An Untitled Life in Bullets: Parts III and IV

Part III: Where her troubles began “I know I am but summer to your heart, and not the full four seasons of the year.” ~Edna St. Vincent Millay

“You seem like you don’t want us to go,” she said angrily. “What the fuck is going on?” I had just received notice that I was to report to Washington for a two-year assignment. “There’s another woman. She’s going to move there with me.” I said coldly. “I want out of this.” She was devastated. She cried for days between fits of rage. We decided to keep our plans for San Diego for the weekend. We booked a beach resort room for our daughter’s Spring Break. I wanted to wait to tell her until afterward, but I didn’t want to deceive her anymore.

“Where is she?” she asked, choking back tears. “She’s out of town. She’s attending some literary gathering in Atlanta. She’s an aspiring writer. She works for the Los Angeles opera in the costume department. She has a degree in design.” I told her. “Well, she’s a piece of shit and you’re a piece of shit as well!” she said. We went to the resort that weekend. Everything seemed normal if constrained. It rained all weekend as if some judgment was to be had. We drank beer by the pool. Our youngest swam in between rain showers. We kept it cool. “It’s me. We have all those memories together. Remember? Just end things with her. It’s not too late. We’ll work on us. I know I haven’t been the kindest wife lately, but I can change.” she pleaded.

She began walking around the three-and-a-half-mile mountain lake in our town to clear her thoughts. The idea of splitting up was devastating for her at first. She is a strong woman and turned to fitness to fight the depression. We lived in the same house as I awaited my move. One-night friends took her out for drinks. A fit, handsome, blonde man was sitting at the bar. Her friends slipped him a note when she went to the bathroom. He bought her a drink. They hit it off and made out in her car. My car. She made sure I knew about it. What could I say?

He was in the Air Force reserves and sold insurance. He lived in Clovis, California, and was attending training in Southern California. They began seeing each other, texting “good mornings” every day. He wasn’t the most intelligent man, but he was nice to her.

He was even cool about things when she told him that she was going to accompany me and my daughter on the road trip to Washington. It was summer. We set out through the desert and stopped at the meteor crater in Arizona. We were in my “drug dealer” truck. We talked and laughed. She called him at every rest stop and every hotel. Under different circumstances, it would have been a grand adventure. Seeing the country by car. A road trip! We noticed the changing accents of a sprawling nation. We saw the sights. We enjoyed each other’s company. We ate on the Riverwalk in Oklahoma City and drank craft beer at the Tapwerks Ale House. We explored the vast Mammoth Caves in Kentucky. We marveled at the rolling hills of West Virginia. We explored DC monuments and museums. We celebrated Independence Day at the National Mall. Those moments will live in my memory. I loved exploring the city with my wife and daughter, though we were estranged. When they left, I missed them. A month later my youngest daughter missed me and flew out to visit. She decided to stay with me while her mom went to nursing school

A few months later she told me she was seeing a man who lived in Aspen. I asked her about the Air Force guy. She told me she had gone to bed early after they argued and when she woke up in the morning there were 38 texts. She blocked him, calling him a Stage-Five Clinger. She had known her boyfriend in Aspen since they were in High School together. He owned a painting business and was an avid outdoors man. He was also a raging alcoholic with three DUIs. His last one was a felony and he had to spend time in jail and rehab under a plea deal. She drove out to see him before starting school. It turned out he was quite the foodie. They were together for a few months, but she ended up leaving him. He made no effort to come to visit her or fly her out. At least those were the reasons she told me. I personally liked the guy.

She embarked on a series of dating adventures for the next year or so. At least that’s what she called them. She recounted a story where she went on a date with a guy whose hobbies include “high fantasy”. I nearly spit out my beer when she told me. “What the fuck is that?” She went on to say she paid the bill because she wanted to get away. Then there was the good-looking pilot. (Her words, not mine). He was successful, had money, etc. unfortunately he was looking for some sort of sister-wife situation. His wife was so cool with them dating she even reached out to her and invited her to dinner to meet their family. She could write a book just about her dating experiences. When she went out alone for the first time to a bar a man sat next to her and told her she would seem more inviting if she smiled more. She got in his face and told him “Fuck off! I’m not here to be inviting, I’m here to drink!”

Then there was Brad/John. I used the name he gave based on his two Facebook profiles. He was in some weird ex-wife/girlfriend situation where he could only meet with her for a few hours at a time. He was polished and dressed well but she couldn’t handle the deception. There was the artist who owned the local coffee shop and rambled terrible poetry. I don’t like to judge but this shit was fucking horrible. It became an inside joke between us. She later told me he tried to put moves on her when she asked him to help her with her computer. Then there are the guys who send three-page fuck you texts after she canceled on them. What the fuck is wrong with people?

You see, she isn’t a slut. She doesn’t fuck every man just because they want her to. She is very particular about whom she sleeps with and usually within the context of a relationship. I admire that about her. I’m not judging promiscuous people, to each their own. She has class. Her next relationship was with a cool guy who worked for a major company in website design. He had a tattoo sleeve. He dressed well and had taste. His music wasn’t my thing, but I liked that he had an opinion on the matter. He took her to Vegas. They were together for a few months.

Meanwhile, I took my daughter to Rehoboth Beach in Delaware. She was ten at the time. Our hotel overlooked a graveyard that made her nervous but had an indoor pool. The town has a boardwalk, and an old ice cream stand. We went to the beach at Cape Henlopen by the lighthouse. We followed the coast on our way home and stopped by Assateague Island where wild horses roam the beaches. We got caught in a torrential downpour and sheltered under a tarp on the beach. She had enough and we packed up and went back home, crossing the Chesapeake bridge into DC. She looks just like her mother. She has large green eyes and long curly hair. She’s quite the artist and an avid reader. She is very emotional, and an empath. Life in Virginia was an adjustment for her, being a California girl and all. She made friends quickly but not without drama.

I would take her to school on my motorcycle. She wore a black leather motorcycle jacket and a white helmet with pink butterflies on it. At stoplights, people would give her the devil horns sign and she would return it gleefully. She felt like the coolest kid pulling up to school. Being a single dad wasn’t without its challenges. I had to quickly learn how to fix my daughter’s hair and get her clothes to coordinate. I’m afraid I was terrible at this. I did better in the cooking department. I would prepare her favorite meals and shop for the food she loved. That summer I took her on a motorcycle ride to an old stone farm in West Virginia. I was worried that she kept falling asleep and would keep her awake on the ride. When we got to the farm, we met the farmer who was doing some chores. “You guys must be so hot in your gear,” he said.

He told us to go get some iced tea in the house. He was a nice man. He was around my age and bought this place as an escape from his DC life. He hired an odd farmhand who used to be an MMA fighter. They were both nice enough though rough around the edges, but who isn’t? My daughter loved the farm hand. They were like peas in a pod. Two kindred spirits. They would go out in the morning looking for Missy the pig or feed the livestock. The farmer had a nice copper bathtub for long baths after working out in the sun all day.

The farm had forests and a stream that ran through the expansive property. It was a weekend of horse riding and eating and drinking. We dined under white string lights under the old stone farmhouse with other guests. It reminded me of a scene right out of Tuscany. The next month we flew back to California together. She was going to start school there. My ex-wife and I took her to LACMA and Universal Studios for her 11th birthday. When I returned to Virginia, I missed her so much. I went through some mild depression in my empty home, I think.

I lived on the fifth floor of a luxury apartment in a wealthy part of Virginia. The place had walls of windows, floor to ceiling. There was a bowling alley inside the building. Just below me were swank restaurants and bars. My weekends were spent in the DC and Baltimore nightlife. My girlfriend was on and off. I didn’t see a future. Let’s just say I had trust issues, but I laugh because look who’s talking. She got engaged three months after we broke up so there’s that. Everyone gave me the obligatory “you dodged a bullet” speech. During my last few months in Virginia, my girlfriend and I spent a lot of time together. Motorcycle rides, wine tasting, apple picking, concerts, etc. We saw Nick Cave in Philadelphia and would take weekend trips to Baltimore and Fredericksburg. Our overall relationship was tumultuous, however. I knew she was cheating on me with someone. I just didn’t know who with. I later realized she was lost in so many ways and was trying to survive. Trying to survive her situation, her life, her past, her future, her mind,  and most of all, me.

When my time in Virginia was up, my girlfriend and I traveled back to California together and parted ways just before Christmas. I’m not going to get into the specifics of our relationship. I had coffee with her last Summer after our breakup and she asked me not to write about the details. That was the last time I saw her. That was the last time I will ever see her. I've corresponded with her briefly over the years and she is happily married in a small cabin on some land in the middle of America somewhere.

When I arrived in California, I stayed with my ex wife for a few weeks before getting my own place. She was seeing a new man that would turn out to be a toxic relationship. He was emotionally abusive. She has bad taste in men.

Part IV: I am a narcissist “I think writers are the most narcissistic people. Well, I mustn’t say this, I like many of them, a great many of my friends are writers.” ~Sylvia Plath

I was polite and well behaved because that was what was required to advance. ~H G Tudor, Confessions of a Narcissist

All she could do was watch from her hiding place under the table. The combat boots walked slowly past her, each step the creaking of leather as brass casings fell to the ground. The screams, the smell of gunpowder, and blood, and the panic, all faded away and all she could focus on were the black combat boots casually stalking their helpless prey. In other parts of the building, the wupwupwupwup of semi-automatic rifle fire could be heard through the walls. The screams alerted everyone that something terrible was happening. The rifle fire set off the fire system, the entire building was doused in water spraying in every room and hallway amid the chaos. There were bodies everywhere. Some were moving and pleading for help from the three cops that responded to the gunfire. They walked past the dead and dying in the hallways. Pleas for help had to be ignored. The threats had to be neutralized first. Water drenched them from the sprinklers, their pistols were drawn as they cleared every room of the building.

It would be hours before paramedics could enter the building safely and only after specialized teams in helmets and rifles and ballistic vests cleared the large conference center building and assured the scene was safe. Were there two shooters? Four? Five? There were about a dozen dead and dozens more wounded. The shooters were found hours later and killed by police after a massive firefight on the streets of the city. The shooters were husband and wife. Both of their bodies fell onto the street outside of their sport utility vehicle. The massive hunt for other conspirators ensued and was eventually brought to justice. I was one of the investigating agents. It was the most difficult ten days of my career.

“I think I have PTSD” I told the woman. She was dressed in scrubs, wore horn-rimmed glasses, and her hair pulled back into a ponytail. “Tell me what happened in your life,” she said. I recounted a story about a small village in Guatemala near where government soldiers were ambushed. I went on to tell her about the Kaibiles, which are the US-trained Guatemalan special forces, entering the village and interrogating the people, accusing them of being guerillas. After some time one of the soldiers threw a small child into the village well. Her mother screamed and was shot in the head. The Kaibiles systematically threw everyone in the village into the well, some were shot first, and others were thrown in alive. To cover their crime, the Kaibile soldiers threw grenades into the well before filling it with dirt. Curiously two small boys were spared and taken by two Kaibiles officers who raised them as their own. This was in 1982.

“Is this one of the cases you oversaw?” she asked. “Yes, among others,” I said. “I covered human rights and war crimes cases from Latin America, Middle East, and Asia.” “You were very matter of fact in the recounting of your story. Do you realize how most people wouldn’t be able to do that?” I was treated for PTSD over several sessions about three years ago. I never found therapy to be beneficial. I tend to dominate the conversation and can make it go where I want it to go. I wasn’t sure therapy was for me.

After breaking up with my girlfriend of two years I returned home to California. I stayed in my own place but helped with the kids and things that needed to be taken care of around the house. Occasionally I would eat dinner with them. My estranged wife was seeing someone, and it was serious. Karen called me one day just after I broke up with my girlfriend. She was concerned about her new man. She said that he had body-shamed her. Her body was great but not perfect. I told her I thought that was weird and inappropriate. They had been dating for three weeks at the time. Over the course of five months, he continued the emotional abuse. He would build her up and then tear her down. She outclassed him and I didn’t see what she saw in him. Although he was fit, he was a homely-looking man who sold tires for a living. He dressed like a dork and had no taste. He had a degree but was counting on inheriting his ex-wife’s family tire business. After she left him for a cop he got screwed out of his livelihood and resorted to being a tire salesman. I suspected he had a restraining order that I informed my ex-wife about. You never really know people. Good liars have learned their skills over a lifetime.

I was there for her during her emotional breakup. Due to the nature of the mental abuse, it took some time for her to get over him. In fact, I still doubt she completely is, but it seems like her head is in control. We soon became great friends and started hiking together. I was dating around. I never dated in my life. I usually find a woman I like; we end up fucking and after a few weeks try and make a go of legitimizing things. Dating is too contrived for me. Too stiff.

In May that year, I rode my motorcycle to the coast to see a woman I knew. She was a special woman to me. I knew her for years through Twitter. I also knew her husband through the same platform but never connected the two together. We talked and she told me her husband had passed. We grew close and I came out to see her. We spent the evening at an Irish Pub called “The James Joyce” in Santa Barbara. I loved her company. In the morning we decided to eat breakfast near the beach. She ran a red light, and we were hit by an oncoming car making a left turn. Nobody was injured but both of their cars were severely damaged. We parted after breakfast, and I rode my motorcycle around Santa Barbara. I rode to the beach and watched the ocean for some time, thinking about things. Reflecting. I took the Pacific Coast Highway home. Riding next to the ocean on a motorcycle on the iconic highway is something every person should experience in their lifetime.

On my way home I thought about the previous two years. How I treated my wife when I was having an affair. How I treated my girlfriend and the fucked-up shit she did to me. I began to suspect that I had an issue. I suspected that I suffered from a narcissistic personality disorder. So much was happening in my personal life and then this suspicion of a disorder that I needed to rule out prompted me to end things with the woman on the Coast. She didn’t take it well. I felt bad about that, and I was truly sorry. She blocked me on every platform but not before she sent a scathing email telling me what a piece of shit I was. Perhaps I deserved that. I did reject her, but it had nothing to do with her. She is beautiful, intelligent, and successful. I’m sure she found love. When I returned to my home in the mountains, I received orders for Europe.

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The speedometer on the Triumph Bonneville T100 (Black) exceeded 110 mph. There was no traffic, and I was blazing down the barren LA freeway. It was hot and I was wearing jeans and a black T-shirt. I did a lot of thinking on my way back to my mountain. I wanted to try again. Earlier in the spring, I attended a dinner party at a couple’s home that I’ve known for decades. My college roommate was going to be there. She’s a producer. I’ve been friends with the husband of the couple since college. His wife was a screenwriter who also produced movies with her ex-husband. I reconnected with good friends over dinner. We drank wine and beer and laughed all night. At one point my friend and I left to buy some whiskey at a local Silverlake liquor store. We finished the bottle. While winding down over horrible lemonade and vodka drinks we talked about life.

The husband is a teacher and former lead singer of a band. My college roommate was half Japanese and beautiful. Her mother was breathtakingly so. We briefly tried to make a go of things in college, but it never worked out. My friend’s wife was born in Scotland but is an Irish citizen. She had piercing blue eyes and dark hair. The late-night conversation came around to sex. We were all drunk. I explained my hedonist past. My roommate was very curious. I remembered her deviant nature from college. The topic of fisting came up and I admitted having done this. My friend’s wife exploded in anger. “Women who say they want this sort of thing are victims of abuse!” she screamed. “She asked me to do those things,” I said. “I try to accommodate my partner.” She would have none of it and stormed off to bed. I got so drunk the room was spinning. My friend offered me the sofa to sleep on.

I was awakened in the middle of the night by my old college roommate. Or so I thought. I was so drunk I didn’t even know where I was. I sat up. “I’m sorry about tonight,” she said as she ran her fingers through my hair. “Me too. It shouldn’t have gone that far.” Our lips fell into each other before I remembered in my drunken state that my former college roommate had left before I went to bed. It was my friend’s wife I was making out with. The one who stormed off to bed!

The next morning, I awoke to a dog licking my face. I laid there for some time thinking about how fucked up the evening was. My friend’s wife came out and made breakfast. He was still asleep. We talked about movies and writing. I showed her the first version of this very story. She devoured it. “You remind me of Hemingway.” she said. “Or James Joyce.” “That’s a lot of smoke up my ass.” I thought, smiling. It came out as “Thank you.” She offered some edits, and wanted to do a screenplay about my life. “I want you to fuck me,” she said while looking intensely into my eyes I didn’t fuck her. In fact, I had to get out of there. I couldn’t do that to a friend, and I left realizing that the friendship was over. I debated telling him, but I decided to keep it to myself and out of their marriage. Far away in fact. I avoided them for almost a year.

“My wife passed away.” He wrote, in a long email to friends and family. “She has suffered from a long illness and passed away in our home among her family and her children.” Those words hit me hard. Her death was complicated by the encounter we had earlier in the year. I offered my condolences to my friend. He provided me with the details of the funeral arrangements. It was a day before Halloween. I met him and his in-laws at his home. My friend’s father-in-law is an impressive man. He designed the subway system in Hong Kong. My friend wasn’t dressed yet and was languidly hanging out in a T-shirt and pajama bottoms. The funeral was supposed to start in 30 minutes. I could see the pained patience in his father-in-law’s eyes as my friend struggled to get everything for the funeral. Losing a daughter is devastating. He and his wife told my friend “Don’t forget the urn.” As they left.

“I forgot the urn!” my friend said as we arrived at the church. “I thought you had it. I saw you with it.” I said. “I set it down when I went back inside the house for my car keys,” he said. We went back and retrieved the urn. I felt its weight in my lap and the feel of the warm pewter in my hands as we drove back to the church. “You’d better let me carry the urn inside the church lest people get the idea you two had a thing or something,” he said jokingly. I just tightened my mouth. “I completely agree,” I said stoically.

There must have been two hundred people that night at her wake. Friends had assembled a shrine for her in the dining room. It was an Irish wake with lots of whiskey, beer and wine, and food. My god the food. Dedicated chefs manned the grills in the expansive backyard. Her friends came from all walks of life. Mostly people from the entertainment industry. I spoke with the ex-wife of one of my childhood friends who attended the funeral. She was an award-winning violinist with the LA Philharmonic. My friend, her ex-husband, is a composer for TV and film. He left her for a 26-year-old. After a year he left the 26-year-old, dyed his hair purple, married another woman, and moved to Malibu. Such is the way of things in Los Angeles. The wake went on into the early morning. We went through the good whiskey, and someone went to the store for some Jameson. I talked to friends of the deceased about fundraisers.

The wake died down. Guests left leaving my friend who was quite drunk, an old girlfriend of his, and a few couples behind. An actor, who was often typecast as Jesus, with a topknot and all, and his wife, were doing some sort of Sufi dance. His wife was extremely Irish and extremely drunk. She sat down next to me. “How do you know the deceased?” she asked. “We are old friends,” I said. “You are incredibly handsome.” she slurred. “And you smell so good.” she held my tie and sniffed my neck. “I think my husband may be getting a little jealous.” she laughed, looking at him. He was intent on his Sufi dance. At some point, he sat down, and we talked and laughed. My friend played a slide show of his deceased wife’s memories. When Jesus and his wife left, she hugged me and kissed me on the cheek. I’m pretty sure he did too. At least that’s what I remember.

I loved her and my friend. In retrospect, I did the right thing. They both must have been going through so much in her final days. He told me she was terminally ill when I visited back in the spring. “She loved you man.” he finally said. The next day we talked all morning. I invited him and his five-year-old up to the mountains whenever it snowed at my place. I hugged him when I left to go back home. They never made it up to play in the snow.

“I think I have a narcissistic personality disorder,” I told the woman. I went back to therapy. “Why do you think that?” she asked. “I feel empty. I lack insight. I’m cold. I lack empathy.” I already established a rapport with her. She understood a first responder’s mindset, having specialized in that sort of counseling. “Narcissists are incapable of admitting they’re narcissists,” she said. “I’m the self-aware kind.” I said. “We treat disorders that affect someone in their life. If you were one, which you are not, how does it affect your life?” she asked. She was right. Most narcissists are unaware of their disorder. Many act on impulse. They have a grandiose sense of self, are interpersonally exploitive, and are arrogant. They are severely insecure, and that damage came long ago from deep childhood wounds.

The mid-range and greater narcissists can be quite charming and sexually alluring. The greater is more diabolical in their approach while the lesser and mid-range have little control over impulses. Narcissistic rage appears more often in the latter two, although the greater is not immune. Narcissists cannot love in the traditional sense. Instead, they feed on the fuel of their appliances (according to author HG Tudor). Love interests, friends, relatives. They feed on both positive and negative fuel, it does not matter to them which is the source of their supply. They are in many ways, psychic vampires. They appear to you as an angel with kind and caring hearts only revealing their dark wolf-like predator sides later. If you find yourself in a relationship with one of these creatures, you most likely have gone through a love bombing stage where they shower you with love and affection and you spend the rest of your time with the beast trying to regain the feelings they once made you feel, but will always be unattainable. They have you ensnared, and they will never let you go. More importantly neither will you, even after they are long gone and have made off with your heart.

The mid-range and lesser narcissists don’t realize what they are. It’s the self-aware kind that is most dangerous. Highly intelligent, and exceedingly successful, they not only crave power, but they also have power. Interpersonal and otherwise. They are a formidable and terrifying predator. That is where my therapist made her mistake. She was so star-struck when I told her who I was, and what my background was. Someone like me could not possibly be a monster. Someone like me isn’t evil. Heroes aren’t evil, they save people. They never seem to be able to save themselves. It all makes sense really. The horrors I’ve seen would destroy someone with empathy. Cold calculated decisions are often necessary. Every Meyers-Briggs comes back as INTJ, the Field Marshal if you take stock in such things.

I suspected my affliction was worse than NPD. I suspected it was dark triad. The dark triad is a psychological term referring to the personality traits of narcissism, Machiavellianism, and psychopathy. A psychological soup of egocentrism, manipulative and deceitful tendencies, shallow emotional responses, high-stress tolerance, and low empathy and guilt. People afflicted with the dark triad personality traits tend to seek extremely stimulating activities, are impulsive, and have a disposition toward interpersonal conflicts. Basically, my resume. I scored high on the dirty dozen self-assessment, developed to test dark triad personality traits. So, if I am correct in my assessment, I am quite dangerous to know. Perhaps I am too hard on myself. I read that complex PTSD shares similar symptoms with dark triad traits. It took years to realize I was only dealing with trauma most will never experience nor understand.

“An unexamined life is not worth living.” ~ Socrates

To be continued…