My brain is so good at bottling up and forcing away negative emotions, I forgot I had a real life stalker! Granted he was a middle-aged mole man, and didn't look a thing like Penn Badgley *of course what a stalker looks like does not make the behaviour acceptable, but it certainly helps disguise the horror of the situation*. My mole man stalker seriously looked like Bottles the mole from Banjo-Kazooie.
Our first encounter was the night of my then-boyfriend's birthday celebration. I was working at a tiny cafe in a fairly busy transit hub then, so I was going strait from my closing shift to the function. We were seeing Rogue One in theaters so I wore a themed outfit, as I am known to do. Serves me right for wearing a red blazer, Star Wars shirt (Darth Vader's helmet fading into TIE fighters from Old Navy's boy's department), and a pleather skirt to work. I was just asking to incur the admiration of a socially inept, older adult creeper. Displaying your fandom can be DANGEROUS!
Anyway he lurked around the cafe for a while and I hid in the bathroom. My coworker, who I might add looks a lot like an even younger more gorgeous Jennifer Lawrence, tried to divert his attention and get him to go away, but he kept asking her, "when is the girl in the leather skirt coming back?". Eventually he left and I didn't think much more about the awkward experience. A week or so passed and he came back to pop his head in an odd opening between the top bar and our espresso machine and yelped, "Happy New Year" at me then, thankfully, disappeared. He came back for chocolate banana loaf a few times and requested for me to serve him when I would send a coworker to the till in my place to hide in the kitchen. On one occasion, he asked if he can tip with "other things" and I replied, "no just money" and prayed for a swift death from the chagrin. From the way his eyes went in two different directions behind his 1970's serial killer Coke bottle glasses, I figured he was pretty harmless, but would test my patience and compassion.
Now I am an anxious person as a rule. If there is a minor potential for something to go wrong, oh trust and believe I will find a way to stress about it. I started really stress sweating about having to see this guy at work on a regular basis. I was in grad school at the time so I only worked the same two days ever. Even if he did have some kind of cognitive disability, he already knew I worked on Saturdays and was slowly figuring out my weekday shift.
One Saturday night after work, I was sitting in a bus in the loading bay, waiting for the driver to depart. I saw the mole man leaving the SeaBus (for any non-Vancouverites out there, the SeaBus is a foot-passenger-only harbour shuttle service run by our public transit system) terminal and walk toward another bus. I tried not to make eye contact, oh lord how I did try, but he saw me in the window and got on my bus. He sat beside me, cornering me between the plexiglass divider. I would have had to crawl over him to get off the bus and I went straight to freeze mode. I was petrified at the thought of him touching me...anywhere.
I distinctly remember thinking, I don't know if I can continue living if he grabs my ass.
I tried not to engage. I turned beet red and began sweating profusely. He asked me where I was going, where I live, what I was doing, etc. I do not remember what my responses were, but I tried to deflect, use one word answers, and withhold as much information as I could while in a state of panic. I started to make my plan of attack for if he followed me off the bus. I could always use the front door and "ask the bus driver a question" on my way out. Thankfully he got off before I did, but before his stop, he asked me when I was working next and if there was anything he could bring me at work.
Food.
Drinks.
Anything?
Food.
Drinks.
Anything?
I laughed nervously and said that was a very nice offer, but because it's a cafe I can make myself tea and drinks any time and make myself a meal in my break. I don't remember telling him what day I would next be in, but he may have said a day and I may have said yes out of reflex and the sheer strong desire to end this interaction.
I knew shit was going to go DOWN.
The real question was when. I had a good night with my girls, and was able to put off the worry until my next shift. The dreaded day came. I walked on eggshells, waiting for the mole man to pop up behind the counter. Lo and behold, my coworker spied him coming, took the register, and I hid behind our large clear bean containers. I tried to make myself small and hide amongst the beans. To my horror, the bespectacled serial killer-esque mole man peered through the clear cylinders, his beady dark eyes further distorted though the oils and the curve of the plastic coffee canisters. That image is permanently seared in my brain. I noticed he had a bouquet of flowers in his hand.
All my internal organs fell out of my vagina. That all consuming, sinking feeling of disgusting horror, that only comes with knowing you have to deal with something you absolutely do not want to face, because it will be BRUTAL, washed over me. I felt like I was going to pass out. Thankfully, I did some preemptive Redditing and found a forum where baristas shared overly-attached customer stories and what strategies they used.
I made his drink, disgusted at the knowledge that my back had to be turned to him while at the espresso bar, giving him a glorious view of my stacked, fairly impressive booty in light-washed high-wasted jeans. I could feel his beady eyes melting through my pants. Again, I wished for a swift death for myself, then at least I wouldn't have to tell the poor clueless mole man to keep his flowers. He wanted the drink in a ceramic "for here" mug and sat at the bar, still holding the flowers. Watching me work, I avoided his piercing, mortifying gaze the best of my ability but it was a living nightmare. My coworker was on her break, and our friend from a nearby restaurant also sat at our bar. He tried to divert the mole man's attention.
I made his drink, disgusted at the knowledge that my back had to be turned to him while at the espresso bar, giving him a glorious view of my stacked, fairly impressive booty in light-washed high-wasted jeans. I could feel his beady eyes melting through my pants. Again, I wished for a swift death for myself, then at least I wouldn't have to tell the poor clueless mole man to keep his flowers. He wanted the drink in a ceramic "for here" mug and sat at the bar, still holding the flowers. Watching me work, I avoided his piercing, mortifying gaze the best of my ability but it was a living nightmare. My coworker was on her break, and our friend from a nearby restaurant also sat at our bar. He tried to divert the mole man's attention.
Eventually I accidentally made eye contact and he tried to present me with the flowers. I had to give him the "it is not appropriate for me to accept anything other than monetary tips for my barista services, anything beyond that is a violation of my professional boundaries and this situation is inappropriate and has put me in a highly uncomfortable position".
The look of sadness on the mole man's face will forever haunt me. But I had to shnap out of it and respect myself!
Never compromise your safety for the compassion, or pity, of others. If someone makes you feel uncomfortable or unsafe, make it known, get help, and get security! He squeaked for a paper cup, I dumped his drink in it, and he scurried off, never to be seen again. Once he was gone, I further blanched, began to shake uncontrollably, and had to be walked out to my dad's car.
Never compromise your safety for the compassion, or pity, of others. If someone makes you feel uncomfortable or unsafe, make it known, get help, and get security! He squeaked for a paper cup, I dumped his drink in it, and he scurried off, never to be seen again. Once he was gone, I further blanched, began to shake uncontrollably, and had to be walked out to my dad's car.
For months, I felt uneasy in the area. I lived in absolute fear. Although I knew the mole man was probably harmless, the possibility he might go postal after being scorned in a public place was a very real threat. I also had to grapple with the internal conflict I faced when reflecting that being the very bare minimum of professionally customer-service-nice to this man led him to create a fantasy around me. How gut-wrenching and horrendously sad is it that one word answers and professional existence as a barista would be his idea of reciprocal loving kindness. How lonely must one be?
Which brings us back to me now. I'm still feeling pretty kick-ass and empowered; however, this is the longest I've been single since before I started dating at 15. 11 years and two terrible relationships later, I have had a few moments of genuine loneliness and aching for the relaxed intimacy of a long term relationship. Not a single second of missing an ex, but really...really...really wanting a warm breathing chest to lay on and having my hair played with. My favourite moments in relationships have always been the down time, spent simply existing together and the calming sensory experience of tangling your limbs and the slow synchronization of breathing and heartbeats. Dating is really hard. It's exciting, but it stops being exciting when you ask someone to lie around with you all the time. I love the lazy stuff, but I don't want to enable another minimal-effort relationship.
Which brings us back to me now. I'm still feeling pretty kick-ass and empowered; however, this is the longest I've been single since before I started dating at 15. 11 years and two terrible relationships later, I have had a few moments of genuine loneliness and aching for the relaxed intimacy of a long term relationship. Not a single second of missing an ex, but really...really...really wanting a warm breathing chest to lay on and having my hair played with. My favourite moments in relationships have always been the down time, spent simply existing together and the calming sensory experience of tangling your limbs and the slow synchronization of breathing and heartbeats. Dating is really hard. It's exciting, but it stops being exciting when you ask someone to lie around with you all the time. I love the lazy stuff, but I don't want to enable another minimal-effort relationship.
Granted, I have not had a relationship with an actual adult male capable of planning excursions on his own. So maybe I would also really enjoy doing things out in the world like fancy dinners or literally any thoughtful surprises. Hopefully, the comfort of laziness will become less alluring as I experience more involved alternatives.
I am very, very, very slowly wrapping my brain around the concept that men can make life easier. I have a hard time fathoming that someone out there is going to be capable of helping taking care of me. As people who have been in leadership roles for every group project know, if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself. This is something I am starting to work on. I get a pretty strong averse reaction to the thought of merging my life with someone else's, probably because that independence has been my lifeline out of toxic relationships. I have learned that it is always easiest to rely on yourself. If you can find the internal strength to press onward while doing everything well, you will not let yourself down.
I have cultivated a level of independence that certainly functions as a protective chitinous shell. I feed myself. I'm debt-free. I live alone. I am financially stable. I know who I am, what I want, and exactly where I'm going. I have my calendar planned until the end of June. How much control over your life do you relinquish in a normal, healthy supportive relationship? Would I still be me if a man made my life easier? What's it like to be with someone who actually wants to be an equal partner, clean up after himself, or even do things for the sake of reducing your work load? What's it like to have a boyfriend stay with you post major surgery and actually help take care of you (not finding out he told people he was to sound like a good boyfriend, but left town and did not respond to your mum when she told him you were going to be kept overnight at the hospital for observation because your nasal lining would not stop bleeding)? We can cross that bridge if we ever get there.
I am very, very, very slowly wrapping my brain around the concept that men can make life easier. I have a hard time fathoming that someone out there is going to be capable of helping taking care of me. As people who have been in leadership roles for every group project know, if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself. This is something I am starting to work on. I get a pretty strong averse reaction to the thought of merging my life with someone else's, probably because that independence has been my lifeline out of toxic relationships. I have learned that it is always easiest to rely on yourself. If you can find the internal strength to press onward while doing everything well, you will not let yourself down.
I have cultivated a level of independence that certainly functions as a protective chitinous shell. I feed myself. I'm debt-free. I live alone. I am financially stable. I know who I am, what I want, and exactly where I'm going. I have my calendar planned until the end of June. How much control over your life do you relinquish in a normal, healthy supportive relationship? Would I still be me if a man made my life easier? What's it like to be with someone who actually wants to be an equal partner, clean up after himself, or even do things for the sake of reducing your work load? What's it like to have a boyfriend stay with you post major surgery and actually help take care of you (not finding out he told people he was to sound like a good boyfriend, but left town and did not respond to your mum when she told him you were going to be kept overnight at the hospital for observation because your nasal lining would not stop bleeding)? We can cross that bridge if we ever get there.
At this point, I am aiming to roll solo on Valentine's Day and celebrate my first single Valentine's/Palentine's/Galentine's Day in 11 years. Because it falls on a weekday, I get to throw a party for my seniors and feed them tiny pink and red cupcakes and groove with a musician. It will be sweet, heartwarming, and fun. Then I will go home and probably do a facial and watch Anastasia. I have nothing to be sad about. Freedom is a magical, beautiful thing, and I am trying to celebrate this
opportunity to be truly free in both body, mind, and spirit.
I sometimes allow the melancholy to roll over me, but for the most part, I squish it down into my toes and carry on with my day without having to pee in a bucket or sleep on the floor of a climate-controlled chamber.
