Why I've Put Men On A (Possibly) Permanent Pause
No longer will be able to tolerate the views of men who don't see women as human.
JackF, fatido | Canva After escaping a lengthy marriage that hosted a spectrum of abuse, I left therapy with a better understanding of why I tolerated his behavior for so long (the kids) while trying to heal a complex case of PTSD (him).
I had not been single for a couple of decades by the time I filed divorce papers. It had been a long, exhausting marriage. He wasn’t cooperating with the divorce, and the frequent trips to court were costly both dollar-wise and emotionally. I lost weight, couldn’t sleep, was terminally broke, and terminally upset. I could only afford housing on a street that bordered a ghetto. At night, that border blurred, and no one was outside except the cops.
I took a job at a college to pay bills and taught every online class I could find. I figured out how to teach ESL and worked in a community center while getting more training in the art of teaching ESL.
My new life felt foreign to me: I had to learn to cook for one, spend evenings alone for the first time in twenty-five years, and accept that the couples I had known pre-divorce had ghosted me. I started going for walks through a city park that was peopled by smiling couples. You know the type. They all looked like they were heading for a Hallmark movie casting call: holding hands, laughing, just perfect.
I would go home to my apartment, trying to forget the happily coupled folks I had just passed. I spent many hours cleaning the decades of dirt left by the previous tenant who had suffered from dementia during the last decade of her life. I found orange peels in the radiator, broken plates in the back of closets, and greeting cards from the 90’s high up on the pantry shelves.
As I cleared out the last bits of her life, I told myself this was a kind of cathartic therapy. In scrubbing and decluttering, I was creating a new life for myself. I didn’t know how to spackle or paint, but I managed, slowly, to clean, scrape, and sand the apartment into a passable space. Not beautiful, not magazine-ready, but organized and homey. It was the best I could do since I didn’t know much about home repair.
But I knew one thing: I did not want to date or be involved with anyone for a long time, if ever.
And then, about a year into my new life, I met Theo*. We began talking at a library event. He came to the next one. After the third book talk, we went out for coffee.
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Theo was different — or at least I told myself that at the beginning.
Photo: Kelly Sikkema/Unsplash
Theo was a vegan yoga instructor with a job history that included counseling and nutritional guidance, and he spoke with a soft voice and began teaching me the principles of Buddhism.
We spent lots of weekend afternoons together on walks and became friends over the months. As we grew closer, our easy connection blossomed to the point where I think we both considered changing the relationship into one of greater intimacy.
Maybe?
I wasn’t particularly attracted to him physically. I probably wasn’t ready for anything more than our regular movie nights and walks to the arboretum or meetups at the local coffee shop.
But… I liked him.
One afternoon, while walking and still thinking of notching the relationship up, Theo reached for my hand. My heart began racing. It was such a simple act, but something shifted at that moment, and I didn’t feel at all afraid: I felt happy, excited even. This was a new beginning with a gentle person who made me feel accepted and seen. We said goodbye with a sweet, slow hug, and parted. That night, I could think of little else than the touch of his hand.
In the morning, dreamy from lack of sleep, I decided to wait a bit before seeing Theo again. I don’t know why. Do you know that voice that whispers things sometimes? She was nudging me to wait.
Or was it to wait? Of course, I have hindsight now; maybe that voice knew something intuitively that I didn’t want to acknowledge.
Photo: Brett Jordan/Unsplash
Out of character, Theo stopped by a few nights later.
All our previous meetings had been arranged via text or calls. We didn’t yet have that drop-in-any-time informality between us. Surprised to see him, he excitedly wanted to show me a movie trailer for our next movie night. He was running late for a yoga class and after planning our next Saturday movie, dashed out the door, leaving his laptop behind.
When I saw it still on my kitchen table, I closed the lid, thinking I would drop it off in the morning before picking up some groceries. I turned to write out some lesson plans, but before I sat down, that nagging voice nudged me once again.
Was there something amiss with Theo? Why was I having cautionary thoughts about him?
I waited. I couldn’t focus on any lesson plans. So, I got up and did what I am ashamed to have done, but I clicked on his search history, waiting to see pages about enlightenment open.
And that, my friends, is how I learned about the existence of torture porn. (I was naïve enough — or I was at the time — to believe that type of damage to women could not exist on the Internet. Sadly, it does.)
As I sped through his history, I noticed a theme: the women were either unconscious or bound as they were raped. I won’t give language to the torture I glimpsed.
I handed Theo his laptop when he came back, and I told him he needed to stay away from me for good and forever. He instantly denied the history. Theo insisted pornography was based on misogyny and he would never participate in such a habit. (I am sensitive to language and could not help but notice he used the word habit.) How did that history get there, I asked? Oh, get ready for this one:
My son, who was attending college in a neighboring state, has technical ability. This is true; he does. Theo explained how my son had accessed Theo’s computer and placed the reels of torture porn on his laptop.
Remotely.
That’s when I knew we would enter restraining order territory if Theo returned.
Namaste, Theo.
Photo: Bekir Dönmez/Unsplash
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Deeply bothered to tears, I went to an Al-Anon meeting that night.
I had been to them before. I always found support in their circles, and not having much of a social life (okay, none), I went into the church basement and told the group how I seemed programmed to pick men with addictions, be it alcohol or pornography.
In their usual, wonderful Al-Anon way, they listened without judgment. There was one man in particular, an older man who you could tell had been very handsome in his youth, who leaned in as I spoke. Afterward, a few women approached me, and we chatted. They encouraged me to come back to the meetings and I said I'd give it some thought.
Then the older man came over to me. Without warning, he embraced me tightly and whispered, “I have dated actresses and models and even a princess.” I tried to push him away politely. (I know, why politely?) He hugged me even tighter when he sensed my backing away.
I am sure this man had dated many women. But Al-Anon is not Tinder, and how could he be squeezing me like that after what I had just narrated about Theo?
I backed away with purpose this time; still, he tried coming at me. I wrangled away from his grasp and never returned.
Theo and the older man had taught me two separate lessons. With Theo, I recognized something existed in me that believed once I began healing, I needed to be in a romantic relationship. It was some idea I had of completion. I wanted to be one of those radiant couples in the park; it was nearly a reflex.
And with the man from Al-Anon, I learned that in hugging me, he saw an opportunity and me as an object. He had no regard for the betrayal and loss I was feeling. I took his behavior as an omen. No longer would I be able to tolerate the views of men like this, the ones who failed to see women as human first.
In a way, both these men led me to the path I am on now. I have used the time and energy I would have spent on a romantic relationship to make my apartment pretty cozy, get a better job, and return to writing. I am now beginning a relationship with a person I forgot: the woman I was before being a wife and mother defined my entire identity. And so far, things are working out.
*names changed
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Anne Spollen is a novelist and essayist living in New York City. She is the author of two novels and has been published in the Johns Hopkins Literary Review, ESME, The Bellevue Literary Review, and The Wild Word, among many others.