A Sociopath & The Truth

A Sociopath and the Truth. The Only Way to Break the Spell.

I couldn’t take the inexplicable, mind-bending oddities, the misery that came with being married to Mr. X any longer. Married happily was far from my reality. I had started out so elated.

I needed to know the truth. I went back to basics.

My husband didn’t like it, he said it distracted him, but I turned to the most effective way I know to break through any deadlock – I practice Nichiren Buddhism with SGI-USA. I decided to wake extra early and chant  –  I would chant for three mornings, 3 hours each specifically to find the truth of who and what I am married to.

Morning One.

It’s still dark outside, I use the light of my phone to see as I quietly, quietly open my altar. Then the interior altar light casts a glow out across the carpet and 5 feet away just missing the couch holding the slumbering being I am married to.  I begin whispering my prayers. I know he doesn’t like to hear me chanting. I know he would be angry to be woken up. I know I’m chanting to uncover whatever is going on – in other words – I know this prayer represents my disbelief in him. I know he can read my feelings. I anchor into the knowledge that truth has more power than his anger or deception. I keep chanting. I want to know the truth.

So, I’m finished and ready to go to work –  I’m anticipating our typical pattern – I’m expecting him to get up and give me a ride to my job in Hollywood. Efosa shifts under his comforter. Without opening his eyes, he mumbles: You drive. Key is there. – He rolls over. This is the first time he has let me drive our jointly leased SUV on my own for the entire 3 weeks we’ve had it, though he’s put 2000 miles on it. And it’s been full of the signs of unknown other women and even a child each time I go in it with him.

At work I move through the day on a plane above normal – calm – waiting. – 9 hours later I’m driving home. As I brake at a stop sign a phone number and name shows up in the GPS screen: Jasmine 555-888-2323. The tectonic plates under my life shift. I stare at the screen. As I accelerate the number clears the screen, only to reappear at the next stop sign. I can’t pull over, but have to move on. The number is gone. Next stop. There it is. I grab my cell and tap the numbers not wanting to lose them.

A woman answers. I pull over to the side of the road. I feign a scenario of pushing redial and getting the wrong number – and as if my “husband” is in the car with me. I’m thinking a million things, like I can’t believe I’m calling the other woman and wondering where the words falling out of my mouth are coming from. I hang up chirping, Oh, sorry, my husband and I, yah, we just pushed redial. You must know Efosa Oyeko…! Okay, sorry! Bye! – And I hung up. I sat there stunned. And thinking – now what….?

Immediately my phone rang… It was  Jasmyne.  She felt she had to tell me as a women what Eofsa was up to  –  for the next 3 hours she tells me everything. They have been dating for three weeks – since the day we got the SUV.  He told Jasmyne  he  was single, a legal resident in the US, had one child in Europe, is an accomplished professional in his field.  Winning her trust, he took her to four star dinners, lunch at a posh hotel, hiking, dancing, out all night.  Jasmyne readily let me know she has no kids so she’s not the cause of the mysterious ChuckECheese tickets in the car, or the dried rose petals – he’d never given her roses. So.

Jasmyne was one of at least two women my faux husband was seeing.
I didn’t tell him what I knew.

Morning Two.

Through chanting a place opened up from inside – a saving place, a place of insight and intelligence beyond my brain – sort of a  “tunnel” of clear, bright, “openness”, a resource center – a guide to navigate insanity. I pulled up into it as a safe harbor for survival.

I again woke in the early darkness and opened my butsudan to chant and plug into that “saving place”. Half way through my cell phone buzzed. A Facebook message: Do I know you?  The avatar showed a blonde and beautiful woman. As it turned out she lived in Europe. I didn’t know her – but I would. I kept chanting. I felt Efosa stir and shift on the couch. He wasn’t asleep. Minutes later he was up and pacing – his thumb flicking, sifting frantically through his cell phone as he paced.  —  Then in a dark, sharp rumble: Did you tag someone on Facebook? –  He was only warming up – he ramped up – accused me of “stalking”  this woman in Europe. “Tagging” her and harassing her.  It went on for the morning as I got ready to go to work – it went on through the ritual drive to work. I worked to smooth things over – to get him to believe me and make us a team against the world by the time he dropped me off at work. We would do what he always suggested when he was feeling endangered and trapped – we’d go to Africa, his home country, and get away from all these crazy people in the city. – Everything had changed. I knew he was insane.

In the car I saw what he was. He was insane.
Everything I did from that second on was to save my life.

Again I floated through the day at work, on hold for what would come next. Things were winding tighter. At home that night he sat in the living room – he didn’t usually sit except at his desk. This was normally the time of day he’d be dressing and preening to leave for his night’s prowling. – But – he didn’t go, instead he sat on the couch, slightly forward and then he shifted.

I stood watching as a ripple ran under his skin. A wave of shivering muscle running from the tip of his scalp, down his body and back up. His shoulders lifted and his body undulated. The skin of his face did its own ripple and twitch.  His skin settled. He sank back into the cushions. He wasn’t going anywhere. He looked like a different person. He’d changed masks.  I put on a mental seat belt and made my face a blank. Show time.

My single, childless husband told me about his four children in Europe.  The youngest child came from Annette,  the blonde woman who Facebook messaged me – and also him – to ask who I was. He turned her questioning him around to the tagging accusation against me. He knew if Annette  and I did ever speak she would tell me about her own child, but also about three other children of his. Annette had met the children and spoken with their mother. These three children from another woman, and Annette and her child lived in the same country, in the same city in Europe.

He implied both relationships were over. One was not.
Annette was very much in love with him.
Waiting for him to send for her and their little baby and her older child to live in the US.

He told stories about the children as if he loved them. He told me the “tagging” woman was on drugs and wouldn’t let him see their little baby. When I asked, he said the earlier relationship with the mother of his 3 kids didn’t work because her parents were against him – because of his birth country – they were “racist” he said. – By now I had heard this exact  “victim” plight many, many times.

He showed me pictures of his truly beautiful children –  I wrote down their names and  birth dates — that piece of paper later disappeared. They were – and are – an uneven stair step of kids, then aged about 13, 7, 5 and one. He told me he was wanted by the city in the country  these children live in for $150,000 in unpaid child support.

Typical of a sociopath, he wanted to get his version in, to defend and protect himself, to get me on his side in case I spoke Annette. And after the parasitic monster moved out – we did talk – and talked, and talked, and talked… and still do. Together we have found more than four children and wives and worse …..that’s for another day.

That night I told him I loved his children – and I do.
I’m honored to say the littlest one of these 4 calls me, “Auntie”.

I never tell him about talking with Jasmine. I never told him Annette had messaged me. I quite carefully kept up a front of being his devoted wife.  Just at the end of our amicable 8 hour session, as I went off to bed at 3:00am, he turned again and abruptly accused me of “tagging” Annette.

I would crack open like Humpty-Dumpty if I had to endure one more breath of this lunacy. Out of my mouth flew a phrase he used on me: If that’s how you feel then that’s your problem. — It was like a wrench thrown into the cogs of his brain. His body jerked backwards, his face contorted in confusion.  I made it safely to bed – a place he would not follow me.

Morning Three.

Again I opened my altar to chant. As I eased into my daimoku, nam myoho renge kyo, nam myoho renge kyo, nam myoho renge kyo… It washed over me clear as day: he was going to take off in the SUV. Vanish. – Leave me with the inflated payments arranged by a friend of his “best friend” at the Keyes dealership. His name was on the lease as well as mine. We were married. it would be perfectly legal. It would cause traumatic damage to me, bringing financial ruin – a horrendous crime that didn’t matter according to the law. He knew it. He wanted to ruin me.

I decided to take a valuable and sentimental, one of a kind piece of jewelry and some valuable items that came to me with my mom’s death a month after we married and sell them to buy a used car for myself. I would return the leased SUV to the dealer – he was a friend of my husband’s friend after all. We had it only 3 weeks. Naturally they would take it back!

I got up from my altar to find the jewelry. It was gone. I knew he had stolen it. The Monster had taken each piece I was looking for – later I would discover he had taken more jewelry, meeting felony theft proportions. I sensed he was awake. The Monster lay still pretending to be asleep. His not wanting to face me gave me time to gather every single item of value I owned including bank statements, credit card bills and birth certificate, all documents and pack them up and take them to my sister’s. I left him there faking his sleep. I was in a place of elevated survival and numbness. I would stay here for many months.

I went back home. The Monster was up in the kitchen. In the sweats he had slept in, the hoody pulled up over his head, he was making his ritual breakfast of oatmeal. I stood shimmering in a vibrating calm. Near him, but utterly removed. I said I had something to ask him. I asked where my jewelry was.

He said he had the jewelry. Every bit of me skipped a beat.

I made up a ridiculous lie as believable as any of his about needing it. He was mad. He said he was eating. He had to eat. I waited. So calm. So. Calm.

Then a 45 minute charade unfolded.
Barely above whispers, we held a conversation.
Circling one another, gauging the depth of danger we were each in.

He told me the jewelry was in “that bag”. It wasn’t. He suggested a jacket pocket, and another bag. Because of the Twilight Zone-essence of the moment I could say things to him that I normally couldn’t. I asked why  he had the jewelry. He said he found it: there. He pointed to a spot on the floor, near a cabinet I kept books and valuables and nick-knacks in. Utterly absurd.  We both knew it was a farce. I left. (It later took 5 LAPD visits – finally, the one after my annulment  they accepted a felony theft report and I was bale to get some of the jewelry back. – Looooong, long horror story of it’s own.)

I went to the car dealers with the SUV to return it. I told them everything. Sobbing hysterically. No food, just a few sips of  water all day – we finished at 10:00pm. They would not take the car back – unless I took another car in its place.  –This 8 hours at the dealers was an entire nightmare all its own going on for months and months. The deeper details of that hell will have to wait.

While I was surrounded by 3 and 4 car salesmen, badgering me with false empathy,  the husband I ws now terrified of sent me a few text messages. He said he was going to the airport, meaning going back to Europe. I said, please do. He wrote: Enjoy your black Prius. — I had just test driven one. He knew where I was. My terror at this message was grabbed up by the car dealers to force me to their will. Three dealers went on and on: “He’s dangerous!”; “You can’t go home!”; “We’ll keep this car here for you!” All while shoving new lease papers at me. – A few weeks later I learned the car dealer had let him know as I was there test driving a black Prius.

My sister and brother-in-law picked me up from the car lot – we went to my place. The Monster was there – partially packed, clothes draped on the furniture, some suitcases open and some filled and shut, ready to go. He was sitting at his desk dressed to go out for the night. He admitted stealing my jewelry. He said he sold it to do good things for us. He was furious I had returned the SUV. Livid. Accusing. Nonsensical yet terrifying, he swore he’d see my sister and brother-in-law in jail. — I went to my sister’s to sleep that night.

The next day I came back and said: I want you to leave;
It took 10 days before he was gone.

Those ten days were suspended, endless fear. – The only feeling I’ve been able to compare it to is an exponential and 100-squared, days-long version of the feeling I  had when watching a scene in the Academy Award winning film, “Silence of the Lambs”. The scene when Jodie Foster stands talking to Anthony Hopkins, the gruesome, infamous Hanibal Lecter, while he’s locked in his cell. Now though, I wasn’t scared like that for someone else – an actor in a scene in a film. I was scared like that for me. In real life. I was going to come out  more than okay.

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NOTE: Names are changed to protect the innocent – not the sociopath.