Elvis, Beelzebub, and the Broken Clothes Dryer

You know, not everyone would meet the spawn of Satan and think, "Hey, I've gotta marry this thing."

Unfortunately, I did.

What was I thinking? Oh, believe me, I've heard that question a thousand times. Coming off my first marriage, vulnerable, thinking that this woman was the complete opposite of my first wife, and assuming that was a good thing. Mistook psychosis and satanic possession for passion. Under a Svengali-like spell, probably from some enchantment she learned during her frequent visits to the anus of Hades, I married her. What was I thinking? Obviously, I wasn't in a normal state of mind. We flew to Vegas after being together a few months, and got married by a gold-sequined suited Elvis impersonator. That was the best five minutes of the relationship.

Two months later, we were in marriage counseling. The kindly, older counselor sat wide-eyed as the Beast spewed forth a diatribe of profanity-laced meanderings about my time spent with the kids, how I wanted to treat my ex with respect, my support payments, among other things. Then she left the room in a huff. He turned to me and simply said, "Honestly, I don't know how you're doing it." That was not encouraging, to say the least.

Her house was basically four walls and lots of boxes of junk. I tried cleaning out the place—and actually put a bunch of boxes in storage, paying $75.00 a month to store trash—but it was too overwhelming, and I couldn't throw out anything without her permission. Have you ever seen those 20/20 profiles on "pack rats?" You know, people who save everything? It was like that. Oh yeah, and I was not allowed in the basement. I assumed there were bodies down there. Or at least the heads. But I did sneak down. Remember that scene in Star Wars when Luke, Han and Leia fall down into that trash chute on the Death Star, and that slimy creature pulls Luke under the garbage? That should give you a pretty good idea of what it was like. Only, there was no water. Just trash, clothing and assorted junk. I didn't see a floor. But I did see something moving under it all. I swear, I did. But I didn't have my laser gun with me at the time, and Chewie wasn't there to yank me out, so I ran up the stairs, never to go down there again.

How do you argue with this one: It was my fault when the clothes dryer broke down. I never used it, because, remember, I wasn't allowed in the basement. But, it was my fault because my clothes were "bigger" and the dryer wasn't used to spinning all that weight. Yeah, honestly. She said that. What does one say? Especially with the stinging smell of sulfur hanging around the evil fingertip she had in my face.

I felt my kids slipping away from me. It was obvious she made them very uncomfortable, and they hated being there among boxes of junk. I felt my family slipping away from me. I didn't talk to them for months, because she-demon felt they hadn't "accepted" her as they should have. ("I am Satan! Accept me!!") My friends slipped away from me. The people I worked with, thankfully, were very supportive. They witnessed the insane phone calls, they saw my sanity slowly being drained, day by day. My therapist offered what she could in advice, but obviously, the rest was up to me.

After a year or so, I started to sleep in a separate bed. A futon in the "living" room. (I use the quotes for somewhat obvious reasons. No one could actually "live" there.) I woke up in the middle of the night to find her standing over me. Just standing there, looking down at me as if to say, "Oh, I could've killed you just now." Let me try to explain what that feels like: Imagine you're in the woods, and you come across a bear. It's really pissed off. You don't know why. You didn't do anything to it. So you play dead. You fall to the ground, curl up in a fetal position and try to stop breathing and shaking in fear. Your eyes are clenched tight. You're totally exposed and vulnerable. You slowly open one eye and peek, only to see the bear's nose inches from you. It's huge claws right by your body. Then it turns, walks away. It goes to the outskirts of the forest, where it can still see you. It sits down and watches you. Waiting for you to move.

The next day, I packed my stuff and moved out. I went to live with my mother until I found a place of my own. Yeah, living with my mother was a better alternative. At least if I woke to find my mother standing over me, I knew it wasn't to kill me. Creepy, but not in a shit-your-pants kind of way.

I told the kids I was getting divorced, and I found an apartment just blocks from them, and that they were going to have their own room with bunk beds. They didn't ask about the divorce. They did want to know more about the bunk beds.

What was I thinking? I may never know. But I know that I am happier than I've been in a long time. The demons have been exorcised, literally. If that is my baggage, my regret, my mistake, so be it. I'm smarter now for it. I have not written off getting married again, although I have written off marrying another of Satan's minions. Thanks to the support of family and friends, my mind is clear and I'm in a good place.

Although sometimes I get nervous about putting all my heavy clothes into the dryer.