Copyright ©2012 by Creole Gaudet. All rights reserved
No part of this story may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information storage and retrieval system – except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a magazine or newspaper – without permission in writing from the publisher, Creole Gaudet.
Do you ever wonder what happened to that kind, gentle, and loving soul that you met a year and a half ago?
Who is this volatile she-devil that’s turned your life into a nightmare? How did you get here?
Manipulative women are clever, but they can only do what you allow them to do.
They won’t do anything extreme in the beginning for fear of losing you or the repercussions and legal trouble that may follow if you were to get the authorities involved. No, they take their time to feel you out first, see how their work is cut out for them.
But it’s up to you to see the signs.
Sometimes they’re subtle, but they’re always there. And by all means, you must address them right away.
If not, she will eat at you nibble by nibble until she’s taking big chunky bites at a time.
Think of the frog in the boiling water. Only in this scenario, she’s controlling the flame.
Meet Melvin.
Melvin was a chubby, bifocaled, late twenties office worker type who lived with his wife in the apartment below me.
He was easy-going and quiet, never uttering a syllable over sixty-five decibels.
He used public transportation, electing to leave the SUV at home for his wife, and would make the daily trek to the bus stop on foot. With his navy blue business suit, a brief case in one hand and his paper sack lunch in the other, even from a block away, you could see that Melvin was a soft touch.
Now, as passive as Melvin was, his wife was just the opposite.
She was an imposing woman with a thunderous voice, a built-in frown, and the broad shoulders of a Samoan professional wrestler.
One night, I was at home having a romantic dinner with a brand new girlfriend. We were staring into each other’s eyes as our lips closed in for our very first kiss.
But the moment was interrupted. “Melvin!” The shout was as clear as if it were just outside my door.
We then took to the sofa, where I explained to her that Melvin was this very nice gentleman whose wife verbally abused him. She was visibly upset as I told her about his work ethic, how he’d arrived home in the evenings just as predictably and timely as he’d left in the mornings.
We both agreed that he was underappreciated, with her wanting to go down and have a conversation with Melvin’s wife. I told her how sweet I thought her intentions were, but I also had to impress upon her how big a mistake that would have been.
There was nothing that she or I could do for Melvin. He was defeated, spineless, and emasculated.
So, how did this happen to Melvin?
As I said, it’s gradual. It doesn’t happen overnight. They hold back that aggressiveness and ease you into it with a continuous dose of mental mind-screwing that’s sure to keep you demented, deranged, and confused.
During a debate or argument, does your woman let you get a word in?
Does she spin the conversation to avoid answering your questions?
Do you get to question her?
Is it a problem when you want to do something with the guys or go somewhere alone?
Does she wait until you’re already dressed and walking out the door before she demands that you call the guys and cancel? Then, and only when she gets her way, does she reward you with sex?
The crying, the happiness, the drama, the anger, the smiling, the frowning, and the self-pity are all theater. It’s manipulation.
If it’s something legitimately mental and she’s truly that unstable, she needs the help of a professional, and there’s nothing you can do for her anyway.
Was this ever you?
“Honey, do you need me to get anything for you before I jump in the shower?” Of course, she’s not even looking you in the eyes while lying in bed, reading and eating chocolates. You’re still standing there with the towels in your hand, waiting for an answer. “Hon?”
“What?!” She screams, peppering you with indignation as she slams the magazine onto her lap. “Can’t you fucking see I’m busy?”
You lower your tone. “I was just asking if you needed me to do anything for you before I hop in the shower right quick…I won’t be long.”
She ignores you, raising the book in front of her face. You then sulk away, but before you can get your hand on the doorknob, she wants a glass of ice water.
Of course, you hustle for it without delay.
You bring it back to her with a folded paper napkin wrapped around it, just the way she likes it.
As you place it onto the nightstand, she thanks you for being so considerate, but lets you know that you smell like fresh dog shit. However, you’re so used to the deadpanned, backhanded insults, you don’t even respond.
You turn on the water and undress. You stand, looking at yourself in the mirror. What was once a toned and defined physique is now average at best.
You blow it off and step under the soothing spray. As you lather yourself, you think back to how the two of you would have sex two, and sometimes three times a day.
You consider squeezing one off, but you don’t want to be completely drained in case tonight’s your lucky night.
But don’t worry, you’ll be losing your sex drive soon anyway. Your erections will begin to decrease in rigidity, and your balls will shrink to half their size.
She will have broken you down to the molecular level, controlling each and every moment of your life.
She’ll be riding you from the time you wake in the morning until the time you close your eyes at night.
Is that any way to live?
Now that she’s squeezed the last drop of masculinity from you, her goal will be accomplished, and she will then get bored.
And don’t you worry your pretty little head; she won’t dump you just yet. No, she has to find a replacement first.
Of course, you’ll be the current topic among her girlfriends. They already know how much of a weakling you are, and they revel in how she masterfully, systemically, consistently, and with precision destroyed you.
So what do you do? Do you wait for the inevitable, or do you make your move?
Obviously, the relationship can’t be saved because she absolutely has no respect for you.
And no amount of couples therapy or anything you could possibly do is going to change that.
No, sir, it’s time to claim back your manhood. It’s time to cut your losses and move on, champ.
Now, don’t go rushing in with a head full of steam. You have to carefully plan an exit strategy.
This is one thing that men don’t usually do well.
When a woman leaves a man, she will have already searched and found a new place, paying the rent from a separate bank account that you knew nothing about.
And it will be together too. Have you ever seen a woman move into an unfurnished or empty apartment? Of course not.
Where did all those dishes, pots, and silverware come from?
How about all the pretty bathroom decorations or the bedroom sheets, comforter with the matching curtains?
Women plan. But we as men end up on our brother’s or sister’s couch for a month or two before we can even get on our feet.
Take your time and prepare before making your move. It would also behoove you to leave when she’s out with those girlfriends of hers.
Just think about how awesome it would be to have them drop her off at home, only to find that you’ve dumped her ass.
And no, you’re not being a coward. You’re using common sense because you know she would never in a million years sit quietly and let you walk out of her life. This would be a win for you, and she’s not going to let you have it. It will no doubt be a confrontation.
Get out of there as quickly as you can, and if you must say something, leave her a nice little note telling her that you wish her the best in all her endeavors.
I never knew what happened to Melvin, but I did see his wife many years later. She was with a girlfriend of hers in the shopping mall, and I just could not help but make mention that I was once her upstairs neighbor.
I let her in on the fact that I could hear her yelling his name through my floor.
She gave an embarrassing smile while dipping her head in playful shame.
She introduced herself as Ann. Even though she was smiling now, I finally had a name to go with that frown.
Ann didn’t say anything about Melvin or whether they were still married or not.
I didn’t see a ring on her finger, so perhaps she’d learned a lesson.
Maybe Melvin picked up some self-esteem he may have had left and moved on.
Maybe he found someone with whom he was more compatible.
Someone who could recognize him for who he was, the quiet, chubby, bifocaled office worker type that needed to be treated like a human being.
Creole Gaudet
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