Greetings, squadlings!

I’ve written and deleted this post probably 20 times. Who knows if I’ll actually post it now?

Many people have asked me why my blog died a slow, painful death around spring of 2019. I always tell people that it’s because I didn’t have anything to say. While that’s partially true, the whole truth is that I didn’t want to say anything.

I didn’t want him to know what I was doing. I didn’t want him to know where I was, or what plans my friends and I had, or what I was interested in. I wanted him gone. And now, he is. It’s been almost a year, and I’ve had a lot of time to think about what went on that summer. Although 10 months have passed since he started to change, and it’s been about six months since we’ve heard from him, that was the summer from hell: and I still don’t know if I’ve forgiven him for it.

I want to preface this by saying: this person was not a romantic partner of mine or any of my family members. This post also contains privacy restrictions so certain people will not know it has been posted. If you can see it, congratulations, you passed. I absolutely WILL NOT reveal my relationship to this person in this post. His name will not be mentioned, his identity will not be revealed at any point during this post.

He started to change in late April, early May. At first, we made jokes: he just had weird quirks. That was all. Right?

Oh girl, that is not right.

About a month later, things got bad: It started the morning when he showed up at my house unannounced for the first time. He stormed in the door, screamed incoherently for ten minutes, and then bolted like nothing happened. We called him to see if he was ok, and he continued to scream incoherently for an hour. That’s when we knew this wasn’t a joke anymore.

For the rest of the summer, he continued to show up at my house unannounced. Sometimes he would go on angry rants, sometimes he would just take food from our kitchen or pantry and leave. We later found out he had been stealing food from our pantry.

I spent the summer in a pitch black house at night–we couldn’t make it look like we were home, or he would pound on the door until we answered and let him in. There was one night when I was home alone, I took a shower in a pitch black, silent house for fear that he would see the lights on and barge in the front door. One time, he showed up to my house unannounced, and though I never saw him because my mom managed to keep him in the front yard, I crawled under my blankets and cried, clutching the pepper spray I had purchased from a nearby hardware store and praying he wouldn’t come in the house. I could hear his voice through my open window–that voice I once knew so well. The voice of someone I trusted.

Being afraid of someone you trust is a scary thing. This person had been in my life for years–he knew me, he knew my family. He was my friend. I had no issues with him. None. And then one day, that all changed, and I was terrified of him. I’d see a car the same color as his while driving and have to pull over and cry. Even if it wasn’t him. One time, it was him. He simply waved from inside his car, and I whipped onto the nearest empty street and immediately burst into tears, screaming at no one in particular that I was just so, so sick of running from him. There was nothing I could do–he knew where I lived, he knew where I worked, he knew my friends…I felt like I was being hunted in my own hometown.

Even when I did build up the courage to leave my hometown with my friends, I was constantly looking over my shoulder. Had he somehow figured out that I had left town and followed me? I started bringing pepper spray everywhere I went. I slept with it on my bedside table, and my beating stick (don’t ask) next to me. He was stealing food, who’s to say he wouldn’t steal a house key? He was posting videos on Snapchat of him talking to himself or driving at 110mph down city streets, where the speed limit is a weak 25mph. He had finally broken.

Then came the day he tried to follow me to work. Two hours after he checked himself out of the psych ward.

He knew my work schedule–he knew I worked at 4pm on Wednesdays that particular summer. He also knew I was home alone…and he showed up at my house anyway.

I did the only thing I could think to do: I grabbed my mom’s car keys and bolted out the front door, making sure to lock it, because where I was going, I had to leave my dog behind.

I barely made it into the car before he knocked on the window.

“Where are you going?” He asked.

“I have to go.” I replied, near tears.

“Where are you going, though? Can I come with you? I’ll go with you. We can go together.”

“I have to go.” 

“Are you going to work?”

“I have to go now.”

“You’re going to work, aren’t you? I’ll go, too. I’ll see you at your work.”

And then I did a very stupid thing. I drove to work.

I ran in the door, and my friend happened to be standing at the host desk, where I was supposed to be in just an hour. She couldn’t even get a word out before I blurted out through tears, “He came to my house.” My friend’s face turned white. She knew I was home alone. She knew what he had been doing. She knew this was bad.

When my boss saw me sobbing, dressed in fancy office clothes from my internship at a law firm (I didn’t even have time to change before I had to run out of the house), he took me into the back office, and I told him everything: I was being followed, and I was scared shitless.

My boss was very understanding–he assured me that this person would not be allowed in the restaurant, and if he did come, he would be escorted out almost immediately. I was sent home for my own safety. My friend came with me so I wouldn’t be alone.

I went to the police the next day. And I sobbed the whole time as I told them everything. I told them his name, his birthday, what kind of car he drove, a physical description…I gave them every piece of information about him that I had.

And he still kept coming.

Lots of other things happened with him between the first time he barged into my house and the last time I saw him, but this would be a real long post if I mentioned everything. It’s already ungodly long. I will say, after he started threatening people (myself included), I ended up going to the police one more time.

And then, in August, he disappeared.

I haven’t seen or heard from him since that summer. Neither has anyone else. He disappeared. I was relieved when he stopped showing up, but also…conflicted. Disclaimer: We know he is alive and safe. 

I had trusted this person. I had known him for years. I watched him grieve the death of his father–hell, I grieved the death of his father. And with the flick of a switch, I was terrified of him.

Do I miss him? Yes and no. I miss who he used to be–the guy he was before all of this. I don’t miss who he became. Do I still have a moment of panic when I see a car the same color as his? You’re damn right I do–someone at my school had the same car as him, and every time I saw it, my heart stopped. I couldn’t even park next to it for the irrational fear that it might actually be his car. I was, and still am, afraid of him. Which leads me to the question….

Do I forgive him?

That’s a post for another time, because I still don’t have the goddamn answer.

Be well, squadlings.