He came in the early fall of 2001 and he stayed with me for about 2 months.
I was living in France at that time, in an old miner’s town surrounded by the Alpes, the Pyrenees and the Vosges on every side of it. The town to someone with such a lack of orientation as myself was pure bliss – you could never lose your way. The big white tips of the mountains steadily lead you through the maze of the streets and side streets.
Although the nameless came to me without a warning, I cannot say that it was unexpected. I had known that there was always a possibility of him coming to me. I had just chosen to close my eyes to this possibility and believe (hope? ignore?) the possibility of his arrival.
I don’t know, if I knew his father well. It’s hard to stay objective about someone who cracked your bones, bruised and broke you skin, but in all fairness and for the sake of the nameless one, who is but an innocent pawn in this tale I must try.
His father was not a handsome man. He was tall with brown curly hair. His teeth always seemed to need brushing. They were not dirty or unhygienic, they simply lacked the slight healthy luster of teeth and seemed to just sit in his mouth like miniature versions of the mountains surrounding the city, although without the faint glint of snow caressing their crowns.
He was a rigid, harsh man, whose “wishes” were like commands, tolerating no other voice beside them.
He was intelligent, but he lacked the emotional intelligence needed to have others not just admire him (maybe even worship him), but love him.
This was the man he was, when he was “he”.
The moment he strapped on his guitar and started singing something happened. His features seemed to align in a different way, making him not just handsome, but truly beautiful. His voice lost its harsh rasp and wrapped itself around you like a soft warm blanket. His touch was gentle as he lovingly caressed the guitar strings, barely touching them with the tips of his blistered fingers.
He became loveable and deceivingly so. For almost half a year, I tried to heal his soul (because I felt al it needed was healing) and bring a song back into his life, so he might always be gentle, sweet and comforting.
I ignored and forgave all trespasses against me. The thievery out of my purse or from my checking account, the white powder on the brim of the bathroom sink and under his nose, the malice in his words and tone of voice when he told me I was but a freak and no man could love a freak, the sound and the sensation of his fist making frequent contact with my cheeks (and when I squirmed to protect myself my chest, shoulders, stomach, hands, arms and legs).
I am not sure, if I loved him. I am not sure because to this day, I am not sure I ever knew him. Maybe I saw only what I wanted to see. There must have been more to him than this, but I might have blinded myself to the reality of him (the good and the bad) for the sake of creating the being I felt must be there inside him.
We never made love, we only rampaged one another. I gave myself to him fully, as if I was sacrificing myself to a God and he took me like I was the scared virgin brought to him by the people of the village in hopes of him looking mercifully on them. He owned me, as if it were his right to do so and I let him (maybe I even felt it was his right).
So when the nameless one came to me in early fall of 2001, he found me in a very bad place. I instantly loved him despite his father with all my heart and I longed for him to stay with me, but I was broken.
I had fallen so deep into a abyss of fear, loathing, hurt, anger and violence that I couldn’t find my way to the softness needed to welcome him into my life.
When I said you could never get lost in the city because of the mountains, I realize I should have been more specific: I never got lost geographically, but loss of way isn’t always on a travellers map.
In the days he stayed with me, I spent most of my time pleading with him, trying to find a compromise for the both of us. I searched for a moment in time, some kind of asylum, where the both of us could be together as God intended us to be.
In the end, I let him go. No, that’s not true. That’s too gentle a term, to euphemistic. Let me try again: In the end I payed someone to forcefully remove him from my life. I payed someone to drug me, while he was ripped apart in the midst of sweat, blood and guilt.
I am sorry.
Please let us be clear, I am not sorry I made this decision, because it was the right one for me (only for me, egoistically only for me) to make. I just wished I could have spared him the pain of coming to a loveless home and of leaving this world in agony. Yes, I wished I could have speared us both the pain.
Solveig-Marie came shortly after in the february of 2004. I loved her like I never loved any being alive. I knew she was there before they told me. I could feel her presence from the start. When she came, she opened my heart and flooded it with pure love.
Those first days where the innocent days. There was no hesitation, no rational, nothing but warmth and the feeling of belonging.
Her father and the nameless one’s father share similar traits.
One the outside her father was liquid gold. He was the sun came down from heaven. He was beauty beyond beauty.
Of Scandinavian descent, he was as fair as I was dark. His ice-blue eyes melted me. I longed to have his smile shine upon me.
He was 19 years my senior: eloquent, well travelled, knowledgeable. He was a fashionable, charming, distinguished gentleman – on the outside.
On the inside he was broken. Broken far worse, than I have ever been. He had lost himself completely in the rearview mirror of his life. I read up a little bit of narcissistic personality disorder a while back and it felt like the person writing this article knew him personally.
We were engaged. It had been a whirlwind romance and he had proposed to me after a month and I, quite enjoying the view from the pedestal on which he had set me and longing for a “real” family, accepted.
Alas the honeymoon didn’t last and when it ended, abruptly, I was dragged down to the depths of hell and left there. He never physically, violently accosted me, but his mind games hurt me more than any split skin could ever had. In all honesty, I sometimes wished he would have beaten me senseless rather than treat me the way he did.
He left me literally waiting for him for hours in the snow at night on his door step, because he needed time for himself and I waited wondering what I had done wrong, questioning what I could have done to hurt this angel, questioning my own sanity.
There was a room in house I was not allowed to enter and I obeyed; – for a while.
When I did enter I found a shrine. All of the walls were plastered with pictures of his former girlfriend. There were letters in boxes, which I did not read, because it caught my breath just standing there. This was after he had proposed to me.
Yet, I did not flee. I stayed. I wished I could say I stayed because I valued the commitment I made to him, but that’s not true. At least not entirely true.
I stayed out of stubbornness. I had decided this was going to be the one for me (and at that time I still believed in the one) and I was not going to give up on it. I was going to make it work.
When Solveig-Marie came we were beyond repair and I was in law-school and I loved her. I loved her more than anything I can describe and I still love her more than life itself. Something inside me screams out in anger, frustration and hurt every time I think of her, which is often.
I knew when she came I had to leave her father. I knew I had to protect her from this mirror that never reflected who you are and showed you but horrific images of who you might be.
I couldn’t care for her on my own and I knew I couldn’t have her come to me and give her away. When I say I couldn’t I don’t mean it would have killed me to do so, I mean they would have literally have to have pried her from my cold, dead hands.
I spent weeks and days juggling numbers and seeing if I could make the add up, so that she could stay. I knew I couldn’t drop out of school. I knew I needed a future. I hate numbers. They don’t tell you what you want to hear.
She too, I had ripped out of me. When she was killed she took with her a piece of my soul and rightfully so.
I don’t need you to understand me.
I don’t need you to concur with me.
I don’t need you to accept my decisions.
If you want to blame me and damn me to the depths of hell, you may. Trust me, I know hell, I have been there and I can still see it and smell it in my dreams.
All I want from you is to know:
You need to know about the nameless one and Solveig-Marie
As I usually start my posts with a quote, I have decided to end it with one this time:
” No woman wants an abortion as she wants an ice cream cone and a Porsche. She wants an abortion as an animal caught in a trap wants to gnaw off its own leg”