The extreme nature of my alcoholism that hits me quite hard is the fact that there were times that I HAD TO drink to be able to stay alive. Literally. I remember my meeting I had with a gentleman to discuss getting into treatment/rehab, and one of his questions was: how often and how much do you drink? My response: every single day. I always had a liter of vodka in my freezer and drank about that much every day, sometimes more, sometimes slightly less, depending on if I passed out. There wasn't one day I could get through without drinking. My drink of choice at that time was straight, chilled vodka, sometimes with a Gatorade chaser, sometimes with a cigarette chaser. (I still have a hard time drinking certain flavors of Gatorade.) Toward the end of the that meeting (which was interrupted by calls from my work office and from my property manager letting me know that Sheriff's deputies were looking for me because they had a warrant for my arrest for violating my bond), that man told me in no uncertain terms that I would have to continue drinking until a bed opened up for me in treatment; if I stopped on my own, death was a very real possibility. To this alcoholic, I barely heard the life-threatening nature of his warning; I heard I had a green light to keep on drinking...music to my ears! I made the most of that mandate.
At this time, I was a practicing attorney. I would wake up in the morning and always have to decide if I could handle going to work that day, which usually involved going to at least a few different courts to handle cases. (I mainly practiced criminal defense.) If I thought I could manage to walk out the door, I would start by taking a shower. When I emerged from the shower, I would stand for several minutes in front of the mirror, barely able to look myself in the eye, and shake profusely, gag and have severe dry heaves, and sweat like crazy with tears running down my face from my always blood-shot eyes. The tears weren't from crying; the tears were from the physical torment my body was experiencing.
I would eventually finish "getting ready for work." I always looked like shit because I was so physically ill that I couldn't spend much time trying to look presentable. Every single step of the days I'd go to work was overwhelming. Often I'd forget one thing or another that I needed for the day, including case files. One of the most telling and humiliating occurrences during those work days was how much I'd be shaking. I can't even count the times that I would have to sign documents, directly in front of judges, clerks, and fellow attorneys, and my hand would be shaking uncontrollably. Sometimes I'd have to steady my writing hand with my other just to create some semblance of a signature. I'm pretty sure I wasn't fooling many people, as I looked like an alcoholic mess.
After treatment, I went around to various courts to talk to the same judges, clerks, etc. to explain that I was trying to pick up the pieces and get back on track. People are SO forgiving and understanding! Unfortunately, I wasn't "cured" and didn't utilize the tools treatment gave me so it became "fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me." People will forgive you, but they won't forget. Moreover, they don't, and shouldn't, give you countless chances to get your shit together. In my case, that was more than understandable, as I had the enormous responsibility of helping people during some of their most trying times in life, not to mention I had their freedom in my hand. It makes me sick to my stomach today to think about that. How dare I.
Post-treatment, once I put the booze down for awhile (due to a probation violation and threats from my significant other that he was going to leave me if I didn't quit), I "coped" by using prescription drugs, namely Ativan and Xanax. I've heard before that Xanax can be a drink in pill form. That was true for me. I recall showing up at court one day, all hopped up on Xanax, only to receive word from the staff that the judge was removing me from the case. When I asked why, the response was that I was drunk. Oh, the indignation I felt at that false accusation! Immediately upon leaving court, I went to a drug/alcohol testing facility to request not only a Breathalyzer, but a urine test for alcohol that would detect the presence of alcohol as far back as the previous three days. Upon receiving the negative results, I wrote a scathing letter to that judge, basically saying: "how dare you! I quit drinking!" I eventually received an apology, justified in my mind at the time, but let's keep it real: she was right; she merely named the wrong substance. The way the addict mind thinks though! It's incredibly disturbing. Thank God she protected "my" client from me.
Friday, September 26, 2014
Wednesday, September 10, 2014
Insanity of Using, Part 1
When I went to treatment in May of 2008, I had no doubts about being an alcoholic. I never hesitated to identify myself as such. However, attending AA/NA meetings was sort of weird at first. I didn't know the "rules," such as no "cross-talking." And being newly sober, I thought I knew more than anyone else in the group. (It's a well-known joke at meetings that at some point most of us were striving to get an "A" in AA; being a perfectionist, I would accept nothing less of myself.) That all being the case, I attended meetings for only a few months post-treatment, as I didn't think they were doing anything for me. (When I did attend meetings, I would look for the table with the fewest people because I wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible. I think my Higher Power was playing a joke on me because those inevitably were the groups that talked the longest!)
Upon moving back to my hometown of Houghton after being released from jail, (or as I typically explain to people: "I moved back under less than stellar circumstances"), I began attending meetings as a requirement for my probation with the State Bar. Meeting attendance didn't stop me from drinking. I would show up, bitch and complain, get my sheet signed to prove I was there, and go out and drink as quickly as I could, as much as I could. Eventually, however, some things started to sink in, and I was able to open my mind up a little bit.
I found that although our specific experiences were different, people at the tables had many things in common. One of my favorites was that when we are/were in active addiction, insanity made perfect sense. It is difficult for non-addicts to understand the behaviors and experiences of their addict loved ones; I know because I have shared many instances with my loved ones, and they cannot fathom why I was living the way I was. But other addicts get me. They understand the insanity. And even better? We can laugh about it!
When I laugh and joke about some of the experiences I had in active addiction, it isn't to make light of them; the life or death aspect is very clear to me, especially in terms of hurting/harming/possibly killing others. I can't even begin to count all of the times I woke up in the morning to find that I had done more damage to my car; sometimes I still cannot believe that I didn't hurt someone else! But waking up to my car firmly imbedded in the garage wall or observing another dent/scratch/missing piece of the grill didn't faze me. I realize now, with a clear mind, that other people would at least pause to see such a thing over and over again!
My ex (the evil one, and yes, I feel completely comfortable calling him the evil one) and I were both practicing attorneys, drinking vodka daily and snorting coke at least a few times a week. Another favorite pastime? Calling the police on each other. When I think of the damage that must have done to his children (they were present in the house for several such calls), it makes me sick. Obviously the neighbors were well-aware of many of these visits from the police; we drank anytime of day or night. At first, the neighbors would forbid their children from coming in the house. Then, they would restrict their children from being in the pool area (we had an in-ground, fenced in pool in the backyard.) Eventually, they would only allow their children to play with his children on their property. And why wouldn't they impose such restrictions? We were crazy! Always drinking, always fighting, always having a police presence. I have considered contacting that division of the Oakland County Sheriff's Department to obtain the number of incident reports, if not the actual reports themselves, to see the level of craziness. (His ex-wife ordered copies at one point to threaten him with parenting time restrictions, or maybe child support increases, but she, like me, was easily manipulated by this asshole and dropped the issue. I wouldn't have blamed her for keeping their children away from him/us, and in fact, in the end I provided her with information regarding the exact extent of our drinking and cocaine use in the house when the children were present.)
I recall one specific incident of a fight of ours in the parking lot of his office. We were initially sitting in his vehicle, yelling and screaming at each other. (Wait...I just flashed back to two separate times this happened in his office parking lot. One time our fight was caught on the voicemail of a very good friend of mine, and I remember her telling me that listening to those 10-15 minutes of him saying nasty, hateful things and me screaming and crying was very disturbing. I believe the voicemail ended with him snapping my phone in half?) Our fight became physical, and I exited the vehicle. He followed, and we were pushing, shoving, and hitting each other when I called 911. I'm not sure what I said if anything? But we ended up calming down (there was cocaine to use, for goodness' sake!) and went home. Just as we were opening up the precious package and pouring the chunks of coke on the living room table, the police showed up. He went to the back patio door, which looked in on the living room, and told the police in an arrogant, all-knowing attorney tone that they could NOT come in. The police responded by saying that since I had called them and that by now they were well-aware of MY number, they had every right to come in and check on me. I remained on the couch, and an officer sat in the chair near me. I said I was fine, he noted the marijuana roach on the table, and they decided to leave. My heart was pounding! The second they left, Evil asked me where the cocaine was. I oh-so-proudly revealed that it was on the floor, safely covered by my heeled shoe, and not ground into the carpeting. The sickest part? We were both extremely proud of me! This fucked up moment briefly brought us closer together! I have found that in toxic relationships it is very easy to have an "us vs. the world" mentality...
One more brief example of our insanity ridden existence: our drinking and drug use lifestyle obviously was not free of charge. Therefore, budget cuts had to be made, and for a period of time we stopped paying some household bills, including the gas bill. Here we were in this $300,000-plus home, and we couldn't afford to take a hot shower. Most obvious solution? Bathe in the pool in the backyard, of course! Every morning for about a week we would collect shampoo, soap, etc. in the morning and head outside to jump into our big bathtub. We NEVER had a conversation about how this was really fucked up. To the contrary, we would put on our business suits and head out for our respective days in court, meeting at the end of the day to drink and drug and fight all over again, because damn it, we were hard workers and we deserved it!
Insanity would continue to make perfect sense for quite some time.
Upon moving back to my hometown of Houghton after being released from jail, (or as I typically explain to people: "I moved back under less than stellar circumstances"), I began attending meetings as a requirement for my probation with the State Bar. Meeting attendance didn't stop me from drinking. I would show up, bitch and complain, get my sheet signed to prove I was there, and go out and drink as quickly as I could, as much as I could. Eventually, however, some things started to sink in, and I was able to open my mind up a little bit.
I found that although our specific experiences were different, people at the tables had many things in common. One of my favorites was that when we are/were in active addiction, insanity made perfect sense. It is difficult for non-addicts to understand the behaviors and experiences of their addict loved ones; I know because I have shared many instances with my loved ones, and they cannot fathom why I was living the way I was. But other addicts get me. They understand the insanity. And even better? We can laugh about it!
When I laugh and joke about some of the experiences I had in active addiction, it isn't to make light of them; the life or death aspect is very clear to me, especially in terms of hurting/harming/possibly killing others. I can't even begin to count all of the times I woke up in the morning to find that I had done more damage to my car; sometimes I still cannot believe that I didn't hurt someone else! But waking up to my car firmly imbedded in the garage wall or observing another dent/scratch/missing piece of the grill didn't faze me. I realize now, with a clear mind, that other people would at least pause to see such a thing over and over again!
My ex (the evil one, and yes, I feel completely comfortable calling him the evil one) and I were both practicing attorneys, drinking vodka daily and snorting coke at least a few times a week. Another favorite pastime? Calling the police on each other. When I think of the damage that must have done to his children (they were present in the house for several such calls), it makes me sick. Obviously the neighbors were well-aware of many of these visits from the police; we drank anytime of day or night. At first, the neighbors would forbid their children from coming in the house. Then, they would restrict their children from being in the pool area (we had an in-ground, fenced in pool in the backyard.) Eventually, they would only allow their children to play with his children on their property. And why wouldn't they impose such restrictions? We were crazy! Always drinking, always fighting, always having a police presence. I have considered contacting that division of the Oakland County Sheriff's Department to obtain the number of incident reports, if not the actual reports themselves, to see the level of craziness. (His ex-wife ordered copies at one point to threaten him with parenting time restrictions, or maybe child support increases, but she, like me, was easily manipulated by this asshole and dropped the issue. I wouldn't have blamed her for keeping their children away from him/us, and in fact, in the end I provided her with information regarding the exact extent of our drinking and cocaine use in the house when the children were present.)
I recall one specific incident of a fight of ours in the parking lot of his office. We were initially sitting in his vehicle, yelling and screaming at each other. (Wait...I just flashed back to two separate times this happened in his office parking lot. One time our fight was caught on the voicemail of a very good friend of mine, and I remember her telling me that listening to those 10-15 minutes of him saying nasty, hateful things and me screaming and crying was very disturbing. I believe the voicemail ended with him snapping my phone in half?) Our fight became physical, and I exited the vehicle. He followed, and we were pushing, shoving, and hitting each other when I called 911. I'm not sure what I said if anything? But we ended up calming down (there was cocaine to use, for goodness' sake!) and went home. Just as we were opening up the precious package and pouring the chunks of coke on the living room table, the police showed up. He went to the back patio door, which looked in on the living room, and told the police in an arrogant, all-knowing attorney tone that they could NOT come in. The police responded by saying that since I had called them and that by now they were well-aware of MY number, they had every right to come in and check on me. I remained on the couch, and an officer sat in the chair near me. I said I was fine, he noted the marijuana roach on the table, and they decided to leave. My heart was pounding! The second they left, Evil asked me where the cocaine was. I oh-so-proudly revealed that it was on the floor, safely covered by my heeled shoe, and not ground into the carpeting. The sickest part? We were both extremely proud of me! This fucked up moment briefly brought us closer together! I have found that in toxic relationships it is very easy to have an "us vs. the world" mentality...
One more brief example of our insanity ridden existence: our drinking and drug use lifestyle obviously was not free of charge. Therefore, budget cuts had to be made, and for a period of time we stopped paying some household bills, including the gas bill. Here we were in this $300,000-plus home, and we couldn't afford to take a hot shower. Most obvious solution? Bathe in the pool in the backyard, of course! Every morning for about a week we would collect shampoo, soap, etc. in the morning and head outside to jump into our big bathtub. We NEVER had a conversation about how this was really fucked up. To the contrary, we would put on our business suits and head out for our respective days in court, meeting at the end of the day to drink and drug and fight all over again, because damn it, we were hard workers and we deserved it!
Insanity would continue to make perfect sense for quite some time.
Friday, September 5, 2014
Everything Happens For A Reason
Viewing events of my life in retrospect gives
me a different perspective; as I've told people before, my "stories"
change over time. In particular, situations I thought were beautiful or life-changing
(in a positive way) become merely the beginning of a path of destruction and/or
regret. I understand that I cannot change the past, which eventually makes it
easier to accept, but certainly I would be remiss if I didn't examine said
events to learn something, to take something positive out of them, to try not
to repeat mistakes.
After I lost my dream job in October of 2004 and visited the Psych ward, I received severance pay and had really good credit (I was able to take out a money loan of several thousand dollars with a 0% interest rate for the life of the loan) and therefore, was able to "take some time off" to figure out my next career move. I was then fortunate enough to work part-time for an attorney I had worked for in law school and use his office space rent-free to start creating my own practice. (Wow...the blessings that have been bestowed upon me always catch me off-guard!)
I began by researching how to obtain court-appointed criminal cases. I wrote letters to Judges in the district courts of Oakland, Wayne, and Macomb counties to introduce myself and to ask to be appointed to misdemeanors. I contacted the Circuit Courts of the same counties to investigate how to obtain felony cases. I attended seminars and ordered all of the necessary books that would provide me with a better understanding of how to handle such cases. The cases came in slowly, and despite what most people perceive about court-appointed attorneys, I worked my hardest on each and every case, going above and beyond what some retained attorneys would do.
I remember how scary it was to work on my first few felony cases in Wayne County; I was so nervous! But thankfully, I have a friend who was, and still is, a Prosecutor there, and she would help me in many ways, even taking the time to introduce me to Judges and their staff members. For the most part, I found everyone there, including other attorneys who I was competing with for cases, to be helpful and friendly.
One particular spring morning I walked into a courtroom, passed through "the bar" to the front, and opened up my briefcase like I knew what I was doing. When I glanced up to look around, I saw a man sitting at the Prosecutor's table staring at me. When I caught his eye, his face broke into a wide grin, and I do believe his eyes sparkled in the morning sunlight streaming through the windows. We said hello, and I thought about asking him about my case (he was the Prosecutor, right?) but then decided to go check in with other courts in the building before I settled in.
When I returned, I sat at the Defense table and promptly picked up a newspaper that had been abandoned and pretended to busy myself so as not to appear quite so nervous and uncertain. As I shook open a section, another blew off of the table, landing on the floor. That same gentleman from earlier happened to be walking by and quickly picked it up for me. He then shook my hand, holding it for longer than necessary, and introduced himself. Court was then called to order, interrupting any further conversation.
When I walked out of the courtroom an hour or so later, I heard my name right before I hopped onto the descending escalator to exit the building. I looked around, seeing that same man. He asked me out for lunch, and I promptly accepted. We walked together on this beautiful spring day in Detroit to a restaurant where our conversation flowed easily the entire time. Despite my protests, he paid for lunch and asked if we could do it again sometime. I readily agreed, and we exchanged business cards.
Later that afternoon, I was sitting at my desk (by now I could afford to rent my very own office) when the receptionist buzzed me. It was him! He was calling to tell me again how much he enjoyed meeting me and spending time with me. He could not see my again in the next day or two, as he had his children and would be busy with them and their activities. Wow! A nice, interesting GENTLEMAN, and he was a caring, involved father? I was impressed.
There was, however, another phone call he made to my cell phone when I was driving home that evening. His voice sounded different, a little slurry. And he made some very blunt comments about my legs, stating how sexy they were. I laughed awkwardly and quickly brushed off my nervousness. I mean, it was a compliment, right? And he had, after all, received rather favorable, albeit not exactly personal-knowledge based, reviews from all friends I had polled during the day.
The next time we went out was a Thursday evening date. It was supposed to be dinner, but it ended up being all liquids, especially vodka. I don't remember all of the details, but I do remember he wanted to rent a room with me, even though we only lived about 15 minutes away from where we were. I declined that invitation.
The next morning I had to be in the Wayne County Circuit Court, followed by an afternoon at the Wayne County Juvenile Court. My new "friend" had asked me to pick up some paperwork for him since he had to be in court in another county. At the end of this busy Friday, I was more than ready for an evening out at a sports bar to watch the Pistons in the playoffs. I left the Juvenile Court building in high spirits, one of the last people to leave for the day. As I walked down the I-75 service drive where I had parked, I became confused looking for my car. I thought: how far down did I park? Immediately following that thought, I saw a car that looked exactly like mine coming out of a driveway, and it proceeded to drive towards me and then passed me on the service drive. IT WAS MY CAR! A deputy ran outside and saw my shocked face. He immediately called the Detroit Police, and an unmarked car arrived within...a minute? The cops asked me which way my car had gone, and I vaguely pointed up the service drive. Shortly thereafter, I called the police to ask for someone to come out to take a report; I was told, in a disdainful tone, that the police had much more important things to do than come out to talk to me about my stolen vehicle. Welcome to Detroit! (Regardless, I do love that city.)
The deputy who had initially assisted me offered to drive me to the nearest precinct, bless his heart, and my brother drove down from our Oakland County suburb to bring me home. As reality sunk in that I may never see my car again (my car was recovered a day later at 4:00 a.m. occupied by a 15 year-old and a 13 year-old; the fact that I had been representing juvenile delinquents when my car was stolen was not lost on me, and eventually I faced these culprits in that very same building), I realized my new friend's paperwork was taken along with my car. I called him from outside the precinct to tell him what happened. Oh, was he understanding, asking if there was anything he could do and repeatedly asking if I was ok! I explained that I was ok, and that my brother was with me.
I went out that night as planned because I figured there was no reason to sit at home and stew about my car. After quite a few drinks, I decided to call my new friend for some more sympathy and kind words. His phone was answered by a woman who explained he was putting his kids to bed. When he finally came to the phone, his demeanor was very different; he was very business like. Later he told me that the woman who answered was "just a friend" and helped him with office work sometimes. Again, I stuffed down the slightly uneasy feeling in my gut.
What I didn't know then was that I was allowing myself to be grasped in the clutches of a sociopath, and that the woman who answered the phone that night would become my arch nemesis as we fought over this loser for the next couple of years, both of us swept up in a web of lies, deceit, manipulation, abuse, alcohol, and drugs. That "sparkle" I had seen in his eyes was something sinister, not sincere.
After I lost my dream job in October of 2004 and visited the Psych ward, I received severance pay and had really good credit (I was able to take out a money loan of several thousand dollars with a 0% interest rate for the life of the loan) and therefore, was able to "take some time off" to figure out my next career move. I was then fortunate enough to work part-time for an attorney I had worked for in law school and use his office space rent-free to start creating my own practice. (Wow...the blessings that have been bestowed upon me always catch me off-guard!)
I began by researching how to obtain court-appointed criminal cases. I wrote letters to Judges in the district courts of Oakland, Wayne, and Macomb counties to introduce myself and to ask to be appointed to misdemeanors. I contacted the Circuit Courts of the same counties to investigate how to obtain felony cases. I attended seminars and ordered all of the necessary books that would provide me with a better understanding of how to handle such cases. The cases came in slowly, and despite what most people perceive about court-appointed attorneys, I worked my hardest on each and every case, going above and beyond what some retained attorneys would do.
I remember how scary it was to work on my first few felony cases in Wayne County; I was so nervous! But thankfully, I have a friend who was, and still is, a Prosecutor there, and she would help me in many ways, even taking the time to introduce me to Judges and their staff members. For the most part, I found everyone there, including other attorneys who I was competing with for cases, to be helpful and friendly.
One particular spring morning I walked into a courtroom, passed through "the bar" to the front, and opened up my briefcase like I knew what I was doing. When I glanced up to look around, I saw a man sitting at the Prosecutor's table staring at me. When I caught his eye, his face broke into a wide grin, and I do believe his eyes sparkled in the morning sunlight streaming through the windows. We said hello, and I thought about asking him about my case (he was the Prosecutor, right?) but then decided to go check in with other courts in the building before I settled in.
When I returned, I sat at the Defense table and promptly picked up a newspaper that had been abandoned and pretended to busy myself so as not to appear quite so nervous and uncertain. As I shook open a section, another blew off of the table, landing on the floor. That same gentleman from earlier happened to be walking by and quickly picked it up for me. He then shook my hand, holding it for longer than necessary, and introduced himself. Court was then called to order, interrupting any further conversation.
When I walked out of the courtroom an hour or so later, I heard my name right before I hopped onto the descending escalator to exit the building. I looked around, seeing that same man. He asked me out for lunch, and I promptly accepted. We walked together on this beautiful spring day in Detroit to a restaurant where our conversation flowed easily the entire time. Despite my protests, he paid for lunch and asked if we could do it again sometime. I readily agreed, and we exchanged business cards.
Later that afternoon, I was sitting at my desk (by now I could afford to rent my very own office) when the receptionist buzzed me. It was him! He was calling to tell me again how much he enjoyed meeting me and spending time with me. He could not see my again in the next day or two, as he had his children and would be busy with them and their activities. Wow! A nice, interesting GENTLEMAN, and he was a caring, involved father? I was impressed.
There was, however, another phone call he made to my cell phone when I was driving home that evening. His voice sounded different, a little slurry. And he made some very blunt comments about my legs, stating how sexy they were. I laughed awkwardly and quickly brushed off my nervousness. I mean, it was a compliment, right? And he had, after all, received rather favorable, albeit not exactly personal-knowledge based, reviews from all friends I had polled during the day.
The next time we went out was a Thursday evening date. It was supposed to be dinner, but it ended up being all liquids, especially vodka. I don't remember all of the details, but I do remember he wanted to rent a room with me, even though we only lived about 15 minutes away from where we were. I declined that invitation.
The next morning I had to be in the Wayne County Circuit Court, followed by an afternoon at the Wayne County Juvenile Court. My new "friend" had asked me to pick up some paperwork for him since he had to be in court in another county. At the end of this busy Friday, I was more than ready for an evening out at a sports bar to watch the Pistons in the playoffs. I left the Juvenile Court building in high spirits, one of the last people to leave for the day. As I walked down the I-75 service drive where I had parked, I became confused looking for my car. I thought: how far down did I park? Immediately following that thought, I saw a car that looked exactly like mine coming out of a driveway, and it proceeded to drive towards me and then passed me on the service drive. IT WAS MY CAR! A deputy ran outside and saw my shocked face. He immediately called the Detroit Police, and an unmarked car arrived within...a minute? The cops asked me which way my car had gone, and I vaguely pointed up the service drive. Shortly thereafter, I called the police to ask for someone to come out to take a report; I was told, in a disdainful tone, that the police had much more important things to do than come out to talk to me about my stolen vehicle. Welcome to Detroit! (Regardless, I do love that city.)
The deputy who had initially assisted me offered to drive me to the nearest precinct, bless his heart, and my brother drove down from our Oakland County suburb to bring me home. As reality sunk in that I may never see my car again (my car was recovered a day later at 4:00 a.m. occupied by a 15 year-old and a 13 year-old; the fact that I had been representing juvenile delinquents when my car was stolen was not lost on me, and eventually I faced these culprits in that very same building), I realized my new friend's paperwork was taken along with my car. I called him from outside the precinct to tell him what happened. Oh, was he understanding, asking if there was anything he could do and repeatedly asking if I was ok! I explained that I was ok, and that my brother was with me.
I went out that night as planned because I figured there was no reason to sit at home and stew about my car. After quite a few drinks, I decided to call my new friend for some more sympathy and kind words. His phone was answered by a woman who explained he was putting his kids to bed. When he finally came to the phone, his demeanor was very different; he was very business like. Later he told me that the woman who answered was "just a friend" and helped him with office work sometimes. Again, I stuffed down the slightly uneasy feeling in my gut.
What I didn't know then was that I was allowing myself to be grasped in the clutches of a sociopath, and that the woman who answered the phone that night would become my arch nemesis as we fought over this loser for the next couple of years, both of us swept up in a web of lies, deceit, manipulation, abuse, alcohol, and drugs. That "sparkle" I had seen in his eyes was something sinister, not sincere.
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