t say anything. I did not want him to see me at my weakest. But he knew, even if he didn’t say anything, that I caved every time he was close. He knew. I looked down and he stood close until I looked back up at him again. I could feel his chest rise against mine and his breath on my ear as he told me he loved me. He locked eyes with me like he had so many times before. Neither of us would break the stare. Neither of us would blink. We would stand there and fixate on each other until our eyes burned, but neither of us was going to move. He finally leaned down and slowly kissed me on the cheek. He whispered it, but I heard him clearly. “You’ve always been the one.”
He left before the tears fell, but it was the constant reassurance that it was me that I clung onto as the weeks went by.
I don’t know how he ended up at my house on Thanksgiving that year, but I think it was the mere fact that he didn’t have anywhere else go, which was quickly becoming a thing with him. And, I think that’s why I kept taking him in. He was like a sad little puppy that hung around begging for scraps, only to bite your hand when you tried to feed him. He had very distinct patterns that I noticed later. In this case, he and Emme split somewhere in the middle to end of October, which meant he was back darkening my doorstep by Halloween while he was waiting to see if Taylor’s parents were going to give their permission or if Number 3 was going to be a serious thing. Even though he made it very clear he was “all in” with her, she was taking her time, therefore causing him to panic. And when he really thought she might not come through, he began making sure I knew that she, too, was a little bit “crazy” and “jealous” and “demanding of his time.” He had to lay that framework in case it didn’t work out. It couldn’t be his fault of course. It just couldn’t. He was a master at creating a story that fit his narrative.
It was hit and miss with her for a couple of weeks. One minute I would think they were together and the next, I didn’t. As December approached, we spent more time together, touring Christmas lights, talking about the holidays and the New Year. It was like he was finally giving us our chance and she had all but gone away, not to mention Taylor hadn’t been mentioned at all, either.
I went Christmas shopping with friends, loaded up things for his stocking, and gushed about how sweet he had been to me lately and how much attention he was giving me day in and day out. All the random texts telling me he’s thinking about me and how invested he seemed to be in my everyday life. He even shoveled snow at my house. We decorated and played with the dogs in the snow.
Christmas Eve was quickly approaching. I had to work, and my kids were going to be gone with my late husband’s family. I told Joe that I wanted to keep the evening very quiet and he suggested that we visit on Christmas Day instead. I agreed. I was really okay with spending the evening finishing up wrapping gifts, listening to Christmas music, and going to bed early. Of course we talked that day. Of course we texted off and on all night. And in the morning, my daughter and I opened her stocking, and I cried. Holidays were still hard. And, as strong as I thought I was, Christmas hit me harder than I had expected.
He came over later in the afternoon, and I greeted him, offering him a glass of wine or a cup of hot chocolate. I had some appetizers laid out, and I had already picked out a Christmas movie in my head. We sat on the couch and my daughter skipped by, saying hello to him, happily distracted by whatever YouTube video she was watching at the time. I gave him his stocking and he was all smiles as we watched him open it – heartfelt and well thought out little gifts for the man who said he had never really celebrated a family Christmas before. I wanted to make it special. I got him a stocking with an elk on it because he was such a big hunter and when he was done with all his trinkets, I presented him with his gift. He opened the card.
“I hope this gift helps you find yourself. Love, Me.”
There was a little bit of sarcasm in the text but, truly, I did want him to find himself someday. Figure out who he was. He opened it carefully, almost methodically, savoring every pop of the tape on the wrapping paper. He turned the box over. A DNA kit. He excused himself and went into the bathroom and cried. I didn’t quite know what to do. He came out and he hugged me, his cheeks still wet from tears.