NAVEL GAZING: excessive absorption in self-analysis or focus on a single issue

I Lost it

When it came to the children, Nina was consistently loving, fun, animated, and attentive. After what I've shared, I know how unlikely that sounds. It was a bizarre dichotomy: intensely pleasurable moments were tainted by the dread of what was to come. Thankfully, those dreaded moments were mostly hidden from our kids.

Chaotic as it sounds, I loved the softness she and the girls brought to our lives and believed my boys benefited. I watched their rough edges smoothed as they played with her daughters. My boys were often recipients of the girls' love of grooming and dutifully remained still as her precocious daughters brushed their hair. They must have liked it—it was obvious in how easily they allowed it to happen.

Except in rare circumstances, Nina controlled her outbursts when the children were around. If triggered by something said or done in their presence, she held it back until later. Usually, she unleashed her pent-up storm of emotion in the privacy of our room or when we were alone in the apartment. While I was grateful for her restraint around the children, resentment began to take root in me.

Nina's rants cycled through a myriad of subjects. She claimed I enabled my ex-wife's actions, and Samantha, in her own words, "did not react well to being replaced." Samantha often incensed Nina with snide remarks. Unflattering references like "skinny bitch" caused more damage than Samantha could have hoped. Nina frequently criticized my parenting. She believed I allowed the boys to watch inappropriate movies, play violent video games, and that I was ineffective in addressing a son's lack of school progress. She accused me of disloyalty for continuing to see my parents and siblings after, in her view, they didn't support our relationship.

At times, she scoffed at what she saw as my lack of intelligence, apparent to her in the vocabulary I used in our everyday conversations—admittedly inferior to hers.

The list of criticisms felt endless, and though not entirely without merit, it clearly tortured her to dwell on them. Yet, she couldn't stop herself. Early in our relationship, before I recognized the warning signs, her reactions seemed like sudden mood changes—bizarre and over-the-top. With time, I came to see how even innocent situations could trigger her personality disorder.

Her outbursts affected me physically in ways that alarmed me. When she suddenly shifted, it felt like the rug was pulled out from under me. My mouth would go dry; I'd feel dizzy, confused, and inarticulate. My hands trembled. But these symptoms weren't the worst part.

Of all my boys, John, my youngest, was the most taken by Nina and her daughters. Whenever we had to take separate cars, he'd beg to ride with them. Nina let him sit in the front passenger seat of her powder-blue BMW. For once, he was the eldest child and relished the novelty of being treated as such.

[It hurts to remember how much my little boy loved those sweet girls and their pretty mom.]

Nina and John had a special game. Standing shoeless in socks on our king-sized bed, John would wait at attention as Nina, positioned in the corner of our bedroom, armed with a wrapped toilet paper roll, pump-faked and juked, aiming to make him miss. John dove for the catch, and whether successful or not, laughter erupted from them and all who watched.

[I loved the sound of their laughter. Even now, it tempts me to remember only her best moments, making it far too easy to forget the worst.]

The three youngest—John and Nina's daughters—didn't always get along. When disagreements arose, I swooped in to resolve them before Nina noticed. I wasn't always successful. She was hypersensitive, especially about her girls, and if triggered, our ugliest fights followed.

I could withstand insults hurled at me. It was far harder to stomach when she targeted my child—especially my youngest. Though John never witnessed her tirades, the thought of him subjected to her venom enraged me. Knowing how much he revered Nina, always trying to please her, made it unbearable to imagine him hearing her cruelty.

The confusion and dizziness I described earlier were replaced by hot, laser-like anger. I needed her to stop. But I couldn't make her.

She pushes and pushes, her cruel words piercing and unstoppable. I push back, but I'm no match for her. She continues to land verbal blows. Finally, I resort to my physical dominance, pinning her against the wall. Now cornered, she lashes out, a flurry of flailing arms and kicking legs. She scratches me. Warm blood trickles down my face. God forgive me, the pain feels good, and I am released. I reach back, close my eyes, and blindly throw my fist, aiming at her face—a face so fucking beautiful but now twisted, grotesque, monstrous.

I want to smash it—anything to stop that filth-spewing mouth.

But at the last moment, some semblance of sanity returns. I pull back, and the blow glances off the top of her head. A wave of guilt crashes over me. The hysteria is gone, and with it, our monsters. Nina is on the floor, subdued and softly crying. I leave.

At Denny's, I welcomed the cold night air, shivering as I took deep drags off a cigarette. The fight replayed in my mind, over and over. I forgot about the scratches until I saw the wide-eyed concern on my brother Mike's face.

That night, lying awake in Mike's spare room, I tried to reconcile the irreconcilable—how my life had gone from bad to worse.

In the morning, I called Nina and told her I'd do whatever she wanted. I assumed she understood I meant to move out or help her find a new place. Instead, she offered: "I just want you to come home."

Later that morning, we met her ex-husband to pick up Sasha, the eldest daughter, for her field trip. I filled the awkward moment with excuses about my bandaged face—something about an old razor and shaving cuts.

The day was crisp and brilliantly sunny, a surreal family outing. We sipped hot cocoa, explored Brooksby Farm, and rode through the pumpkin patch in a straw-filled wagon. By unspoken agreement, we let go of the prior night. For a moment, I allowed myself to believe in the illusion of hope.

[No other snapshot better captures the volatile nature of our relationship.]

My father often called this period of my life "the perfect storm." One night, during a phone conversation he quipped, "It's like you've jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire."

To call the relationship a failure is an understatement. My life had become catastrophic by any measure. What started fast should have ended fast but dragged on for three years, proving the truth of that old adage: "Be careful what you wish for."

I was in love, though, and in it for the duration—for better or worse. Desperate this time not to let worse win again, deluding myself into believing it hadn't already.