...when you have a baby with a sociopath - part 1
The first few months of my son's life were idyllic. I took walks with him every day, talking to him about everything from the scenery to my feelings; and read to him every night—a habit that continues to this day. Voldemort instantly fell in love with our son. Having been abandoned by his own father, he was motivated to do better by our son. Luckily, he had been fired from his previous job—leaving behind the negative influences. He signed on as head manager and marketing director of a new club-style restaurant in Coconut Grove. He was earning a higher salary, and was no longer working late nights. I felt as if I had finally achieved my dream. I was raising a child, maintaining a home, satisfying and serving my pseudo husband, and spending time with our friends whenever possible.
The happiness was short lived. Voldemort was never satisfied. We would argue because sex every day was not enough, or because we never had any money; and all of my attempts to appease went unappreciated. I began to get hives whenever he would touch me; but somehow failed to notice my acute stress disorder, which soon morphed into post-traumatic stress disorder. He started going out all of the time again; and I realized I had not known trapped until I was stuck in our apartment with an infant, no phone, and no car; but Voldemort needed me. Whenever I would reach my pinnacle, he would have a moment of clarity—telling me all of the things that I wanted to hear. I was right. He needed help and would be better; but would never get help and would never get better. So following a full year of breastfeeding, I started drinking.
I’m the girl that develops an eating disorder, OCD, and an incredibly addictive and destructive personality, and somehow always manages to come through unscathed; but for whatever reason, I can’t seem to shake these feelings of helplessness and hopelessness. I’m desperate for control and tired of holding the wheel all at the same time. This inner monologue is ridiculous—it keeps telling me that I’m not having a back and forth with myself and myself about myself; but it sure feels like I am. Time to get more drunk.
Throughout all of this, I relied heavily on my abilities as a mother. I was on all of the parenting forums, making sure I was doing everything the best possible way. I felt I had no other reason to live.
It’s feels as if I’m not really addicted. It’s like I didn’t smoke a pack a day or take 20 laxatives a day for over a year. We cannot afford for me to lose it. We can’t afford another addiction—another disorder that I suddenly wake up with one day. It’s like I’m stuck. I’m stuck in this mentality but it’s not really trapping me—I can get out whenever, but it’s as if I don’t want to. I don’t want to be brave and optimistic anymore. I’m tired; but I’m also not fooled. I know I’m faking it, which makes it worse. Nothing is wrong. I have my health, my family, and my friends; but it’s as if none of that matters because I still can’t get it together. If we fall apart because of this, I’ll never forgive myself. I can’t say this to him; it’s not fair. I can’t just lay my insanity on him and expect him to deal with it. What’s sadder is nothing is really wrong. I’m faking it and things are not that bad; but I still want to give up—cry for help, maybe; but help from or with what? I don't know. I don’t want to be this person, but I’m tired of trying to be anything else. We’ll be fine, like we always are; and I’m just faking it, like I always am—but I still can’t seem to shake this feeling.
The following year, Voldemort filed our taxes and we received a $10,000 tax return. We took our son to Disney World with our friends, bought new bikes, a bike trailer for the baby, all sorts of electronics, loads of booze and weed, and a handgun—which I had always detested. Soon, the money ran out, but I was too numb to notice.
Shortly after Thanksgiving, Voldemort asked me to marry him; but it was not the romantic proposal I had wanted. He purchased a synthetic diamond ring—using an Amazon credit card he never paid off—and after finding it in a drawer under our bathroom sink, I forced him to give it to me. Officially engaged, we set our wedding for the following 11th of March; and I hoped that he would somehow morph into the man of my dreams.
The outcome of this recipe, although delicious, will not be edible. We’ll start with a nice, clean and honest base; we’ll add to that a mixture of passion and compassion with a sprinkling of culture for flavor. Be sure to include goals and aspirations as well as a healthy dose of dedication. Now we fold in some faithfulness and gratefulness and a good sense of humor for good measure. This recipe will be high in IQ, so feel free to add heaps of common sense and logic. Once that’s done, get your hands in there and sort the dough into an organized and neat shape that is fit and can easily adapt to change—with a soft and empathetic center. For a final touch, we’ll dip it in charm and charisma, and call it The One. This particular meal cooks not with heat, but with time and experience. It ages and matures patiently until it becomes the perfect dish. Once done, it will have eyes that will entrance and a voice that easily enchants with merely whispered words. It will have skin that begs to be touched, and a smile that weakens even the strongest of knees – and it will know how to love and be loved without condition. Serves one lonely heart—enjoy.
Regardless of our new title, the fights continued, at times getting physical. Voldemort had lost his job, due to the restaurant going bankrupt; and I decided it was time that I stopped depending on him. Ellen was leaving a receptionist position at a health and life insurance agency—she recommended me as her replacement—and they hired me instantly. I regained my independence, while Voldemort stayed home with our son.
Things were going fairly well, and in an attempt to reconnect, we decided to recreate the bonding trips we had while on MDMA. We sent the baby to my mother’s for the night, and invited a few friends over to partake. The drugs led to some nakedness and group kissing, which we had mistaken for a deeper connection—when all it had really done was open the door for Voldemort and Gail to mess around in secret.
In December 2011, Chris and Gail got married. Carmen, having moved to New York City years early, flew in for the wedding with her new boyfriend, Adam. The whole group was back together, and for a night, everything seemed eerily perfect.
Then a few months later, I discovered Voldemort and Gail's relationship; and Chris found that his wife’s infidelity included another one of his friends. I cut ties with Gail, forcing Voldemort to do the same; and Chris filed for divorce—forgiving Voldemort for his role. The group fell apart, as did whatever trust there had been between Voldemort and me—realizing we would most likely never get married.