If I Can't Have Love, I'll Take Power

Some people build entire lives on the backs of bad decisions. One second you think you hold all the pieces. The next, you realize you’re playing the wrong game. A mountain trek of ups and downs. I always seem to be on the downs.

Perfect boyfriend turns out to be someone else’s “perfect” husband. Ideal job revealed as barely legal front for stolen goods. Vacation of a lifetime with the best friend morphs into the conclusion of a 20-year relationship.

In my life if it can go wrong, it will go wrong. Where was my class on how to make good decisions in high school? Red flags in all environments and situations? My lessons on how much it actually costs to rent a one-bedroom apartment in the heart of a city so you can lounge about a coffee shop with your closest friends? Making friends as an adult only gains in difficulty.

That’s how you end up 34 and alone. Still working the night manager job you aspired to achieve back when you were young enough for that to be an admirable goal. When was the last time I received a raise? Let’s not discuss it.

When I say alone, I of course mean emotionally. We live in a time where it’s never been so easy to achieve casual hookup success. Freedom of the body, prison of the heart. Younger, older, divorced, kids from a previous relationship, never ceased to inhabit parents’ basement. I’ve dated them all. Every single one gets back to me with the same feedback. I am not enough, and yet too much simultaneously. What does that even mean?

Drinking is never your friend. You got a secret, a hidden wish, it’ll spill right out. Your mouth, your fingertips. Some people may even be pushed to the point of writing it on the wall in their own blood. Morbid, I know. It would be nice to say I wasn’t related to them.

Here I lean, crashing through all the usual mistakes. Didn’t sleep last night, obsessed about the current fling all day, drank myself into oblivion, and then committed the most horrendous act yet. I picked up my cell phone and texted him.

We’ve linked up 7 times over the last 3 weeks. He goes to grad school in the morning and works full time in the evenings on top of schoolwork. The basic hookup app setup. No dates, no strings, just the feel of human skin against your own. He, like so many others, reinforced this the first time.

“I’m not really looking for anything serious.”

Maybe some of the most unoriginal words in the English language. How many times have they been spoken? By how many mouths? To how many tear-withholding eyes?

My text was about as bad as it gets. I didn’t even mean to send it. My finger slipped. I swear. All I needed was to feel the words come out of my head and transfer to the screen. It was never my intention to follow through.

Why can’t anyone love me?

I’ll be surprised if I receive a response. There’s no chance he has any interest in the girl whose defeated and desolate. Nothing quite bares a stench like desperation.

Its nearly 3 AM. I should go to bed. Sleep off the liquor. Face the backlash in the hollow morning light.

Maybe he hasn’t even seen it, though. Maybe he went to bed hours ago and it lay in wait. A tiger ready to spring.

What if he didn’t have to see it at all? Maybe then there would be the potential of something more. Casual hookup turned torrid love affair. It’s bound to have happened before, right? Why not to me as well?

He made so many bad decisions with me. The first of which occurring when we met. He invited me to his house. His actual home where he sleeps every night and keeps his possessions. Next to the porch, I couldn’t help but notice a fake rock. No doubt hiding a spare key in the off chance he gets locked out. Or someone else needs to get in without his permission. Then invited me back again and again.

I stand in the silence of his kitchen for a long time. A beautifully crafted knife block rests next to the stove. Gourmet set of 16. All sharpened to perfection. With delicate fingers, I select the chef’s knife. 6 inches long and luminescent in the moonlight.

The rest of the house is carpeted. Still, I creep through on tip toes. Not easy in clunky boots. It would have been weird to take off my shoes, though. And how would I escape if he awoke while I was inside? Contingency plans are important.

At his door, I drop to hands and knees, the knife clenched between my teeth. The carpet fibers rough and scratchy against the softness of my palms. Oh, the things I do for you. The things I do for a chance at love. Do you see how committed I am to our success? Would he see it that way?

He snores. The rumbles swelling and receding in a steady rhythm. Now or never.

I crawl through the slender opening, bumping the door ever so gently. It whines in protest, the sharp squeal shivering through my veins.

The snores continue, and so must the task at hand.

On the nightstand lay his phone. Thrilled, I scoot closer to the bed. One hand has fallen over the side and dangles precariously close to my hair. I should have tied it up. I should have planned better. I shouldn’t have come.

I reach across his arm and snag the phone without so much as a clatter. With the phone securely in my pocket, I slink back out the door.

New problem. Probably one I should’ve considered before slogging over here. I don’t know his phone password. And I don’t know how to hack in without erasing everything.

That could work. I could clean slate and text him in a couple days. Hey, want to meet up? Who’s this? Chelsea. We carry on as if this whole thing never happened.

I try a few obvious number sequences, but none are successful. After 10 attempts, I’m locked out.

The snoring has quieted. The rumbles echoes of their bolder predecessors. Reducing in energy with each passing breath.

Did I wake him?

Heart in rapid gunfire, lungs condensed, I skip to the front door on my tippy toes, ease it open, and disappear into the night.

Mission accomplished.

Bad decisions for the win.

I awake to a series of email dings a little after 8 in the morning. Long story short, I’m not ready to be up, so I may have chucked the relentless nuisance into the wall.

That wasn’t a good choice.

When I finally wriggled out of slumber, peed, and retrieved the phone from the floor, two hours had passed since the last email arrival. 14 in all. Each one as devastating as the last. They are from him. As I suspected they would be. Their contents, however, were another story.

Each email contained a single unique video. Me at the front door, locating the spare key. Me stood in the foyer, quietly shutting the front door. The kitchen. Nearly ten minutes of motionless me with back to the camera. My fingers curling and unfurling at my sides. Grasping the knife, holding it up to the thin strip of moonlight filtering in through a gap in the blinds. Crawling hands and knees through his bedroom. My eyes transformed into orbs of light, the knife agleam.

The last one is two lines of text: I know this is you. Meet me at noon at the stream in the park with your best offers to maintain my silence.

Here’s the deal. I don’t do well with threats. They make me feel all jumpy and hectic inside. Is this a good idea? How can I even begin to process? Good decisions take time. Effort. Resources. Other people to bounce them off.

Despite only an hour remaining until the meetup time, I’m in no hurry. Long, luxurious shower. Shampoo hair twice followed by a ten-minute conditioner soak. The water shuts off and the time to get serious is now. Regardless of how good or bad my decisions are, its time to make another. One that could greatly affect the direction of my life.

Now that I have time on my side, the anger begins to set in. All this time, I’ve been thinking I’m the problem. But maybe its him. Maybe its them. What kind of person checks their security footage, observes my level of dedication to the relationship, and their first thought is to turn to extortion?

I’m not pretty enough, not funny enough, smart, interesting, driven, etc. I’ve heard it all. From as far back as I can remember, men have felt entitled to comment on my body. My personality. My likes and dislikes. The way I dress. Act. Perceive.

If only he knew what it was like to be stabbed repeatedly with rejection.

If only he knew what it was like to be stabbed repeatedly.

The handle of the chef’s knife is cool and solid in my hands. A lifeline. Power in a powerless world. A trophy of my drive. My confidence. My ability to run the behind-the-scenes details to keep everyone happy. To think I did all of this to solve a problem.

My mission wasn’t accomplished. But it soon would be.

I email him back. Two sentences. I’ll be there. Bring your laptop with the footage.

Drowned in a hoody, knife wrapped in a towel and stuffed in my purse, I descend the steps to the next phase of my life.

If he didn’t know it was time to run, he should have.