His name was Bambino
His name was that of my late brother. Spelled the same, too. He found me and pursued me, despite my taste for fruit for dessert and a lousy food ocd. We met a week later. It was all such a rush. The holding hands, smooching in cinemas, the romantic candlelit restaurants and weekends at Malibu.
I told him I had flown across the ocean from a tumultuous relationship; that I was no way ready.
When I have a minute alone to think, the girls curled in their womb-positions by the fireplace, I remember how much I loved him.
The way he lit up when I slid into his car (instant forgiveness for it being BMW when I saw his smile); the asking to hold my hand and then reaching across the gear stick - his hands were so soft, warm - I got butterflies; driving to a vegan restaurant (a notable date spot) and requesting that we call our Dinner a Date.
I cried for six months after leaving. I thought we might work it out. The monster bipolar I had left in Sweden had followed my tracks like a hound, and I had masked the truth because I couldn't comprehend that this brute was about to lose his mother and become orphaned at 33. He had spewed a bad angled story and shared our emails where I had agreed to his ideals of a future - and hoped he would find someone else in Sweden, or once, even that he might just die.
I cried for six months after being raped in the most dangerous country for a woman in the world. I cried as my body was violated, as my spirit let go of the fight and imagined for the brief moment, his face. I cried 4.5 months later when I learned I was pregnant, with twins. What would this have meant if it had have happened between he and I? I cried on the many evenings, when itching from ICP and the pressure of skin stretching over a growing watermelon with insomnia. I cried once I returned home with my baby girls, but not as often.
Eighteen months have passed and I love him as much as the first day, as though it were yesterday. I have put all of his negatives in a closet as I did then, so as not to feel their presence and the hurt.
I know that had I found my church on arriving, or made my way to Venice Baptist in April 2017, I may have been saved from the monster - I may have identified the devil then and blocked and blocked and blocked him away.. and let him sob and video his miseries, and drink his vodka and take his drugs and lose his mother, alone.
Instead I prayed for her peace. I prayed over him - that monster that took from me two years and a giant bite out of my heart.
I might have instead prayed and been prayed for. Protection. Healing. Self love.
In the years that have passed now and the couple of bump ins with the one who agreed we must be soul mates, that were so horribly immature, I only wish I knew how much he could hurt me in return.. because I would never have gone near.
My soul might not know its connection but it would hurt so much less.
If prayers are part of your day, can you please include me in yours? Pray that I can heal from this cycle of masculine ugliness and cut the ties that keep me from choosing the same.
I felt compelled to write this after crying again last night and then today. For the first time since the girls arrived, I just felt like laying in bed alone and crying. But I am a mother now, and such selfishness is no more.
I will keep our memories safe in a box in the beautiful sanctum of my mind.. where the monsters cannot find us, they cannot break us. For the best parts of you, will always stay with me.