The Ex-Files: Loving The Sinner

Here he is. Putting yet another piece of clothes in one of my traveling bags. He seems strong and calm as he does it. It seems easy for him. In his eyes: I can tell he is feeling the same way about me; that I, too, is being too calm and strong. Does he read too much into it? Does he think that I didn’t love him? That him leaving is breaking my heart to small fractures of painful sharp glasses. That to collect my heart again, I will need to pick their fractures with my bare hands and endure every painful cut?
I’m not sure about anything anymore.

I remember the first time I saw him in my life. I honestly did not expect anything from this pseudo-date I’m having with him. Someone in the late teens of his live; unaware of the sophisticated roles of dating yet. Mindless to the laws of attractions and the deep meaning of a relationship contract. I saw him coming from afar. Over 30 minutes late to our first date. Not a good sign.
He is tall; tanned with sweet smile and a wicked look in his eyes. He seemed unaware of how unorthodox it is for me to sit publicly with someone who is two thirds my age. It was unusual and bizarre. Yet for some reason. I liked it.
I was nerves myself and I felt he was nerves too. I usually tend to speak too fast in one of the foreign languages I speak when I’m nerves. He pretended that he understands my English.
That day, I took him home and I kissed him for the first time. I didn’t know that four months from then he will ask me for a final kiss and I’d refuse to give it.

A week later after our first meeting; he asks me to meet him in my apartment. He somehow convinced me to give him a copy of my keys this early on. I didn’t know that he was preparing my food that night. That he cleaned and rearranged my filthy apartment and that he brought sheets from his family’s house and put them on my bed. He didn’t know that I went and got us a nice dinner. A romantic movie and some red flowers.
He told me that he loves me and I responded with the same statement. Four months later; he told me that he loves me at the door of my house and I told him that “love was never our problem.”

Two weeks into our relationship he showed up black and blue to my house. He spoke of an abusive father and a negligent mother. He told me, in tears, that he is tired and sad and that he can’t take it anymore.
I wanted to let him know that I’m there for him. I held him tight. Asked him to close his eyes and whispered in his ear that I love him and that my house is his house. He cried and asked me if he can move in. Logically, I found a million reasons to say no; yet I tossed them all away and said yes.
Four months later; when I told him that we’re breaking up, he told me that he thought this day would never come. I told him that he should have put an effort to make it work.


We fought. We fought ugly and hard. Usually for reasons that I find trivial and silly. He would never listen; he would never stop the lies and the guilt tripping. He would always make me feel like I don’t have faith in him.
He would always ask me for more. He needed me to work for eight hours a day to get food on the table then comes back home and work for eight more hours to make him feel like he is a king in my house. He wanted me to be his father, his mother, his best friend, his lover, his personal tutor and his bank account. I couldn’t handle the responsibilities he keeps adding to my shoulders. I remember crying hard once in the shower; feeling that I couldn’t take it anymore and that I’m letting myself and my lover down. He didn’t seem to be bothered by my issues. So what if I’m new to a country where I’m friendless. Working a job where I’m feeling unwanted and unproductive and under paid. He didn’t even find it too much to ask me to stop thinking about the passing of my mother less than a week after she died. He wanted my full attention and for that he didn’t like my family, my friends or my short distant phone calls with my friends from my previous life in Egypt.
He kept on asking, and when I couldn’t give anymore he started demanding. When I couldn’t respond anymore he turned my life to a living hell.

He walked out with tears in his eyes; I wanted to stop him. To ask him to stay and to accept being a salve for him until the end of my life. But I couldn’t lie to myself anymore. I couldn’t do it anymore.

What I didn’t know is that when he left my house, he stole my passport and my university degrees. He needed them to blackmail me later into going back to him.
What he didn’t know is that I’d rather to cut off my arm than let is be twisted by anyone. I managed to get them back after a long and disgusting encounter with him.
He asked me, after that, if I still love him. I lied and said “no!”


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