It was the morning of the Royal Wedding, and I was sitting alone at the coffee shop, wondering where I went wrong. I was ex-Marine. Big thing for me. I’d just spent five weeks in the Army guarding President Obama at a banquet, then, in April, I had gone down to the White House to watch it with Gen. David Petraeus at a watch party, and never did I expect the day after to be like this. I get it, I just didn’t expect it. The title of the book is called Modern Love, after all.
So, basically, there I was, alone, going through my days, all around the U.S., checking out blogs, reading and thinking, feeling at least mildly uneasy about the day ahead. I should have known something bad was coming. Of course I did.
When word came that Prince Harry and Meghan Markle had gotten engaged and Harry was set to marry in a few weeks, my head melted. I had my eye on them all summer long, but I didn’t know what happened next. I was shocked, but not surprised. I had watched them on the paparazzi film.
Getty Meghan Markle with boyfriend Prince Harry.
The Markle Markle we see in the pictures is a force of nature, her hair a tight braid, her body a body wire — a work of art. That’s exactly what a psychotic person needs in her life. I find it wonderful.
What I get from all of this is that I should have known the man I was with was psychotic. I should have known a year before it’s too late. And as much as it feels horrible, as much as I hate what happened, that is what I get. (And don’t think I don’t feel bad about it. I do. A lot.)
In the 1980s, I got entangled with a man that was several different things at once: a huge narcissist, a dangerously mental one, a man who loved me. I was crazy. A good part of my childhood was lost, I’d been abused, I did drugs and drank and got into motorcycle racing. That guy loved me. He was a very handsome womanizer who was originally from Canada. I was a Canadian lady trapped in the body of a woman in America. The whole thing became very confusing and ultimately futile.
I’ve tried to figure out a lot of what happened. I’ve attempted to give it some meaning, some context. But when all is said and done, I don’t know what that is. There’s none.
But I do know this: I cannot stay in a relationship with a crazy person. He can take you through the good times, the fun times, the happy times, and the not-so-happy times. And I, who usually have no problem with crazy people, never get to enjoy all of that. I never get to say, “I’m happy.” I just never get the fun in my life. I never get to say “I love you.” In fact, I rarely say anything to him. So, I’ve decided to go my own way, far away from Crazy Man.
I wish you all well, my friends.