Here's what I think happened, part 5

I remember being in grad school, holding some results that might have been something and might have been nothing. We could have technically published, but we remained unsure as to the true meaning of the results.

I, of course, wanted to push ahead. Get a paper! Put something out there! My advisor felt differently. Explained that once it was published, I had to own it. If it turned out the initial data were misleading, it would be unfortunate to have people know that we'd interpreted them foolishly.

I tend to act quickly - make fast decisions based on how I feel at the time. So if you read what was initially here - from when I first published it, it was pretty vile. It came from a place of such anguish that I want to comfort myself even as I think of it. I didn't understand. Kept torturing myself by reciting those words he wrote to me, trying to determine what might have been partially true and what was certainly and brutally false. It was bad. I started composing the post yesterday morning as I was curled up on the bathroom floor - I've spent considerable time there lately. Even keep a pillow and blanket ready so I'm not too physically uncomfortable. The emotional misery is overwhelming enough. I was sick, crying, tapping my foot against the side of the tub, arms wrapped around myself in an attempt to soothe.

Anyway, I thought of it - all these synonyms for hateful words that I could use because I like to describe people and events with too many adjectives. A theory that I thought was at least partially true - what happened, why he did what he did, what it could possibly mean. It gave me comfort. No, that's not right. It gave me a sick kind of satisfaction. That he would read it and perhaps understand the damage he'd done. That she - the woman who wrote the blog I found - would have the opportunity to see how bitterly angry I was (at the situation. Never at her. I'm not, thank God, a monster). I'm not able to offer her much right now - I'm too fragile and ... ill. I'm not well. That's the sad fact, and as I'm getting better - as the depression eases the terrifying grip it had on my thoughts - I'm able to reflect with more clarity on what I'm trying to do here.

I still don't know, to be honest. As with everything, I'm trying to rush the recovery. Push forward as hard as I can so that I don't have to be the awful person who wrote something so hateful. But I was. I wrote it and though I'm told this text will replace any feeds that exist, there's always a chance that someone saved it - or memorized parts of it so that he/she could recite it internally to inflict pain - and I have to deal with that. I don't like it. I think someday I'll be terribly ashamed of it. But for now, I'll do what I can to fix it.

Now I've read some blog archives myself, and if you happen to be reading this at some point in the future - or catching up - you might be saying, "No, no, no! I read all of this and I don't get to know what happened?!" Never fear - I'll write it. But keep in mind that I'm still healing. This is, of course, one sided and could be foolish. I tried to stick with the facts in the beginning - what happened for me. I deviated from that in this initial entry - tried to define what happened for him.

The truth is that I don't know. But, well, here's what I think happened at the end.

As I was lost in betrayal but hoping to ignore it - explain it away as easily as he had - I received an email from another woman with whom he'd been involved when he'd been writing to me. I asked her some questions and she was kind enough to answer them while providing an enormous amount of comfort. I invaded her privacy in what used to be written here as well, and for that, I'm deeply sorry. It was wrong. I thought that it worked so well with my story and apparently I have a bit of a problem with narcissism. It was more important to me to write something cohesive and bitter than to protect someone's privacy. I didn't want to hurt her - or any of the other women who might have shared some of my experiences who read this - but I was trying so desperately to escape from myself that I did it anyway.

As the details came together, it became obvious that he wrote to many of us. As to how many, I don't know. I'm not sure it matters.

Some of the details were the same - the photo he shared was consistent as was much of the background information. From there it seemed to vary from person to person. I can't comment on their experiences (though I did before), but with me? I think he was responding to what I offered and I gave him a great deal. He took my words and using a great deal of intelligence, skill, maturity and knowledge, he gave me what I wanted. He manipulated me very effectively. He lied outright multiple times. I trusted him - loved him - and he was undeserving of those emotions.

The details of this betrayal - for I do feel cheated, though no promises or professions of love and exclusivity were offered - remain very painful. I could easily rewrite the phrases he wrote that linger in my mind - formerly beloved and completely false. Terribly untrue. Painful to a point I can't articulate. I could think about the other women - at least the ones of which I know - and wonder if he felt differently toward each of us or if he just used us because he could. I did do those things - I probably still will for a while - and it hurt. I decided that it had turned me into a person that I didn't recognize - who was so damaged that she was willing to damage whatever and whomever she could.

You'll be able to read more recent entries to see how I do. I think I'll be OK, but that may not be the case. Time will tell, and though I very much wish I could, rushing this process is not overly effective.

As for him? I could tell you he has read this - the whole series, likely multiple times. I could tell you we've exchanged more email, and if you're shaking your head at me, that's OK. I know. I decided that I'd take this post down if he asked. Just as I'd earlier given him control of how much I could tolerate - he had to decide when we should stop, and until then, I'd endure. That's unfair of me. It wasn't a responsibility he deserved - and you can take that in a positive or negative sense. I think I meant it as both. So, looking back at this now, I had to decide if I was OK with leaving those words I originally wrote here. I wasn't. It wasn't a side of me I liked. I'm sorry I did - wrote it, posted it, left it up for a couple of days. He did not ask for its removal - didn't in any way indicate he thought it was anything other than true. I wasn't manipulated - not on this particular issue. But I kept thinking about it, and when Unnamed Friend told me how to remove it from the RSS feeds "if you decide to take it down at some point. You don't have to. But if you decide to." I knew my present feelings were the right ones. I did something bad and should fix it.

I hope I have. I'm still not sure, but at least the effort is there.

...

After some time passed, I decided the original text - after some editing - could return. It's raw and painful, but it was honest. So here it is.

OK, how to tell this without hurting those who don’t deserve it? I keep writing it and not finishing. I want it to be over now though. I’ve been awake since 3 – having slept only 3 hours – and the anti-depressant that I took for the first time last night is making me sick. Or perhaps I’m just sick in general. Doesn’t matter so much in the moment.

I wrote this series, in part, for her. The young woman behind the blog I read. I’d hurt her, you see, and even in the agony that defined the time after I read her – that defines the present moment – I felt guilty about that. There can be reasons for bad behavior – I was hurt, confused, needed so desperately to understand – so I read what was available. There was gratitude, though it was hidden under misery, because she inadvertently exposed me to the truth of a situation that I never would have faced. It’s knocked me down, honestly, and I’m not sure how long the recovery will take. It’s not going well. But for her? I didn’t know what they shared, but I was guessing that she was as innocent as I was. That I caused her to feel vulnerable for what she wrote on a blog? That was wrong. I hated it.

So when she and her friends arrived to read me, I nodded and watched Site Meter. She had hidden her most previous posts, publicly saying only that something had happened, she was sad, and she wasn’t going to be posting again. Well, hell. That’s not what I wanted. I resolved to leave her alone. I was barely coping, so I had little comfort to offer. If she was happy with him, I hoped she’d continue to be. That they’d work. That she was stronger, better, more than I could have been. Normally what people think of me matters a great deal – I would have been deeply bothered by a community showing up and perhaps sneering over my pain when I’d caused some for their friend. But they were silent, which was kind.

I couldn’t send her email – I didn’t want to intrude any more than I already had. I’m doing some damage here lately – some purposely, some very regrettably and accidentally. What she offered me was the ability to know what happened with her. So I decided I’d offer her the same. I’d tell my story – a cautionary tale, as it is – and if she wanted to come read it, she knew where I was. I didn’t understand it – couldn’t make sense of it – didn’t want to believe it. But I have information. And I’m strong (stupid?) enough to post it.

He mentioned – several times – that he wouldn’t discuss his breakups on his blog. Something like how writing about endings and trashing one’s ex can be seen as nothing other than sad and pathetic. First, I’ve spent the last four hours alternating between standing in the shower, trying not to throw up and lying on the bathroom floor, covered in a blanket and robe, curled up in misery. Sad and pathetic? Welcome to my life, folks. I don’t care. It’s true. At least it’s honest and he wasn’t. He was not.

I got email after I started the series. Or maybe before – I’m not remembering things very clearly. Am behind on responding to sad or sympathetic email, but I’ll get to it. But I read this message and laughed. Shook my head because the guy’s an evil genius. So adept at writing characters and playing roles that the manipulation is effortless, stunningly effective and ruthless. Finding out about the woman with the blog? Chance. I was cyber-stalking him and happened across her. But finding out about this other dalliance? I should have known months ago. Can’t believe that I didn’t. I mentioned her to him! Was jealous of her! And when he didn’t respond to that section of my email so long ago? He must have forgotten, I decided. I remember her mentioning a brief internet thing awhile back, and shook my head for her sadly. I had chosen a better guy, I decided. Except it was the same man. And after it was revealed? It made sense.

“Did you see a picture?” I asked. “With a cat?” The one he – what was it? – "overcame [his] clumsy digital ignorance to scan and send just for me?" (I wish I didn’t have his words in my head. The suckers are hardwired into memory and I don’t know how long I have to keep them.) Of course she had.

“And the story? Where he was so betrayed and wounded and scared of a new relationship? Afraid to trust too much?” Yep, she’d heard it. And I giggled when I wondered if he just used the same text. Had Word documents with the appropriate stories at the appropriate times. They were effective, after all. And when juggling women – and I suspect there were many in his past, present and future – you have to maximize efficiency. Write a good story, then just keep using it. Hell, he didn’t have to put the story on his blog to discuss! The readership was likely huge just through email!

I’ve decided - just now - that I was in love with an imaginary man loosely based on some characteristics created by a brilliant writer. It was a good character too. Peter. Strong yet sensitive. Honest yet guarded. Complex and moody and absolutely fascinating. Confident and so intensely insightful. I loved him. Still do. Miss him terribly.

As for the writer? The man behind the curtain? He liked the Wizard (from Oz), by the way. Found him compelling. I’ve always wanted to kick the Wizard in the shin. Miserable, manipulative, weak ass. But we’re talking about what happened to me. I think I’m going to look at it like this. There was a character – Peter. And a writer – Pete.

I don’t know Pete. Don’t want to. While I could be wrong, I believe him to be vile. I think he misleads and manipulates and lies. Uses people for some reason that I refuse to understand. Because that would mean that malignant trait – that desire to invade and destroy – is present in me. And it’s not. I don’t hurt people. Not on purpose. Not with such cold disregard.

Peter liked decorum – I teased him about it. Liked WASP topics a lot. I suspect he’d frown over his author being called Pete. That pleases me. But would it really bother him? Don’t know. I don’t know that man. Is Peter based upon Pete? Maybe. Well, in part, definitely. The facts have to check out. Peter had to live where Pete was so site stats wouldn’t lie. I had to be able to find him online. Know where he worked. How he spent some of his time off.

How did I fall for Peter so completely? Well, he liked me. He spent hours reading my blog – I remember blushing over site stats long ago, nodding over how quickly he’d shown up to participate in my plan to find love! I hadn't been writing all that long at that point. He was fascinated by me, I decided happily. Read my entries. Knew me very well before leaving a single comment. And the comments? Ah, they were good. I love the comments much more than his blog. He can be unlikable there – superior, pompous, overly sharp and bitter. But in comments? Perfection – easy, funny, insightful, sweet. So I fluttered and developed feelings and got tired of waiting. Sent him email. And so we began.

When you’re speaking of someone trained in theater and literature, it’s not surprising – in retrospect – that he could be remarkably believable as he told me what I wanted to hear. So I think I helped write Peter. Recoiled just a couple of times, but then he understood how to work around my quirks. He would edit the lines, correct himself, then I would smile, move closer and cuddle in again. I was open, after all. Offered all the information he could want or need to tailor Peter in a way that would make me fall, give over, flutter under his attention.

So when I talk to some of the other women? Their Peters were similar, but not exactly the same. After all, that’s not very challenging for dear Pete, is it? And the man is smart – smarter than I am. (Dammit.) He must be cunning and shrewd, understand people to some heightened degree. He was mature enough to pull characteristics from centuries of literature and his own life experiences. At least I think so. Had honed what was certainly natural talent to select the right pieces and weave them together so elegantly that I would never suspect he was anything other than sincere. Peter was sincere. I needed him to be, helped write him to be, so he was.

So the Peters are the same basic models. Like, um, software. Same program, different versions. Whether I was version 2 or 247, I have no idea. If I was near the beginning of this little game, the guy is, quite simply, a genius. He was completely believable. So much so that even faced with the evidence – two women who had similar experiences with him during the time I’d known him – I could write with all sincerity last night that I missed him, wanted him, loved him. I couldn’t make it come together until I started writing this last entry yet again. I can look at it like this – Pete, Peter-version Katie, Peter-version Julie, Peter–version Wendy. They were perhaps nearly identical – it’s a hypothesis I simply can’t test. But there had to have been differences. We wouldn't have all fallen for the same version.

My Peter didn’t like to talk on the phone. Maybe her Peter would talk for hours. My Peter let me lead. Guided a bit, but mostly did what I asked. There was very little chasing. Another Peter might have initiated contact. Chased and flattered and captured. My Peter never said he loved me, never made promises, only issued a single invitation to visit that I didn’t take seriously. There could be a Peter who freely admitted his love, who was making plans for her to live with him, incorporated visits into this elaborate play he was creating. Her Peter wrote from England while he was on a trip - it was challenging to do so, so maybe she was flattered. My Peter asked his father to let him use the computer from the beach house. Told him it was important, then wrote to me. And I was thrilled.

And, damn, it was compelling. It fascinates me even as I’m repulsed. For I was an unwitting player. I didn’t know we were acting – even part of the time. When he said he wasn’t using me as a transitional relationship? Would “wait in complete and total celibate isolation until someone perfect came along. Unfortunately, she *has* and she lives all the way across the fucking country!” I believed him because I wanted to. It was what I wanted to hear, what I prompted him to say. I stood on a stage and raised my eyebrows and basically demanded he recite his lines. Good script though.

I’m not a writer. Have never claimed to be because my “fiction” is so based in reality – it’s real with some details changed (if that). I’m just telling you stories. Things I’ve heard or seen or experienced. It’s all me. There are differences between how I act at work and at home, with family versus with my Peter. But it’s all genuine. All real. All me. He’s a writer – makes fantasy seem real and compelling and right. It’s what he does – what I think feeds his soul. That he’s decided to pursue it as a hobby? It makes some sense to me. I may be wrong, but I doubt it. And it should be a book – some fantastic novel that allows people to know Pete because my guess is that he’s one of the most interesting people you could find. What drives him? What does he gain from making women love Peter? It’s not him. In my mind, Pete is not my Peter. It won’t make sense.

So – from the ball I curl into on the bathroom floor – I wondered how this could be true. How I could accept this so I could start moving on. Escape the pain. How could Peter apologize so convincingly, so sweetly, so perfectly, then lie about me to someone else? (I think he did based on her blog – I don’t know for sure.) The only thing I can come up with is Peter–version me is different than Peter–version her. We always knew I was in love with a mental image – that there were pieces of him I didn’t know. Then there are the pieces of him that were untrue or misrepresented. So Peter, for me, is that image. That character.

It hurts that he wasn’t real. There is a gaping hole where the relationship should have been because the guy didn’t exist on any real level. I once heard about someone missing a person who was figuratively dead though she remained physically alive and well. She hurt and lied and cheated in such a cold and callous way that he had no idea who she was. Because she wasn’t the person he knew or believed her to be. And as I think of that, I realized how I think I want to view, mourn and understand this. Is it right? I have no idea. Will it work for me? Probably. I hope so.

As for Pete? Wow – I don’t know. If I’m being generous, I could speculate that he’s finding himself. Trying out these different roles with different people and finding what fits. Not trying to be hurtful – maybe he does genuinely regret that I’m in such pain right now. I don’t think he meant for me to look behind the curtain. It was just supposed to end, I suspect. Stop. Go away. Peter became rather unlikable in Act 3, so perhaps I should have quietly exited before the show was over and beat the traffic out of the parking lot. I didn’t. It’s why I don’t read real novels or see brilliant plays. I get too attached. Emotionally involved. I wanted to keep him and couldn’t let him go. So I had to see the truth.

Am I glad I did? That I’ve now had contact with some of these women and watch others read these words, wondering if they understand because they know him too? I don’t know. I really, really don’t. There were good parts – I was very happy. I made some good changes based on how he helped me feel. This part is really hard though. I’m working my way through it in a very clumsy, pathetic, undignified fashion. Trying to come up with a theory that I can repeat to myself until I stop hurting so badly. I think – though I’m not sure – I wish Pete well. Maybe more therapy would help. Perhaps it’s all research for this drama he’ll eventually write. Hell, if I understood it, I’d write it. But, as I said, I’m not a writer. I try to see what happened, examine it, understand it, then record it. That’s it.

And that is it, I think. There’s no happy ending right now, though I’m continuing to improve. It hurts to hear about the other Peter versions, but I’m curious. Interested. I’ll answer email, read comments, watch a relatively enormous audience compared to my normal readers come to read. It’s OK. It happened. I’ll be fine. It’s a shame – I thought I found someone to love. Might have been able to love Pete. But I don’t think it was part of the story for me to be offered that chance. So there’s not much to do than move on, heal and look again.