Untangled 42: Se acabó

When I got back from Austin, I went into overdrive packing. I was ready to start fresh. This move would be a clean slate—my new, narcissist-free life and season. I’d always lived in apartments and had people above or below me. I’d also never had my own driveway or backyard, but I would now. Needless to say, I was excited. I knew that after the move, everything would fall into place. The day before the move, I went to get the keys to do a walkthrough. He insisted on coming with me to “see” where I was moving. I didn’t want this, but I knew I couldn’t stop him. He’s no fool; he knew what was coming, which is why he was becoming so clingy.

We went to my unit, but because the cleaners had not been there yet, I could only see the outside and would have to come back in the morning for the final walkthrough. I still wanted to see my first little pseudo-home, so I went to look from the outside and to see the backyard. I was excited and couldn’t help but show it. My excitement angered him; he began pointing out things, then made a joke about how small my backyard was—when he himself didn’t have one. So I asked if it was bigger than his yard. The look of contempt in his eyes said I had accomplished what I set out to do. I was tired of being put down and criticized by a man who wouldn’t have a car, most of his clothes, furniture, or anything else if not for me. Only a rabid dog bites the hand that has fed them. I REFUSED to be degraded again.

On the way back to my old apartment, he asked what time he should come to help with the move in the morning. I told him that was unnecessary; I had movers, and I would prefer if he just let them do their job. He had a habit of berating help to make me look like I was too stupid to hire correctly. He came anyway—what a shock that he didn’t respect my request. He ended up rage-helping. His face was frowned up the whole time; he dropped things, stepped on my hanging clothes, and carried my printer upside down, leaving ink on everything. After I paid the movers, I started the arduous task of organizing and unpacking. I wanted to wash my towels and linens that evening, so I asked if he could hook up my washer and dryer before leaving, which he did.

I did a load right after the hookup. When the washer stopped, I went to put the items in the dryer and noticed the hall and laundry room were flooded with soapy water. The back hose was lying on the floor and should’ve been hooked into the wall, but wasn’t. A few boxes, my living room area rug, and runner were rolled in the hall and all got ruined. I looked at him sternly and asked, “What happened?!” He shrugged his shoulders and said, “Oops,” with a knowing smirk. This made me want to blow up right then, but I didn’t. I didn’t want him to think I was doing anything out of spite or anger. I had controlled my emotions this long—what was a few more days? I grabbed a bunch of bath and beach towels and began soaking the water up. The bright side was that the floor was clean; he would not hamper my excitement.

I spent the next couple of days nesting. I was so happy in my new home. He stopped coming over and had stopped calling, which was perfect. This meant he had a new supply and he would eventually forget I existed. Then, after a week, he started stopping by again for his evening ritual of feigning an interest in this sham relationship. I’d had enough of this. I wanted to be done with it. A couple of weeks later was the 4th of July.

My Independence Day

I scheduled myself to work on the Fourth. When I came home from work, I was tired, so I laid on the couch to catch a few zees before going to see the fireworks that night. While in and out of sleep, I had an urge to look at his Facebook page. I hadn’t looked in months because he unfriended me and a lot of his page was private. I knew the thought wasn’t mine, so I opened my eyes, grabbed my phone, and searched his name. Before, I could still see the page from mine; after we got back together, I sent him a friend request that was still pending—but not this time. I put his name into the search, and nothing came up. I went to look for messages, and it said “user not found.” The inbox messages were there, but not the person I sent them to. That was odd. I knew he had a page. So I went to my old Facebook page, searched him, and his page came up and said “add friend.” He had blocked me. He had recently blocked my new account on Facebook. I knew what the block meant: he had a new supply and didn’t want me to see anything on his page in case she tagged him in something. I wasn’t blocked before, but now I was—and it was recent.

That one small action ended it all for me. That was it. It was all over. After ALL I’d been through, this was the proverbial straw. This was the small fox that spoiled the vine. Here I was, afraid it would be some nasty argument or confrontation—but it wasn’t. All of a sudden, the scales fell from my eyes. I saw him for what he was, and it disgusted me. How DARE he treat me with such contempt! HOW DARE HE make me feel like less than garbage for daring to want love! I had been led around by a bit in my nose for 5 years, but that was all over. Every ounce of care or emotion for him was suddenly and completely gone. Then I realized I was in a relationship with someone who wouldn’t say they were in a relationship with me! Someone who refused to introduce me to any friends or family! Someone who attended events without me! Someone who would unfriend and block me online. I was broken, and I knew it. But now I was free. It was my personal Independence Day. That was it. I was no longer sleepy. I sat up and went through my phone, deleting every photo of us or him and every trace of him from my social media. With each post and picture I deleted, I grew happier. I was free. I was so happy I cried. This part of my life was finally over.

About four hours later, my doorbell rang. It was him. He came bearing gifts—a shopping bag of BBQ ribs, of course. I opened my front door with a smile and sat down. He went into the kitchen, put everything away, and came to sit in “his” chair. I positioned myself on the ottoman directly in front of him and turned off the TV. He knew something was up, so he rolled his eyes. I calmly said, “Why did you block me on Facebook?”

He said, “Here you go with this sh**.” I said, “SHUT UP and answer me, WHY did you BLOCK ME?” He pulled out his phone to play a game to avoid this conversation. I wasn’t having it. I put my hand over the screen and said, “You ARE going to answer me!” He yelled, “I didn’t block you! All you care about is Facebook! I’m tired of fighting about Facebook!”

I said, “Okay, so you’re saying you didn’t block me?” He was trying to get off the subject. I wasn’t having that either. I calmly opened my Facebook app and said, “Let me just show you something.” I typed his raggedy name in the search bar, and no results were found. This relieved him; he said, “I deleted my page the other day!”

I smiled and said, “Oh, you did, did you?” I said, “Okay… well, let me just check from my old page.” I saw the panic wash over his face. He was too stupid to block my other page. He also hadn’t counted on me searching or asking my mom and daughter if they were still friends with him. I said, “Do you see here where it says ‘add friend’ because you deleted me months ago? This means you didn’t delete your page; this here means YOU BLOCKED ME.” I put my phone an inch from his nose.

He said, “Like I said, I didn’t block you.” I smiled, let out a chuckle, and said, “This is over.”

WE are OVER.