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Prologue
You seldom choose the circumstances that offer meaning to your life. Given a list of options, stalking isn't one I'd ever pick. But once that was my reality, I saw two basic choices—walk straight through or shy away. My nature is to walk straight through the hard things—grief, sorrow, fear, doubt, anger, whatever presents itself. I've always believed in the power of the other side of pain, so I don't allow myself to run from it.
Facing your demons, taking responsibility for your choices, learning from your mistakes: that's the kind of person I respect and aspire to be. So being stalked by an ex-lover requires me to examine how I managed to love such a man. My stalker may have picked me, but I picked him, too. I picked him, I lived with him, and when I left him, I intended to remember him in only the vaguest way, the way you recall a movie that didn't live up to the hype.
I thought it would be a simple matter of walking away and taking stock: tuck back into myself, consider why I chose him, face my frailties and failings, and then, and only then, step into the future—wiser and more whole than the day I met him. That had always worked for me in the past.
Turns out, this time would be different. You can do all the psychic and physical separation you want, but there's no getting away from someone who wants to remind you he can mess with your life anytime he wants. Paul isn't a man who tolerates being left. His desire to control me didn't vanish just because I tried to. In fact, the stalking has lasted far longer than our life together. So every choice I make, every moment of turning, is filtered through one simple fact: my stalker is still alive. Which is why you won't know my real name. But you will know my psyche, for I intend to offer it bare as a licked bone.
Being stalked thrusts you into the muck of someone else's life, which is how I felt when I was with him, so it was a surprise that I wasn't, after all, free of him when I walked out his door. How could I know that leaving this man would give new meaning to the concept of afterlife? No matter what else happens, my life will always be divided into three parts: before him, with him, after him. Not my preferred life markers. But there it is. It's what I got when I walked away.
I had forty-one years before him, nearly three years with him, and it's been more than thirteen years since I left him. It took me more than two years to see that leaving him was not the same as getting away from him, and that his harassment was, in fact, stalking.
Over the years, therapists have assured me that they, professionals who are paid to figure -people out, were fooled, just as I was, by this man's charms. I'm only somewhat consoled by such assurances, because they don't erase the inevitable questions: How could I have loved someone so capable of residual hate? How did I allow myself to get sucked into his perversion? How did I manage to get away? How do I stay safe now? And most important of all: How do I keep sane, not ever knowing if the stalking is over?
The answers are complicated, but the truth is simple: it all flows from the currents of my past.
It took living with the man who became my stalker to realize that life with my family had left me with such a high tolerance for cruelty I couldn't recognize perversion when I saw it. And when I did start to see it, I was so accustomed to thinking that sick -people get well and that I could survive anything, I didn't know when to quit hoping. I didn't know when to quit being strong and patient and kind.
Some women are raised to believe men can become their best selves if they're not left to their own limitations. We're bred to believe in the power of redemption. It took time—too much time—for me to realize that picking someone who needs you, who's less whole than you are, is the easiest way to keep from seeing yourself clearly. It offers ready distraction from your own damage.
I thought that avoiding active alcoholics and working on my own frailties would be my salvation. I also thought if I understood enough about the man I loved and was a steady force of love for him, it would all come right in the end.
Turns out, I couldn't have been more wrong.
I startle awake. A gunshot? I hold my breath and strain to identify the noise in the ensuing silence. Nothing. Was it a car backfiring on the highway? A hunter downing a deer on the island? Maybe one or the other. Maybe something more ominous. I'm never sure which way to turn, toward the ordinary or the terrifying.
I lie still and focus on my surroundings, work my legs toward the edge of the bed and ease into position. I've taken to wearing sweats and a long-sleeve T-shirt to bed instead of pajamas in case I have to leave suddenly. Running or taken, either way, it makes me feel a little less vulnerable. I edge my arm from beneath the cool sheet, slide the cell phone from under the spare pillow. I practice the drill just in case: my fingers slide over the keys: 9-1-1. 9-1-1. I remind myself to breathe—slowly, silently. I remain as still as possible.
I lay my head back against the pillow to keep my neck from locking and play back the moments before going to bed. I see myself checking all the doors, the windows, the security system. Once. At least twice. Perhaps, like many nights, more than that. I visualize the routes I'll take if someone comes through the front door, through the back door, through a window. I wait for another sound that will tell me which way to run.
Excerpted from In His Sights: A True Story of Love and Obsession by Kate Brennan All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
