August 23, North Carolina—I never would have asked M to pick me up at the train station. My train arrives in Gastonia at 3:30 in the morning. The drive from his place is roughly two hours one way, and he can’t afford to book a hotel for the night. I told him I’d hitch a ride or take a local bus, but he insisted on coming to get me. He put his chihuahua, Lucy, into his dilapidated brown Chevy van and started driving at 9:30, and he waited for me at the station in Gastonia for nearly six hours. The station in Gastonia is remote. There’s nothing around. M tried to sleep on the mattress in the back of his van, but the train whistles kept him awake.
I haven’t seen M in nine years, but he looks just as I remember him. He still wears Hawaiian shirts, cargo shorts and cowboy boots. He gives me a tight hug and hands me the keys. I haven’t slept either because real sleep isn’t a thing in coach, but I take the driver’s seat and steer us toward his place. To keep awake, I barrage him with questions. M doesn’t mind. He likes talking about himself.
M was born in the Los Angeles area in the early 1950s. His parents split up when he was two. He stayed with his mom, then with his dad, then with his grandparents, who took him first to Minnesota, then to Indiana. There he met and married his first wife and had three sons. He also managed a rock band and worked for the Columbia City Post & Mail as both a photographer and a sports reporter. A brief Google search reveals no articles with his byline, but that was way back before the internet.
It’s hard to verify.
M has heard the voice of God all his life. When he was a kid, his grandparents took him to a fair. There he met a woman who had just walked across the US, spreading a message of peace. God instructed M to speak to her.
“I never remember what God says when he speaks through me” M says, “but I remember how the other person responds.”
The woman’s response was to continue walking and spreading her message of peace. This woman was a real person. That’s verifiable. Her name was Peace Pilgrim, and she walked the US for twenty-eight years with virtually nothing but the clothes on her back, spreading a message of peace. In 2011, when I walked from New York City to Atlanta, Georgia, with some Occupy Wall Street protesters, someone gave me a book about Peace Pilgrim. When M met her, she’d crossed the country once, and if his story is true, it was M—serving as a conduit for the voice of God—who inspired her to keep going.
M has encountered plenty of famous people. These encounters are not verifiable.
When God told M to move to move back to California, he went, leaving his wife and two of his three sons behind. M tried to convince them to accompany him, but they didn’t want to leave their home and family.
“It was hard to go,” M says. “They had kind of a breakdown and I had kind of a breakdown, and if I’d put them first, instead of God, I never would’ve survived it.”
The oldest son went with him initially. They lived in Santa Cruz, in a tent on a cliff overlooking the ocean. M took courses in sociology and early childhood development at a university with free tuition while his son went to elementary school and sold chocolate-covered coffee beans on the streets.
“I didn’t know there were colleges with free tuition in the US,” I said.
“That one was free. There weren’t many, but I searched for one. We didn’t have the internet then, but I still found it.”
After one semester, the son wanted to go home, so M drove him to Indiana, then returned to California. That’s where he met his second wife. They were together for about forty years. A couple years ago, when God told M to move from California to a location east of the Mississippi, his second wife had a breakdown too. He tried to convince her to accompany him, but she didn’t want to leave her home either.
“She was hardened because of things that had happened in her life,” M says. “I’d never seen her cry. But she cried when I left.”
M told both his wives that he hears the voice of God, but neither was very understanding. “A man’s gotta do what he’s gotta do,” his second wife always said.
M recently wrote his autobiography. He published it through a Christian publishing house that charged him $3,000 up front, then $295 a month for a while. He was conned, but it’s all paid off now, so it won’t help to tell him about it. This publishing house isn’t even going to help him promote the book. That would’ve cost more like $10,000 up front, he says.
The autobiography is about his life as a Prophet.
“I turned 30 and I had everything most people want,” he says, meaning a family and a house. “So, I asked God, I said, ‘What do I do now?’ That was when my feet really gave out.”
M has always had problems with his feet. That’s why he wears cowboy boots. A doctor recommended them, said the raised heel would help.
“I asked God once what was wrong with my feet and he showed me in a vision in a dream,” M says. “The doctor who delivered me had this problem… when he held a baby upside down to smack its butt and get it to breath, he squeezed the feet together because he liked the cracking sound.”
When his feet really gave out, M was in so much pain he had to crawl around his house on his hands and knees. He was doing just that when God said to him, “I want you to rise up and help the children.”
“How am I supposed to do that? I can’t even walk!”
God repeated the command, so M tried to stand… and he could!
“Alright, I’ll do whatever you want me to do,” M said.
That’s when his work began. That’s when he became a Prophet.
M’s job is to deliver a message and a prophecy to the children of God, meaning humans—specifically those in the United States, which he says is a nation favored by God. He stands on street corners and at state capitals with massive signs, and he drives his brown Chevy van with big magnets plastered on the sides. The signs and the magnets spell out the message and the prophecy. The message goes like this:
The prophecy reads like this:
At first, M didn’t want to deliver the message and the prophecy. But if the voice would confirm somehow that it really was God, he would obey. God told M that he would dry up a river, and lo and behold, the river dried up. M stood in the dry riverbed and raised his hands to the sky and said, “Alright, I’ll do it.”
God also instructed M to carry a staff, which he must dip in the sea at specific times, in specific locations to prevent catastrophes like tsunamis and oil spills. The Deepwater Horizon spill of 2010 occurred because M ignored instructions to dip his staff in the Gulf of Mexico.
It was in 2010 that I first met M in northern California. By then, he had changed his first name to Prophet. That’s what it says on his driver’s license.
August 24, North Carolina—M’s apartment is decorated the way I’d expect an old lady to decorate it—flowered rugs, flowered vases bursting with bouquets of fake flowers, a flowered lamp with clear beads dripping from the shade. M even collects that china with the intricate blue scenery painted on it. He likes the story of the forbidden lovers who were turned into doves so they could be together forever.
M’s apartment is also immaculate. In the kitchen, every surface is spotless, and the dish strainer stands upside-down in the sink to dry. Cereal boxes, Junior Mints and Good & Plenty candy stand in orderly rows in the cupboards. Open packages of pink wafer cookies and chocolate-covered marshmallow cookies, all carefully closed with plastic clips, lie neatly stacked on the countertop. A dozen empty Greek yogurt containers stand in a column beside the stove. M took all the rugs to the laundromat before I arrived. There must be a dozen of them. They cover the entire wood floor, overlapping in places. They muffle the thump of his cowboy boots so that it doesn’t bother the neighbors. M also polished all the furniture before I arrived. And he washed his sheets in case I should choose his bed over the couch.
“I can’t kick you out of your own bed!” I said. “I’ll be fine on the couch.”
M has deep cleaned the entire apartment in anticipation of my arrival.
“The goal is to pamper Sarah,” he says, smiling.
“Wow,” I say, “You didn’t have to do all that. It looks great! I really appreciate it!”
M also bought a brand-new beach towel just for me.
“If you like it, you can keep it,” he says.
“That’s great! Thanks so much! I can’t take it with me though. I’d love to, but it would take up half the space in my backpack.”
M also bought a non-slip shower mat just for me. He doesn’t even take showers. He can’t stand in the tub because of his feet.
M is incredibly considerate, hospitable and generous. So much so that I feel uncomfortable. I feel like I’ve disrupted his entire life.
The one thing M didn’t get just for me was a coffee maker. He doesn’t drink coffee.
“It doesn’t make sense,” he says, “the way people are against all these drugs, like marijuana, but they drink coffee and alcohol.”
I make a cup of the instant coffee I have with me and sit at the table with M, listening to more stories. One night, God told him to drive onto a specific road and wait in the left turn lane. Two cars pulled up, one on either side of him. In the car on the right were two big, burly white guys. In the car on the left were two Black guys.
“God knew that I could do this thing with my clutch that would make the car bounce,” M says. “So, he tells me to do it, and just as the car bounces, one of the white guys points a gun out the window, toward me, and fires. Later, I was watching the news and I heard someone had attempted to assassinate Jesse Jackson and that it had happened at that intersection, at that time. The white guy was aiming through my window at Jesse Jackson, but because my car bounced when he fired, the bullet missed him.”
“Did you find a bullet hole in your car later?” I ask.
“No.”
M has a tendency to encounter famous people. These encounters are not verifiable.
August 26, North Carolina—“I used to be like that,” M says. We’re watching a movie in which a young girl refuses to speak to anyone. “I kept calling for my mom, but nobody ever answered, so I just stopped talking. I didn’t talk at all for a while.”
When the girl in the movie seems traumatized by her past, M says, “Sometimes you don’t wanna remember.”
Sometimes, you don’t wanna remember; sometimes you’re just forgetful. M tells me multiple times every day that he’s very forgetful.
He went into a gas station one day and Snoop Dog was there. God told M to pass a message on to Snoop Dog, but before he could deliver it, he had to go to the bathroom. M asked Snoop to wait for him, and when he came out of the bathroom, Snoop was still there, but being incredibly forgetful, M walked right past him without saying a word and left the gas station. Another day, God told M to attend a protest outside Michael Jackson’s trial and wave his signs. He went, and afterward, Michael sent one of his brothers to invite M to dinner.
“Somehow, the brother knew I was forgetful,” M says, “so he offered to ride with me in my van. I told him I would just follow along behind. When we got to the intersection, he went through, and I forgot to follow and I made the turn toward home.”
M has a tendency to encounter famous people.
But he’s very forgetful, so these encounters are not verifiable.
M reminds me of Forest Gump, the way he unwittingly stumbles upon famous people and influences the course of events. He’s always saying, “I’m not very smart,” or “I’m kinda dumb.” When I help him forward an email, he says it. When I teach him to adjust the rearview mirrors on his van, he says it. When he tells me he can’t close a venetian blind without breaking it, he says it. When I tell M I’m going to hike across Spain and Ireland, he asks, “Do they have the same kinds of food we do here? Isn’t Ireland popular for potatoes?”
These are the kinds of questions a 5-year-old would ask. They strike me as a little too dumb. M knows how to use Google. When I decide to try out his air fryer, he Googles the recommended cook time for pork chops. When I suggest Indian food, he Googles nearby restaurants and checks hours and prices. He suggests I hike Mt. Pisgah and he Googles the trail distance and estimated hike time. Before Google existed, he was able to find a tuition-free college on his own.
But he’s kinda dumb. And very forgetful.
For a while, M followed the Grateful Dead. He didn’t have money for tickets, so he bought hot dogs with his food stamps, cooked them in the parking lots and sold them for a dollar. In Indiana, he managed a band, wrote for a newspaper and started a photography business. Recently, he wrote an autobiography detailing every occasion during the past seventy years on which God had spoken to him.
But he’s kinda dumb. And very forgetful. He can’t forward and email or work a venetian blind without breaking it, and he forgot the Michael Jackson had invited him to dinner.
Sometimes you just don’t wanna remember.
One night while M and his second wife were camping in the mountains of northern California, a family of bears approached. The biggest one put its front feet on the platform where M and his second wife slept and chewed on M’s head. He played dead. The bear lifted its back legs up too, planting them on M’s back while chewing on his calves and feet. The bear’s back end was so heavy M could barely breathe. He worried his chest would cave in. Fortunately, the bear left. After a while, M opened his eyes and looked around. The whole bear family was gone.
“I think that big bear was keeping me distracted while the rest of the family got away.”
M’s second wife slept through all this. She slept through a full-grown male bear standing on her husband, who was lying right beside her.
Sometimes the other person can’t remember either, so nothing is verifiable.
Although he’s kinda dumb and very forgetful, M is the kindest, most considerate, most generous person I’ve ever met. He bought me a towel. He bought me a bathmat. He cleaned the sheets and all the rugs and polished the furniture just for me. When we buy chicken at the deli, he gets a leg just for Lucy. When we get Indian food, he wraps chicken chunks in a napkin and saves them for Lucy. When we drive the Blue Ride Parkway, he gets me a map. He drops me at the Pisgah Mountain trailhead and waits in the van while I hike three miles—even though he can’t hike. “Thou shalt not give with an open hand,” he says, meaning you shouldn’t give expecting something in return—you should just give.
M gives so much—he is so kind, so considerate and so generous that it makes me uncomfortable. If he wants nothing in return, why is he telling me about all these things he did for me before I arrived. Why not just let me assume that he already had towels and bathmats and that his rugs and sheets and the rest of his house are always immaculate? Perhaps the something he wants in return is for me to gush gratefulness, to praise him for his kind consideration and generosity. I’ve said thank you so many times the phrase has lost its meaning. And M keeps saying, “The goal is to pamper Sarah.”
I don’t want to be pampered. Being pampered makes me tremendously nervous. When someone pampers me, I worry that they’re trying to manipulate me.
Love-bombing. That’s the official term.
M doesn’t seem to register my discomfort.
“I’m glad you’re so laid-back, Sarah. You’re not other women.”
My throat drops down into my chest like a lead ball, smashes through my ribs and lands in my stomach with a sickening thud. This all feels very familiar.
Idealization. That’s the official term. That’s where emotional and psychological abuse begin.
When an emotionally abusive person tells you you’re not like other women, it’s not a compliment; it’s instructions for how to behave.
“You look just like you did last time I saw you,” M says. “You still look so young, and you shine with joy!”
I don’t want to look young. I don’t want to shine with joy. I want to be allowed to get old. I want to be allowed to express emotions other than cheer.
But M is always happy. I should try to be happy. I owe him that, after everything he’s done for me. He drove two hours and spent the night in his van in Gastonia to retrieve me from the Amtrak station at 3:30 in the morning. He cleaned the rugs and the sheets and bought me a towel and a bathmat and polished the furniture.
I could at least try to be the youthful, joyful, laid-back woman he says he remembers.
I could at least try to be the person M thinks I am.
I could adjust myself. I could edit myself.
I could erase myself and perform the me that M wants me to be.
Identity erosion. That’s the official term.
I walk out the front door in my flip-flops and head down the road, straight into the blaring four o’clock sun with no hat or sunglasses. I walk a mile to the grocery store, buy a box of cookies and sit on a bench by the cart return, sweating while I eat every single one.
Binge eating correlates with identity erosion.
August 27, North Carolina—“Why does God favor the US?” I ask.
“God favors certain nations because they are obedient,” M says.
M elicits obedience by saying I usually…
“I usually back the van into the parking space, but you can pull in for now… I usually pump the brakes instead of riding them… I usually put one of these placemats down when I eat at the table… I usually close the lid on the toilet before I flush it because stuff can fly up in your face… I usually inspect every dish before I put it away, and sometimes I’m not perfect, so I have to rewash some of them…”
I’m happy to do things the way M wants me to while I’m staying in his home. I try to remember all the rules and obey them. When I fail to remember one, he repeats it, starting with I usually… He says it so gently, so sweetly, so innocently… Why does the word micromanagement bristle up the back of my neck with each reminder?
The first thing M said to me this morning was, “I was putting the dishes away and I saw that this little pot wasn’t where I usually put it.”
His tone is sweet, innocent, almost baffled. How could this have happened? Who could’ve made this mistake? Was it him? He’s not very smart. He’s very forgetful. But he’s smart enough to notice my every mistake. He never forgets to tell me that he usually…
Why on earth did I plan to stay here for an entire week?
Why am I such an asshole?
I’ve disrupted M’s life and he’s been nothing but kind, hospitable and generous.
Don’t be like other women. Be the youthful, joyful, laid-back woman M thought you were. Adjust, edit, erase. Perform. You owe him at least that, after everything he’s done for you.
The lead ball in my stomach starts to spin, twisting my bowels into a tight knot.
I thought I escaped this. I thought I escaped performing the person that someone else wanted me to be.
I did escape this. M is not manipulative, he’s just dumb and forgetful, like Forest Gump. He watches Hallmark movies on purpose for fuck’s sake.
M turns on one of those YouTube reels of cats and dogs acting silly. I leave to practice hoop dance in the park.
M says, “You’re so lucky to be able to do that.”
“I know,” I say. And I mean it. I’m fortunate that my body works. M can barely walk.
M can barely walk, but he waits while I hike. He barely has any money, but he buys me towels and bathmats. As part of his Medicare plan, he gets a U-card, which has cash on it. They give him hundreds of dollars and he can never manage to spend it all. He buys steaks and donates them to the local food bank. He gives the rest to a 90-year-old woman he met at church who only gets thirty-five dollars a week in food stamps.
He is not manipulative. He is kind, hospitable and generous. He’s kinda dumb and very forgetful. He’s Forest Gump.
August 28, North Carolina—When we went to the Blue Ridge Parkway, M drove. He wanted me to be able to see the views. Other than that, he prefers that I drive. It makes me nervous. I know he’s monitoring my every move. I know because he keeps saying I usually…
I try to drive like he wants me to.
Lucy is accustomed to jumping into M’s lap when he drives. She likes to look out the window. I get distracted when she does this to me. She steps on a nerve in my thigh, and I jump involuntarily.
“Is it okay that Lucy jumps into your lap?” M asks sweetly and innocently.
I’m driving switchbacks on a tightly wound mountain road with a sheer drop-off on one side. No, it’s not okay.
“I’d rather she didn’t,” I say, as gently as I can. “I get distracted easily.”
I get distracted. Lucy is not distracting me. I am getting distracted. It is my fault.
My twisted bowels liquify. A whirlpool of salmon-pink sludge churns inside me.
I thought I escaped this. I thought I escaped everything being my fault.
Whenever Lucy senses the slowing of the van, she whines and looks up at me from the floor between the front seats.
“Oh, no, no, no!” M says, in a voice people use when tickling two-year-olds. “You can’t go up there! I don’t want Sarah to smack me!”
M lifts Lucy into his lap. “You wanna look for dogs?” Lucy’s piercing bark splits my skull. “Oh, yes! Lucy loves to look for dogs, don’t you Lucy!”
Every time we drive, M chides Lucy for whining at me. Every time we drive, M asks Lucy if she wants to look for dogs and her piercing bark puts little cracks in my skull.
Is he doing this on purpose? Is he punishing me for not letting his precious chihuahua stomp across my lap while I’m driving precarious mountain roads? Is he deliberately subjecting me to her torturously high-pitched bark in this small, enclosed space?
Pretty clever for someone who can’t forward an email or work a venetian blind without breaking it… someone who can write for a newspaper and start a photography business and find a college with free tuition and author an autobiography…
Fuck! What is wrong with me?
M is not manipulative. He is kind, considerate, and hospitable. He’s kinda dumb and very forgetful. He’s Forest Gump.
The goal is to pamper Sarah.
If he’s so accommodating, why do I feel so uncomfortable?
If he’s so dumb, why does he do smart things?
If he’s so forgetful, how did he author a 500-page autobiography detailing each instance in the last seventy years on which God has spoken to him?
If thou shalt not give with an open hand, why does he keep telling me about all these things he’s done just for me?
Why do I feel like I owe him a youthful, joyful, laid-back woman as reciprocation?
Why do I feel like I must adjust, edit, and erase?
Why do I feel I have to perform the woman he wants me to be?
The whirlpool of salmon-pink sludge sucks my ribs into its churn and grinds them up.
August 29, North Carolina— “Are you over here because your bed’s not made?” M says to Lucy.
Lucy’s bed is a pile of blankets nestled into one corner of the couch. I move it every night so I can sleep there. I put it back this morning, but my efforts didn’t meet the exact specifications M outlined for me two days ago.
He says it so sweetly, so innocently. He says it like he’s baffled as to how this mistake could’ve been made. He says it like he’s talking to the dog, but he’s telling me I failed. I failed to put the pot in the right place. I failed to back the van into the parking space. I failed to pump the brakes. I failed to close the lid to the toilet. I failed to make Lucy’s bed right.
M isn’t very smart, and he’s very forgetful. But he does all these things correctly, and he never forgets to point out my failure to do them correctly.
The word passive-aggressive flashes in my head.
The word manipulation flashes in my head.
He’s not passive-aggressive. He’s not manipulative. He’s just Forest Gump.
At the Indian restaurant, M stabs his fork into a piece of broccoli and says innocently, “You said this was cauliflower?”
It’s clearly broccoli. Can he really not tell the difference between cauliflower and broccoli? Maybe his eyes are bad. He does wear glasses. Maybe he just can’t see the difference between cauliflower and broccoli. But… I usually inspect every dish before I put it away, and sometimes I’m not perfect, so I have to wash them again.
Is M blind? Is he dumb? Is he forgetful?
Did he meet Snoop Dog and Peace Pilgrim and save Jesse Jackson’s life and get invited to dinner at Michael Jackson’s house?
Did he cause the Deepwater Horizon oil spill by disobeying God’s instructions?
Nothing is verifiable.
Is he love-bombing me? Is he being outlandishly kind, considerate and generous so I’ll feel like an asshole when I fail to live up to his impossibly particular standards, so that I’ll feel compelled to reciprocate by adjusting, editing, and erasing… by performing the woman he wants me to be?
Nothing is verifiable.
M’s not too smart. And he’s very forgetful. And he’s just putting God first. He doesn’t remember what God says when God speaks through him. He only remembers how people respond. They respond by crying.
This particular town in North Carolina is a lot like the California town where M left his second wife. There are lots of coffee shops and hippies and art galleries. It’s convenient that God keeps sending him to exactly the kinds of towns he likes.
It’s convenient that when he leaves, and his wives and children respond by crying, he doesn’t have to apologize… because he’s doing God’s work… in towns he likes.
Is M passive-aggressive? Is he manipulative? Is he vengeful?
Nothing is verifiable.
He might be Forest Gump. So I don’t cry. I respond by making sure to back the van into the space and to close the lid to the toilet and to put the dishes away in exactly the right place and to make Lucy’s bed correctly.
And when M says playfully, over and over and over, “No, no, no! You can’t go up there! I don’t want Sarah to smack me!” and when he provokes Lucy’s skull-splitting bark and then chuckles as if it’s the cutest thing ever, I respond by smiling cheerfully. Because if I don’t, I’m not the youthful, joyful, laid-back woman M thought I was.
And being the person he thought I was is the least I could do in return for his kind, considerate generosity.
Even thought thou shalt not give with an open hand.
“Does it bother you that I pick on you like this?” M asks playfully.
“No! Of course not. It’s fine.”
Does it bother me when he picks on me like this? Is he acknowledging that he’s picking on me? Is this deliberate? No, he’s too innocent, too dumb, too forgetful to be passive-aggressive or manipulative, to punish me for not being the kind of woman he thought I was. Is M Forest Gump? Or is he a passive-aggressive, manipulative covert narcissist?
Which M is real?
The salmon-pink sludge sucks my very skin into its churn. I’m turning inside out.
I thought I escaped this. I thought I escaped not knowing what was real.
I escape to the back porch. It’s barley big enough for one lawn chair. Because it’s on the second floor, it’s surrounded by leafy green tree branches. Drenching rain falls. Thunder rolls and lightening flashes. I’m so tired. The storm lulls me into a stupor. I sleep for hours.
August 30, North Carolina— Every morning when M wakes he says, “Good morning, Sarah! Do you need to use the restroom before I get in the bath?” Usually, I say yes. Today, despite having drank a liter of water and moved on to a cup of coffee, I don’t feel the need to pee. I’m comfortable on the couch, reading the news. It’ll take me at least thirty minutes to drink my coffee. He won’t be in there that long. “No, I’m good,” I say.
Forty minutes pass. My coffee is gone, and my bladder is about to split open. Forty-five minutes. I can’t move without feeling like I’m gonna piss myself. Please, for the love of God, come out of the bathroom. Fifty minutes. Seriously? What the fuck is he doing in there? Finally, I run outside in my pajamas and flip-flops and go down the road to the woods.
When I return, M laughs and says, “Look! It’s a duck!”
When I don’t respond, he says, innocently, “Did you go out for a run?”
That’s what I’m usually doing when he gets into the bath, which is why I had no idea he’d stay in there for an hour.
The salmon pink sludge bursts into flames.
Are you fucking kidding me? Do you really think I went for a run in flip-flops and pajamas in the middle of a fucking rainstorm?
“I went to find a place to pee,” I say, using every atom of willpower to suppress my irritation.
I thought I escaped this. I thought I escaped suppressing irritation—and every other negative emotion I might feel.
“Oh? Because I took too long in the bath?”
Is it okay that I pick on you like this?
Is he picking on me? Is he doing this on purpose?
Nothing is verifiable.
Calm down. Be patient. Be youthful and joyful and laid-back.
This is my fault. I imposed on him.
But who takes an hour-long bath first thing in the morning when they have a guest and only one bathroom?
He asked me if I wanted to use the bathroom first. I have no right to be annoyed. Why am I such an asshole?
Why must M rub it in my face that I didn’t take the opportunity when it was offered?
“I guess I just didn’t realize how long you’d be in there,” I say.
“Well, the tub is what I enjoy,” M says.
And I should stop being an asshole and making you feel bad about doing what you enjoy in your own home.
“I really only take that long when my armpit area needs extra attention,” M says. “I used body wash, but because of you, I only used a little dab…”
“Because of me? What do you mean?”
“You mentioned yesterday that you don’t like it when people use strong-smelling colognes and bodywashes.”
M is kind, considerate and generous. He is a good person. I am a horrible person.
No! Fuck this. Fuck all this! I gave you an out. When I suggested visiting you, I explicitly said, if that doesn’t work for you, let me know. If you didn’t want me to come, you could’ve said so. If you didn’t want to say so, you could’ve made up a fucking reason! But you don’t lie. You have job instructions to be lawful and upright in all your doings. That’s why you put Lucy on a leash every time you walk through the apartment complex. That’s why you put a seatbelt on every time you get in the van. That’s why you don’t smoke weed in North Carolina. That’s why you’re perfect!
But if you’re so perfect, why do you make me feel so fucked up?
I’ve asked myself this question before. I hate this question. I thought I’d escaped this question.
“You don’t have to change your hygiene routine for me,” I say.
“But I do. I want you to feel comfortable here.”
“But now I feel like I’m this massive imposition…” I say.
“Not at all… I prayed for someone like you.”
The salmon-pink sludge stops cold and turns gray. Everything in me goes cold.
Normally, I’d be intrigued. Normally, I’d say, Oh? How do you mean? Instead, I say, “Okay…” and I turn around, walk into the bathroom and lock the door behind me. I take a shower. Then I take an Adderall.
Lately, I’ve had this rule. I don’t want to drink. I don’t want to take drugs. If I feel like I have to drink or take drugs to be around a person, I need to not be around that person.
I am the answer to M’s prayers. And I don’t want to be around him.
I suddenly feel like failing to be the answer to M’s prayers would be a bad idea. I must be youthful and joyful and laid-back. I must adjust and edit and erase. I must perform. I can’t perform anymore. I reached my limit with performing a long time ago. I need help. I need drugs.
At night, M shuts the bedroom door. I guess to keep Lucy from jumping on the couch with me. The bathroom is in his bedroom. Last night, in the middle of the night, I really had to pee, so I snuck in as quietly as possible.
“I didn’t wake you last night, did I?”
M is surprised to hear I came into his room without waking him or Lucy.
Tonight, before he gets in bed, he pokes his head out the bedroom door and says, “Remember, you can come in to use the bathroom any time you need to.”
It turns out I do need to. But this time a folding chair leans against the bedroom door. If I open it, the chair will fall over and wake Lucy. The chair wasn’t there before. I close the door and go back to the couch. The sound of the latch wakes Lucy and she barks. M pokes his head out and says in that innocently baffled tone, “Sarah? Sarah, is that you?”
Did he do this on purpose? Did he make sure I would wake him this time so that I would feel like a jerk and he’d get to play the helpless victim of an inconsiderate guest?
Is M sweet, innocent, considerate and generous? Is he just kinda dumb and very forgetful? Is he Forest Gump?
People who tell you over and over that they are a certain way are usually trying to convince you that they are that way because they aren’t that way.
I heard that somewhere.
Was it in one of my communication courses? Was it in some worthless YouTube video? Is it verifiable?
Nothing is verifiable.
It is impossible to tell what’s real.
August 31, North Carolina—This morning, when M asks if I want to use the bathroom, I do it. When I come out, he says, “That was quick.”
He says this every time I go in the bathroom, no matter what I’m doing in there. He’s been saying it ever since the day he took that hour-long bath and I ran to the woods in the rain to pee.
“I’m not sure what I was supposed to be doing in there that would’ve taken me a long time,” I say.
“Well, I certainly seem to be able to take a long time,” he says.
He is the innocent victim of an inconsiderate guest.
He is the innocent victim of the answer to his prayers.
He is the innocent victim of the woman he wants me to be.
I owe him the woman he wants me to be… after everything he’s done for me.
I had planned to stay until September 3rd, but I’m leaving today. I have to get out of here. Last night, I sat awake in the dark, touching my face. It didn’t feel real. I could feel it from the outside but not from the inside. Like it wasn’t my face. I don’t know if M is really fucking with me or if he’s really just Forest Gump. What I do know is that I need to stay away from people who make me feel like I have to perform youthful, joyful and laid-back or be punished with guilt trips for failing to do so.
I need to stay away from people who make me feel like nothing is verifiable, who make me question what is real.
While M is in the bath, I take my hoop to the park. On the way there, it breaks. The connecter that holds the push-button that allows me to coil it down to travel size is all torn and frayed. There’s no fixing it. There’s also no time to order a new one. No address to send it to. Something in the core of me breaks too. Hoop dance taught me that if I had the patience to practice, I could learn anything. For years, it was my only source of confidence. It was also my only personal space.
Identity erosion. That’s the official term.
Without writing and without hoop dance, I would’ve had no identity of my own in the end.
I used to worry that if I missed a practice, I’d forget everything I’d learned. Hoop dance is in my bone marrow now. I’d be more likely to forget how to ride a bike. I can live without it for a few months. Maybe it is time for me to let go of everything and start over. Maybe I should get rid of all my clothes too, stop trying to be stylish and attractive. Maybe I should go to REI and buy two pairs of pants, two shirts, a down jacket and a raincoat that will all last ten years. Simple and basic. Functional, not flattering. A blank slate.
I finally got a 1-person tent.
If I have a set of high-quality layers, a sleeping bag, a backpack, and my 1-person tent, I’ll be okay. If I wake up tomorrow and all my money is gone, I’ll be all set up to live outside, just like I used to. I was always happy living outside, with my sleeping bag, backpack and tent. I don’t need anything else. I don’t want anything else.
M is always telling stories in which God gives him exactly what he wants. He prayed for a woman exactly like his second wife—her exact height, hair color and cultural heritage. And he got her. He prayed for a dog just like Lucy—one he could carry in a satchel while waving his signs in front of capital buildings. And he got her. Once, he went to a baseball game and he said, “God, I’d like to get a foul ball today.” God told him exactly where to stand and when, and that foul ball came bouncing right at him. Of course he doesn’t have it. He gave it to a little boy.
Nothing is verifiable.
“So, you have all these instances in which you asked God to give you certain things or to make certain things happen in order to prove that it really is God speaking to you,” I say.
“I call them confirmations,” M says.
“So, God does these very specific things, to your exact specifications, to confirm to you that he’s God?”
“Yes.”
“So why does God go to all this trouble to prove himself to you, to convince you of his existence? I thought you were just supposed to believe, like blind faith.”
“I’m different, special,” M says. “I’m a Prophet. God chose me to do his work.”
M is different, special, chosen by God himself. So special that God takes the time to provide him with a dog and a wife that meet his exact specifications and to make sure he catches a foul ball.
M is so special that God himself goes out of his way to provide him with confirmation of his authenticity.
God gives zero shits about the rest of us.
Here are some things that are verifiable: Indicators of covert narcissism include a feeling of supreme self-importance and a tendency to exaggerate one’s own abilities. M is so important that God provides him with confirmation of his authenticity. M is capable of preventing oil spills and tsunamis and saving the lives of famous people. Another thing that’s verifiable: covert narcissists present as vulnerable and self-effacing. M is too dumb, too innocent, too forgetful to be manipulative and vengeful. He can’t be a covert narcissist. He’s just Forest Gump.
M points out every failure of mine while telling me about all the kind, considerate, generous things he’s done for me and for others. He washed the sheets and the rugs and bought me a towel and a bathmat. He spent some of his leftover U-card cash on steaks for the food bank and gave the rest to a 90-year-old woman from church. He rejects others while getting mad about being rejected. His wives and kids respond to abandonment by crying. That rejection is okay. He was just doing God’s work. He’s offended that his new lady friend doesn’t want to make out with him because she doesn’t like his long hair. That rejection is not okay. He doesn’t cut his hair because God wants us to be satisfied with what he gave us. M makes sure I know just how much he’s doing for me… The goal is to pamper Sarah, he says, over and over. He idealizes me… You just keep impressing me, he says, when I carry a 5-gallon jug of spring water, when I adjust the rearview mirrors, when I close the venetian blinds. I’m glad you’re laid-back, he says. Not like other women.
“Whatever man ends up with you as a partner is going to be very lucky,” M says.
Assuming I plan to end up a man’s partner.
“The one I had didn’t think so,” I say.
“Well, I certainly though he was smarter than that.”
“He was plenty smart. That wasn’t the problem.”
Covert Narcissism. That’s the official term. That was the problem. That is the problem. It’s why I’d rather pay for three nights in an Airbnb than stay with M any longer.
We arrive in Charlotte at about 2pm.
“We have plenty of time,” M says. “Is there something you want to do while I’m still here with the van?”
I don’t want M to do anything else for me. Ever.
I buy him lunch at the closest restaurant I can find, top off the gas tank, which I made sure to fill this morning, and give him a hug goodbye.
I lock the door to my room. I am dead tired. I lie down and black out.
When I wake hours later, I look in the mirror and see a new zit. Acne correlates with performing youthful, joyful and laid-back and trying not to be like other women. I sit on the couch and watch a stupid YouTube documentary and eat a bag of tortilla chips. Binge eating correlates with covert narcissism.
Is M a covert narcissist, or is he just Forest Gump?
Am I just completely ruined, completely paranoid and incapable of trust, or do I know what I’m talking about?
It’s impossible to tell what’s real because nothing is verifiable.
Peripatetic Sarah 