He got into your car without asking permission.
Moved your bag and smiled kindly, harmlessly.
Asked to take you to lunch.
You said no, politely, you just thought there was something wrong with your car.
Your gut is squirming; this doesn’t feel right.
He keeps smiling, less kindly.
Asks for a kiss.
You lean away, gut screaming, hand fumbling for your phone.
You smile with lips too tight and say, “No, I’m married you see.”
He laughs and it makes you want to run.
He says that he is too, turns to face you directly.
His smile looks dangerous now.
You don’t understand, you just want him out of your car.
You ask him to leave, words choking around the lump in your throat.
He takes his glasses off, places them on the dashboard and says,
“I’m just asking for a kiss and then I’ll leave.”
You’re dialing without thinking, relieved that it’s only three numbers.
You want to look around, to check for others, for help,
but you remember reading somewhere not to take your eyes off the danger.
You don’t look away.
Helpless, just wanting him out of your car.
Why aren’t they picking up?
How long has it been ringing?
He leans forward, assessing and there’s nowhere for you to go and your breath stutters in your chest.
He says he’ll go, and he extends a hand like he’s a friend, like this was perfectly normal.
You don’t want to touch him, the repetitive ringing echoing faintly in your ear.
You just want him to leave.
Cornered, trapped, you gingerly reach to shake his hand.
He tightens his grip and pulls you forward and you jerk back, terror clawing through you.
The phone is still ringing.
He sighs, like you were a disappointing child, and gets out.
You’re shaking, can feel tears burning though they haven’t fallen.
Still alone, line still ringing.
It takes you two attempts before you can put your car into reverse.
A different ringing, your husband’s name on the screen and the dam breaks with a flood.
You’re driving, no destination, just away.
Eyes fixed in the rear view mirror to make sure he isn’t following you.
Yellow lines on asphalt blur and you slow down; your husband is asking if you’re okay, what happened.
At the police station, the lady at reception only has to hear one choked out sentence.
She’s calling an officer, telling you someone will be here soon.
You sit in the hard plastic chair, and try not to let your skin crawl.
All you want is a shower and sleep and to not think about his smile.
But you don’t want him to hurt anyone else.
Even if you feel stupid and embarrassed.
This wasn’t your fault; why do you feel like this?
The cop listens patiently while you get through the story, brief but as many details as you can remember.
You cry at the end, and you hate it, makes you feel weak.
He asks a few questions, but shrugs.
“No crime actually occurred,” he says.
Doesn’t write anything down, doesn’t take your name.
No, no, that’s wrong, you want to protest.
What if he’s doing this to someone else?
To a girl too scared to say no, a girl too young to pull away?
The police man says he’s never heard of this happening before
but he’ll send an email.
Tells you what to do next time: don’t stop, call 911 earlier.
You know he’s just trying to help, but all you hear is
you shouldn’t have stopped.
Your fault.
Your fault,
Beats like a drum in your skull.
You want to scream or hit something, rage against a world that puts this on you.
You never asked him to get into your car.
You said no, you told him to leave, why didn’t he listen?
It’s not my fault he didn’t listen, it’s not my fault.
But you feel it in the pitying eyes of the cop, echoing in the empty hallway on your way out.
Your fault, little girl.
There are people out there who won’t treat you like a human, like an equal,
and it’s up to you to make sure they can’t hurt you.
The weight of it is tugging you down, making your bones heavy and your heart sad.
“Too much,” you cry.
“It’s not my fault,” you whisper.
“Don’t be stupid,” the world tells you.

Stalking, at its worst, typically centers on a clinically insane freak standing at the ready to kill another human being via a cut to the throat or a shot through the heart. Perhaps the stalker pictures a happy ending in the irrational fixation on a stranger who rejects the maniac’s creepy advances.

But the urge to stalk can also afflict a rational person housing a beautiful yet wounded heart, shattered to its foundation, the result of a lingering ache and a million unanswered questions. This impulse means no harm, the result of somebody leaving another somebody—you—to die on the side of the road in singlehood. Maybe this jilt came after a poor explanation of why he didn’t want you anymore; maybe he cut off all contact, leaving you wondering what you did wrong. The length of time spent together doesn’t matter, whether a month of beautiful evenings or a couple of destructive years. Abandonment can lash any woman, carrying the same pain and destruction as a Cat 5 heading to shore.

You feel lost, wanting answers, wanting closure, but most of all, wanting him. You might wait a day to see if all this equates to nothing more than a bad dream. But it doesn’t. You grasp at anything to see him, to check up on his behaviors, maybe catch a glimpse inside his mind, or a glimpse of his body inside another girl.

Innocently enough, your stalking starts online, on every social media profile you know he indulges. This expands to checking for multiple pages under multiple aliases, staying up all night, wondering the price of facial recognition software.

You send a text only to receive no response. Days pass. You grow more confused and more obsessed. Dare you admit it, but your love has morphed into addiction. He’s no longer your heart; he’s your heroin.

You perform a quick drive-by of his house, moving slow enough to analyze every car in the driveway, every light on, off, or worse, dim, and every movement seen through the window. You don’t think of what happens if he’s outside. Deep down, that’s your wish.

You suffer at work, can barely think, and teeter on losing your job. You look like shit, haven’t practiced self-care in weeks.

Then, when you can’t dip lower, you discover the girlfriend, maybe new, maybe old, but your replacement nonetheless. Your self-esteem plummets below the bottom. You think of ways to look like her, to the point you will erase your own identity to be the lucky girl with the awesome guy who let your ass go.

Months go by until you can’t take it anymore, until you wake up at three a.m. realizing you fell asleep crying on the floor as the corner of the picture frame presses into your clavicle, the frame holding his beloved facial features.

You dry up every love song alive, then switch to every fuck-him anthem known to women, and still find no relief from your sense of rejection and not feeling good enough. You rationalize, once again, what you did wrong, why you aren’t pretty, funny, or fabulous. The cycle worsens, until a judge slaps you into reality while signing a restraining order. Okay, maybe not that extreme. Maybe you confront him at work, and he walks away leaving you crumbling from indignity in front of his coworkers. You find yourself so far below the bottom that you enter the abyss.

But wait. Before getting lost on his path, imagine taking a different road.

Imagine drafting a text, telling him how wonderful, gorgeous, and awesome his existence, then texting these words to yourself, over, and over, and over. Imagine creating the words I miss you; I want you; I love you; and Please don’t leave me, then texting those words to yourself.

Imagine stalking your own social media. Imagine going on your profiles, looking at your beautiful selfies, and your wonderful friends looking back at you, the ones who love your posts, who give you words of encouragement with every status update about a new endeavor.

Imagine picturing your masculine leaver’s solid, fine physique (maybe he’s ugly and has arms like a twelve-year-old-girl, but whatever), then getting a gym membership and working on your own physique.

Imagine cranking your car, ready once again to drive past his house, but instead, you stop and look at your own. Imagine sitting there for thirty-minutes. Maybe you get out of the car and walk around, thinking of shutters to paint, or rosebushes to plant. Imagine walking back inside, and hanging that one picture that brings your living room to life.

Imagine changing the radio station, erasing the sad love songs and fuck-you anthems. Feel-good beats replace the depression, make you dance unapologetically. Imagine recording yourself in the moment, no hate, no grudge, maybe understanding that he too hides demons.

Imagine dating yourself, then stalking the fun pics you post. Imagine feeling jealous before remembering that woman is you.

After all this imagining, imagine the result. Imagine a typical day living a regular life. You work, eat lunch, come home, maybe do laundry, and sleep. But this time, before dozing off, a thought hits you like Chevy Silverado to a plastic recycling bin—not once today did you check for any contact from him, nor think of him, nor pass a given fuck his way. You realize you’ve gotten over a guy who never deserved your time, let alone your addiction.

Imagine you just saved yourself, for he has left but you have returned, a better, stronger, kinder version of yourself before he left you...before you left you.

Now imagine you finally understand the difference between heroine and heroin.

If you looked at her life as if it were a movie with the sound turned off, you’d think that the girl who does my nails was granted the role of Fairy Tale Princess.

Her house is a mansion in our city’s best zip code, her diamond is the size of Yankee Stadium, and she has a killer body, compliments of daily workouts with a personal trainer in her home gym and an obviously gifted plastic surgeon. She owns the bustling salon-and-day-spa where I get a bi-weekly manicure, plays tennis three times a week at the country club, and had a photo spread of her cavernous gourmet kitchen featured in an upscale architectural magazine. Most impressive of all, she owns a shameless number of the most fabulous over-the-knee stiletto boots in existence.

But turn the volume up, and you hear that she drools for men who are actually not men so much as human monoliths, with shoulder-length hair, tattoos, and bulging calf and bicep muscles. Not one of them even vaguely resembles her stout, workaholic husband, twenty years her senior, the man who allegedly stopped courting her once she said, “I do.” She talks about financial security as a trade-off for True Happiness and wonders if she’s suffering from the Seven-Year Itch or an affliction far more deadly. As if there’s a doubt in her mind or anyone else’s.

“This isn’t your first marriage, right?” she asks me with the boldness of a talk show host.

“No,” I confess because Salon Code requires complete disclosure at all times, no exceptions.

“Well, do you think my marriage is salvageable?” she asks as if my marital track record has somehow imbued me with Divining Rights.

I’m old enough to know better than to answer the question directly, but I’m also compassionate enough not to be cavalier to her or tap dance around what she’s asked. She genuinely wants feedback. So I proceed to share with her these diamonds that I unearthed during my Tumultuous Years, jewels so priceless that, when strung together, produced an amulet that enabled me to recognize my own worth. They are why, in fact, that I’m still, fifteen years later, living happily (and gratefully) ever after with a husband who is my perfect fit.

1. Respect

If there isn’t mutual respect, then there is no respect. And without respect, a relationship is toxic. Leave it before it kills you, and don’t question for one moment if you made the right choice. You did.

2. Silence

Not talking is an act of consideration and loving kindness when it’s done with the intention of not unleashing words that would be injurious, unconscionable, or catastrophic. But a silence that is prolonged—i.e. that lasts in excess of an hour or two—is a tool manipulators use to withhold love and affection so that people give in to their demands. Not only is it unproductive and unhealthy, it’s also cruel and extremely disrespectful. (See No. 1)

3. Infidelity

In the words of my father: “There are two kinds of people in this world: Those Who Cheat, and Those Who Wouldn’t Dream Of It.” I’ve learned that mistresses and boyfriends are, very often, like rats in that there are usually so many more of them hovering close by than just the one that originally got your attention. You can opt to stay put after the initial discovery and catharsis, but you’ll spend every subsequent day pretending that you don’t really hear anything scrabbling around in the dark corners of your world.

4. Grievances

There is a vast difference—not a fine line—between “annoying” and “unforgivable.” The first one is not a deal-breaker; the second one is.

5. Secrets

This commodity will destroy a relationship from the inside out, and it’s the precursor to full-blown Deceit. One secret intertwines with another and another and another until they strangle the life out of your bond and replace it with suspicion and the fear of what consequences the truth could hold. But in reality, no truth is more painful than even the most well-intentioned secret, because the truth says, “I know I can trust you with this” while a secret says, “I have no confidence in you whatsoever.”

6. Imbalance of Power/Co-Dependence

If you think you and your mate always agree on everything, someone—deliberately or not—subjugating himself or herself for the sake of keeping the relationship going. The weaker of you is being a mirror so as not to either rile up or be rejected by the dominant partner. But the bad news is that either way, you’re both invested in a mirage.

7. Satisfaction

A good relationship is “work,” but it’s satisfying work, not “a job.” It requires daily attentiveness, but it’s the kind steeped in desire and delight, not obligation. The bottom line is this: If your union isn’t enjoyable, then you’ve totally missed the point of it.

8. Assessment

Your answer to the following question is the ultimate litmus test for determining how successful you consider your relationship to be:

Would you ever want one like it for your child?

If you answered “yes,” then congratulations. With or without mansions, personal trainers, and stiletto boots, you’re the one who’s really living the charmed life of a Fairy Tale Princess (or Prince). But if your answer is “No, my relationship is not one I’d ever want for my child,” then the obvious follow-up question has to be:

So why in the world are you accepting it, then, for yourself?

Because, until you’re dead, you know, you always have the power to change what’s not right about your life.