“When you have seen as much of life as I have, you will not underestimate the power of obsessive love.” –J.K. Rowling

 

Haven’t we all been with that absolute psychopath? That one, crazy person who is a borderline sociopath and is under the blind, lunatic misconception that you owe them something? Maybe it’s a naughty picture that they feel they rightfully deserve, a date at some seedy hole in the wall that only serves beer and house wine, or god forbid, a piece of your soul. Or worse still, an invitation into your bed with full access to your most delicate of places. Because isn’t that just the way the world works nowadays? Every human interaction requires some brand of nonsense give and take. It could never just be two people engaged in conversation, without sense or reason. I mean, seriously, talk about crazy, right?

But the unpleasant truth is that we have all been there at some point, with someone. Sometimes you can have the ability to be just charming enough to sway another person. You exhibit this mystery that has others falling at your feet, you seem to allude just enough sensual energy to keep them intrigued, and you’re oozing enough magnetism to put Grace Kelly to shame. 

What eventually happens is that you’re shedding all this charm and glamour, and while it cascades all over that alleged gentlemen sitting next to you, something happens. Suddenly his eyes are sparkling and his hand is slowly gravitating from his wine glass to your sun kissed knee. Something is drastically changing in the stratosphere and suddenly things go from a charming conversation with a handsome, charismatic man to dodging bullets in crazy town.   

It’s as if one minute, you’re in the safe zone, the next you’re on an episode of America’s Most Wanted and they’re doing this terrible dramatization of your grisly murder. I am dead serious. Stranger things have happened.

I happen to think it’s bad luck for a guy to be a jerk to the woman he’s in love with. –Sam Malone, Cheers

Maybe I’m just lucky in the romance department (she said pretty sarcastically), but up until the last few years, I had more than my fair share of unequivocally ridiculous men. It’s strange, actually. It’s sort of like the straight up lunatics seem to seek me out. They just crawl out of the woodwork and find me. It’s like my pheromones just attract them and they find me like a celebutante finds a well-dressed drug dealer. 

I had one boyfriend, for example, who didn’t even like me. He criticized me like it was his job, incessantly reminding me of how horrible my friends were, how allegedly overweight I was, and how awful my chosen place of employment was. He claimed that I would never be anything of note, I would never find anyone who would love me like he supposedly did because obviously, who would, right? In his warped mind, if I didn’t stay with him, I would never find anyone because I was just virtually that unlovable. Clearly.

But what happened when we broke up is even more insane. When we were a couple, this man could not stand me. He spent every minute of every day of his life making sure I felt bad about myself and habitually comparing me to the other girl he was sleeping with right under my nose. He would tell me all these nonsense stories about alleged NARCO missions and dive club investigations just to spend time with said other girl. And this went on for MONTHS. When we were together, he never wanted me around; it was like I was cramping his style. And then when I grew a brain stem and dumped him, I literally could not get rid of him. 

He was basically taking up residence in my apartment’s parking lot, as my low caliber, strip club waitressing roommate insisted on letting him in with our gate code. He showed up at my job all the time, wielding Dunkin’ Donuts iced coffee like it was roses and an engagement ring. He would buy those pathetic, romantic apology cards that have actual novels written inside them and write illegibly in them things like how sorry he was, how different he could be, or lyrics to shitty Daughtry songs. I only wish I was embellishing. 

I mean, he was already crazy to begin with but once I ended it, he became CRAZY crazy. He was obsessed and it went on for actual years. You know, about three years ago, he came into Victoria’s Secret and caught me completely off guard. I remember he was wearing a Buccaneer’s jersey and pushing a baby stroller, giving the illusion that he was a regular person with a family and wholesome, fatherly responsibilities. I wasn’t as strong mentally then as I am now (please keep your snickers to a minimum), so I asked another associate if she could cover for me while I ran to the back and completely lost it. 

But the craziest part was this man’s lingering obsession that was clearly intact years later. A few days after our run-in, he conveniently runs into my best friend. He talks to her for the better part of an hour (which I totally believe because no disrespect, but he is a talker; anyone who knows him knows this to be completely factual), primarily about me, and then tell her to pass a message onto me. “Tell her I’m sorry that I didn’t say hi to her,” he tells my best friend, “I wasn’t trying to be rude. It’s not that I didn’t want to talk to her. I just didn’t want my girlfriend to get mad.” 

I remember that I looked at my best friend and nearly choked on my Appletini. “I’m sorry?” I raised my eyebrows, not completely understanding what I had heard. “What in GOD’S NAME would we possibly have to talk about?!” I asked her with my notorious bug eyes. Honestly, I’m sure that he would have thought of something. Like, it is years later and he has a child with someone else and he honestly believes that I was offended he didn’t talk to me? Yes, he is clearly that obsessed. And delusional. 

What a sick joke. 

I would like to be the air that inhabits you for a moment only. I would like to be that unnoticed and that necessary. –Margaret Atwood    

I once knew this other man, even sort of liked him in the beginning. He was just charming enough to not get on my nerves, supposedly well read (although now, I’m not so sure) and as such, appreciative of my love to write. He was just handsome enough not to know it (well, not really obnoxiously know it…) and was definitely a product of a good upbringing. 

It was kind of an interesting situation though because I was sort of newly recovering from a breakup. I was still in that lonely stage but at the same time, incredibly appreciative of my newfound freedom. Essentially, there were two things that I would no longer put up with: being talked down to and hearing a list of demands from a guy who only seemed to squeeze me in when all of his friends (the majority of them scantily clad, moderately attractive females) were busy. Basically, if it was a weekend, I could just forget about seeing him. It could be that his “boys” were in town punishing his liver or that DJ whoever the hell was going to be at club whatever and his friends (aka 7 or so Hefner-esque girls and their bodyguards/gentlemen friends) had VIP.

It was painfully obvious that I wasn’t a priority. Or maybe it’s that despite what he said, I wasn’t really up to par in his opinion. I was just someone to entertain him while he was bored during the week when normal people with real jobs are at work. I was just some halfway attractive individual who was really good at stroking his ego. All he ever wanted was to hear how great I thought he was and then he had the audacity to go behind my back and tell a mutual friend that I was “too complimentary”.

You have GOT to be kidding me with that garbage, right? Ugh, I can’t.

All extremes of feeling are allied with madness. –Virginia Woolf, Orlando

A million years ago, when I was still with my aforementioned crazy ex-boyfriend, I remember that I had gotten to my second job painfully early one day. I was just standing outside the store, waiting for my manager to show up when this man randomly walked up to me. To this day, I can’t quiet remember his name but I feel like it had one syllable. Maybe it was Scott or Chris…? Or maybe it was Eric, although that has two.

Anyway, his name isn’t important. What is important is that he asked me if he could borrow my phone for just one phone call, which instantly made my stomach hurt. I acquiesced and then he went on to tell me his life story while he used my phone. I wasn’t really listening to any of it, however. All I could do was stare at him while he made his stupid phone call, imagining what would become of me if my boyfriend had chosen that exact moment to alert me on my neon yellow Nextel. He would literally scour the earth to find me if he received a busy signal. Didn’t this simple named, light-complected douchebag realize that his inability to own a prepaid cellphone had put both of our lives at stake?! Just thinking about it right now, sitting in my pristine, perfect office that I share with my husband, makes me want to down a bottle of vodka. Not even a joke.

     

Anyway, the point is that this guy was not my type at all. He was a Midwesterner, like me, and as everyone knows, I like men from exotic lands: South Africa, South America, the Bronx… He had blonde hair and blue eyes and spoke with this really thick, Midwestern accent that was reminiscent of the one my mom has. I want to say that he had just moved to Florida after his dad kicked him out. And the truth was he actually did own a cellphone. He was just using mine as some shady ploy to obtain my phone number.

Anyway, as earlier mentioned, I already had one psychotic boyfriend on my hands and wasn’t particularly looking for a second one. So as time went on, I just sort of ignored him. It didn’t take me all that long to figure out what his number was and every time he called, I just hit ignore. I didn’t think that was too harsh, considering I had told this man multiple times that I had a boyfriend. Who was about 6’3” and relatively unstable… 

Well apparently, I thought wrong because one night, he got so inebriated that I could barely make out the words he shouted into my voicemail. I know that he was livid that I didn’t want to exchange one crazy I knew everything about for another I knew nothing about. I also think he might have called me the “c” word, which in those days didn’t particularly offend me. I used to be really good at picking my battles and name calling was never one I was really worried about.

Moral of the Crazy: Because this is a series of personal memoirs, I won’t even try to lie: I am one of those people with an incredibly addictive personality. I’m not one of those people who just wants one glass of wine; I want the entire bottle. I don’t want to go on one measly date with that person I crave; I want every single inch of him. I never could do anything with half my heart, so I completely understand how one can become obsessed. I have full knowledge of the amount of anxiety these obsessive feelings can produce. I’m not going to sit here and pretend like I don’t currently have a George Clooney/Josh Charles/Jon Hamm combonation screensaver. I’ve been there, friends; obsession is a very real thing. 

I just think that these situations are delicate. You have to tread carefully, almost always. You don’t get to just call all the shots and make outrageous demands because you believe your feelings to be justified and genuine. I think what is so scary about obsession is that it outlives everything. While it may just be that you’re innocently fond of someone, if that fondness isn’t reciprocated, it can turn borderline obsessive. You go from cute, mousy little Meredith Grey obsessing over your married boss to delusional Norman Bates making taxidermy out of your crush’s corpse in just two moves. And all of this because you just want to prove your feelings. You think to yourself: If they would just give you a chance, it would all make sense!

But sometimes they just don’t give you a chance because the reality is that they don’t have to. Sometimes you can misinterpret another person’s actions and that obsession morphs into wild, irrational anger. It has happened to me. I have had actual arguments with myself about who blew me off or who broke my heart and meanwhile, the other *cough SANE cough* person barely even knows my goddamn name.

But the part I don’t get about all this is the irrational anger segment. I don’t really understand how acting out is used as an argument tactic after the age of like, 21. Personally, the more hurtful you are, the less I want to talk to you. Obsessed or otherwise.

I don’t like being yelled at and I don’t like aggressive conversation. #EndRant

I suppose the lesson here is to use clear and appropriate terminology when speaking of all things, but more especially romantic dealings. Unless you’re a two year old, don’t throw fits if you don’t get your way. Because chances are, there are so many other things going on that you aren’t privy to. Maybe it’s not you; maybe it’s just life.

And most importantly, don’t let your obsession outlive you. 

If you ever looked at me once with what I know is in you, I would be your slave. –Emily Bronte, Wuthering Heights