Untangled 43: Fireworks

I sat for a minute, waiting for an argument or even a physical altercation, because I was ready for either—but there was none. After a few minutes, I got up from the ottoman and stood at the door, waiting for him to leave, but he didn’t move. He knew if he left right then, that would surely be it. He needed to regroup; he knew I was resolute in never taking him back. I was looking at a stranger sitting in MY chair—no longer his. It was like his mask had permanently fallen off. I felt no compassion for him being sick, if he really was. There truly is a thin line between love and hate. I had crossed the line, backed up, and broke it in half.

After about 20 minutes of palpable silence, he said, “Do you wanna go see the fireworks?” I scanned his face to see if he was serious, and he was. His eyes were pleading. Right then, I knew he needed this for his own closure. I didn’t owe him that, but I would perform one last act of mercy. I quietly said, “Sure.” We walked to the car, got in, and drove to Lake Lewisville for the show. That was one of the worst rides ever. The tension was thick; I didn’t move a muscle, and neither did he. The traffic was so bad, he pulled onto a side street with other cars. We both got out at the same time. I went to the back of the car, and he to the front.

The show began. It was spectacular, like our relationship in the beginning. It started off with a bang, then got predictable, and ended just as quickly as it began. At the climax of the final scene, I felt warm tears run down my face. It was finally over. I cried for who I used to be. I cried for who I had become. I was a different person now. I no longer wanted to ever date another man in my life. I wanted to hide from the world as to not be misused again. I felt ugly. I felt fat. I felt unwanted by even a man who had nothing. I cried. I allowed myself to cry for the first time in a long time. I wiped my face with the back of my hand and got back in the car. He heard the door close and got in as well. He drove me home, I got out of the car, closed the door, and went inside. While putting the key in the lock, I watched my Explorer pull away for the very last time.

That was it. That part was over. He tried to call me a few days later but hung up after I didn’t answer after two rings; he never tried again. A part of me would like to believe that he was calling to apologize, but I know that’s not true. He didn’t see anything wrong with how things went down. He was calling to take my temperature, to see if I had forgotten it all and was ready for one more rollercoaster ride. Nah, I was done with the carnival—and the clown that came with it.

I didn’t mourn that lost time. I was strangely at peace. I didn’t want him back. I didn’t want anything or anyone. “Hobo Joe” showed me that rebounds are a waste of time. I went about my life. I started eating better, getting out to walk, reading books, and watching my documentaries again. He always laughed at my taste in TV. He thought watching documentaries and the History Channel was stupid, but reality shows were crème de la crème. I could now worship freely with no interruptions. I could watch Daystar and the Word Network all day. I was slowly getting back to who I was before he interrupted my life.

One day, a month later, I woke up, and what happened hit me like a ton of bricks. I made a post about it. I needed to scream, “Look what he did to me!” I didn’t wanna say anything, but I NEEDED to. I wanted to quietly heal and deal, but I could not. I made a roundabout post about narcissists; it got hundreds of comments. I got messages from women in every walk of life about the similarities they noticed in their boyfriends and husbands. He and his friend were obviously watching my page, because I got a text cussing me out, telling me to stop talking about him or he’s gonna file a “cest and deciece”—those words exactly. I responded, “It’s ‘CEASE AND DESIST,’ you idiot.” I then said, “And what makes you think I’m talking about you? Could it be guilt? Because I didn’t say your name… You couldn’t have done all those things, right?” He came back and said, “Kim, if you don’t stop, I’m gonna expose you.” I “loved” his message, then said, “Do it. I’ll call your ‘exposure’ and raise you with RECEIPTS and proof.” That shut his pie hole.

I was waiting with bated breath for this war to begin. He was no match for my over-sharing. Everyone who knew me knew what I was going through. I had the receipts for the car, his furniture, the bankruptcy discharge—EVERYTHING. I was ready to drag him in the streets of Facebook. Of course, he chickened out like the woman-exploiting coward he is.

I continued rage posting. I was dumping on my friends and didn’t see it. I know they were tired of me, but I had nobody to talk to about it. It had to come out. I took the blame for all of it, but now I needed to face the broken part of me that thought another broken person could fix me. That was the hardest part.

That November, I took a trip back home.