To Hell and Back: The Mostly* True Story of How I almost Married A Sociopath** — Chapter 3

Chapter 3 (August 31 , 2015 — September 6, 2015)

The next day, Monday, was a day I’d been anxiously waiting for — therapy day!

I have several fairly severe mental health concerns: generalized anxiety disorder, panic disorder, major depressive disorder, and complex PTSD. These concerns that were coming under control with the help of medication and weekly CBT therapy sessions with a fantastic therapist. However, with this many major life changes at once, coupled with a missed session the week before, I was DESPERATE to speak with both my therapist and my medication professional to ensure that my progress wasn’t derailed.

My session was so incredibly cathartic. My therapist was concerned (because she’s an awesome therapist), but listened to everything I had to say and was as supportive as she could be. I explained that I’d still like to see her once I moved to New York — I’d already spoken to Brandon about my need to continue seeing her once we moved — and she wholeheartedly agreed. I left our appointment much more calm and feeling as if things were actually “real” and under control for the first time in a long time. I was feeling good about how things were going in my life, and with Brandon:

After therapy, Brandon wanted me to come to look at a car he was interested in. He had promised Aaftab a permanent driving position with him (first in DC, and then in NY if he wanted to move with us), but that he wanted to be driven in a different car. To facilitate this, Brandon offered to buy a new car for Aaftab to drive. We spent a couple hours that day at the Cadillac dealership in Arlington, looking at Escalades that Brandon wanted to purchase to send to Lexani to be upgraded.

Then we headed to my apartment to pick up my cats to take to the hotel. I felt bad they hadn’t had much human contact over the last couple of weeks, aside from my checking in every other day for feeding and litter box cleaning. I also needed to check out the damage caused by the leak in my ceiling. The damage was extreme:

This was the fourth time in three months that my ceiling had leaked. The complex was failing to correctly repair the leak, leading to increased damage each time it rained. This time, several of my belongings were permanently damaged. I’d finally had enough. Given that Brandon and I were already looking for places in New York, I informed the management office that I would be leaving the apartment due to habitability issues and property damages, that I would not be paying September’s rent, and that I would be out of the apartment as soon as I could hire movers.

The rest of the day was filled with some birth control drama (try picking up your birth control a week early for a vacation sometime — just try it), and a another visit to Tyson’s Galleria to check out some skin care. Afterward, Brandon and I went out to dinner at Oyamel (where Brandon ordered $100 shots of tequila to share with the bartender), and then drinks at Shelly’s Back Room before heading off to the Hilton for the night.

Tuesday started out with tears.

We had brought my two bengal girls, Isabella and Tatiana, to the hotel so that we could figure out how we were going to ship them to our new home. This meant I was spending time looking into the ridiculously-priced exclusive pet courier services. I had purchased them because, even though I love cats, I’m allergic to them. Bengals have fewer allergenic properties than other cats because they’re bred down from Asian leopard cats. However, even my hypoallergenic cats were causing Brandon severe distress. He was sneezing constantly, and was having a lot of difficulty breathing. With a heavy heart, the decision was made rehome my girls. I sent out a couple emails to local pet rescue organizations and tearfully sent out a couple tweets to cat-owning friends:

After putting that process in motion, we brunched at Martin’s Tavern in Georgetown before heading over to the Apple Store so Brandon could decide which watch he wanted Apple to send him to review. We then stopped by O Salon so Brandon could get a haircut. While he was busy, I wandered over to Crumbs and Whiskers to check into boarding and/or possible fostering of the girls.

Afterwards, it was back to Tyson’s Galleria for some shopping, where Brandon picked up the following Montblanc pen and Tumi bag for me, claiming that I needed to look “fierce” when I was in court representing the company:

At Tyson’s, I was conflicted. Brandon had already been talking A LOT about a future daughter, and had sent several tweets to that effect:

And while I was trying to be happy and content, it was hard for me, even after the therapy session:

Then it was back to Mastros for another dinner, and off to Shelly’s Back Room for some more drinks before heading back to the Hilton for the night.

Wednesday was a busy, busy, busy day.

The plan was to head back to NYC that evening, but I’d offered to come into work for one last day in the office to help close out some things, so Brandon and Aaftab dropped me off before beginning to pack.

On the way to my office, I could tell something was wrong with Brandon:

How exactly does one respond to a message like that? Over the last two weeks, Brandon had been continually dropping hints that he was far wealthier than I had thought, or even imagined. Comments about problems with foreign governments and trade issues, IRS concerns, offshore accounts in the Caribbean, tax liability questions, stocks…all were hinting at someone who was monied. And I was scared. Because I’m not meant for that sort of world. I’m just not. To keep from overwhelming panic, I’d largely been ignoring the comments to try and focus on the details of each day. That day, work had to be my focus.

Brandon and Aaftab spent the morning moving my girls back to my apartment for the rest of the week; we didn’t want to leave them in the hotel for such a long of a trip and needed to find someone to check in on them before running back out to Tyson’s Corner. Brandon had offered to pick up some clothes for me and I received a few adorably clueless texts:

Though I was hoping to have a chance to say goodbye to my boss over lunch or drinks, she was booked solid all day and couldn’t join me. I was a bit despondent about it (again, I’ll mention that my boss was the best part of that job), and Brandon decided he’d have lunch with me to help cheer me up.

Waiting to have a free moment in which to leave to head across the street, I received this text from him:

After a quick lunch watching Brandon work/play on a new Chromebook he was reviewing for his magazine, I headed back to my office for a few more hours before being picked up to travel to NYC again.

During the drive, there was a two-hour Amnesty International USA call about sex worker rights and the recent Amnesty proposal to support decriminalization. I was apparently a bit frustrated during the conversation, and Brandon snapped the following pic to tweet out:

I was not amused by Brandon’s clandestinely taken picture:

But WAS glad to be headed back to NYC:

https://twitter.com/heatherr_parker/status/639236452375728129

Arriving in New York, we headed to Scores (because, of course) for a few hours, then stopped by the Roxy Hotel (still looking into their availability for a long-term stay) before checking back in to the W Hotel Downtown.

The next day got off to an incredibly slow start (leaving strip clubs at 5:00 am will do that to you), and we didn’t really head out again until almost 6:00pm for a quick stop at a Louboutin boutique in Saks.

Leaving the store and heading out for dinner, we sent a series of texts back and forth (we didn’t really converse much in the car with a driver— Brandon is a very private person):

We ended up in Brooklyn at Dram (excellent popcorn!) for some drinks before heading out to Benjamin Steakhouse in midtown for dinner.

Brandon was still ready for a night out, but I’d had an exhausting couple of days, physically, emotionally, and mentally. I demurred so Brandon and Aaftab dropped me off at the W for the night while he went out.

Unfortunately, my exhaustion led to my anxiety going into overdrive. I lay in bed with my phone tweeting:

I suddenly heard the door lock click and Brandon came rushing in. He’d apparently been reading my twitter and was worried about me and had headed back from the club to check on me. He offered to stay in the rest of the night, but I felt stupid about my anxiety and urged him to leave. After half an hour or so, he reluctantly agreed to head back out, as long as I promised I would be okay. I agreed, and he promised to be back early.

He sent me a sweet text a little after 2:00:

Unfortunately, sleep did not happen. Neither did Brandon returning early. At a little after 4:00, he still hadn’t returned:

Brandon finally showed up at almost 5:30, drunk and stumbling, and mumbling about how he hadn’t done anything wrong. I’d soon learn that if Brandon was insisting he hadn’t done anything wrong, something had gone terribly, TERRIBLY wrong.

I was angry…very angry. I’d spent the night without sleep because I was worried about Brandon, and about us. I began demanding answers, and gradually bits and pieces of what had happened began to surface. Brandon had spent the evening with a hostess at Scores, an eastern European woman named Natalya. He’d invited her to sit with him through table service and had exchanged cellphone numbers with her. He apologized profusely for what had happened and promised he would do what it took to make “us” work:

Unfortunately, his promise was short lived. We spent much of the early part of the day in the W’s hotel bar or at the bar/restaurant next door, with Brandon on his phone, ostensibly for work. I actually took a photo to tweet to make fun of him for constantly working:

As the day wore on, however, I realized that Natalya has been texting him all day. She told him that she needed to meet with him that day and that I couldn’t come along because she would be uncomfortable. Brandon agreed with her.

I was angry, frustrated, disappointed, and, above all, hurt.

On the way to take him to meet her I sent him multiple texts explaining how I was feeling: I felt betrayed by the lies, I was hurt, I didn’t know how I would believe him the future, I was devastated. And that I’d thought he had been joking when he mentioned wanting to get married, how I’d panicked when I realized he wasn’t joking, I told him it was growing harder and harder to imagine life without him, which made the hurt so much worse.

His response was…well:

He left me sitting in the car, alone, while he went into a bar in midtown to meet with her for more than an hour. I was a mess. An absolute mess. Anti-anxiety meds were doing nothing to quell the panic and my tears had smeared my makeup beyond recognition. I had never been so relieved to be in a car with tinted windows.

I finally received a text from him asking if he could take her to work (yes, he actually asked that). I attempted to be magnanimous and suggested he give her cab fair instead. Had I known he had given her a $7,500 tip the night before, my answer might have been slightly different.

When he finally came back to the car, hesuggested we visit the Soho Grand’s Salon for dinner. I walked in and went straight to a restroom to reapply makeup before ordering dinner:

After dinner, we headed out for drinks, first at BFlat in Tribeca, then at the Stone Rose Lounge in Columbus Circle. I was still upset, but tried to calm down enough to enjoy my time in New York. I joked with Brandon about knowing which states permitted one-party recording, at which point he wrote the following on my hand with his pen:

However, after drinks, the night turned sour. Brandon wanted to go out again…to Scores. I was so incredibly hurt and angry.

When we arrived, we sat at a VIP table, where Brandon ordered bottle service and asked Natalya to sit with us. I had to escape and go to the bathroom:

We were at the club for three excruciating hours before Brandon would let us leave (after tipping Natalya another $7500), at which point he was so drunk that he’d decided he wanted to take a private flight to a different city. He demanded that Aaftab take us out to the Air Pegasus West 30th Street Heliport while he waited to hear back from a pilot. When the pilot failed to respond after nearly an hour, we finally headed back to the W for the night where I fell into an exhausted, fitful sleep.

Saturday began with many an apology. Brandon was always “sorry” (at least in the beginning) after his harmful behavior. Just not sorry enough to stop hurting me.

Barney’s on the Upper East Side was Brandon’s first form of apology, followed by a trip to the Upper West Side. Our day was detoured for a bit when Aaftab hit a pedestrian on Central Park West:

Once we cleared everything with the police, the ambulance, and the pedestrian, it was time for me to head to Pinky’s for a manicure and pedicure with my old nail technician, while Brandon headed to grab a drink. I used to visit June at Pinky’s once a week when I lived on the UWS and when I walked in the shop to ask for her, she ran upstairs, squealed, and gave me a hug. I’d missed her so much!

I was texting Brandon from the chair about how much I’d missed my regular mani/pedis with June and told him it would be a necessity to start those appointments back up again when we were finally settled in New York. Brandon’s responses were filled with love and promises. Then I received this message:

with the following attachment:

When I questioned him as to who it was from, he explained that it was Mark… Mark Zuckerberg. I’d heard enough from Brandon to tuck this bit of information aside in a “how cute, he’s trying to impress me” file in my brain, but didn’t make much of it. (Okay, I made a *little* bit of it, because, c’mon, it was Mark Zuckerberg. But I lived in NYC for years, y’all. Celebrities held the door for me at my local Subway occasionally and definitely at Crumbs. The novelty is cool, but it wears off rather quickly. They’re just people, too — albeit awesomely cool people.)

After my relaxing mani/pedi session, I joined Brandon at “my” former local Irish Pub (the St. James Gate) where he raised the idea that I should move out of my apartment the next day so that we could be ready to leave for our upcoming trip to LA for CatalystCon West, where I was presenting. I didn’t see a reason to hold on to the apartment any longer, so I agreed. We left the UWS and headed back down to the financial district to get ready for a night out, running by Saks to pick up a few things.

That night, we spent four hours at the Blue Ribbon Brasserie over a lovely meal and several absolutely decadent bottles of red wine. It was easy to start to forget the terribleness of the past two nights, staring into someone’s eyes over candlelight and a glass or three of Spanish red.

On the way back to the W Downtown, we stopped quickly at the Apple store — have to love Apple stores that are open at 4am — so that we could look at some new Macbook Pros. Brandon and I argued over which color we could get since we both wanted Space Grey, but Brandon didn’t want us to have identical macs. We decided to wait to pick up mine until we could agree (in other words, until I won the argument) about the color, but Brandon picked up a pretty new toy to play with.

The rest of the night was uneventful, and I was hopeful that the rest of the trip would be as wonderful and loving as that day had been.

I woke up in a fantastic mood the next day, at least until I got to the hotel bar and remembered New York’s “no alcohol before noon on Sundays” rule:

No, seriously. I was actually really grumpy about it:

By the time Brandon finally woke up and wandered down to the bar, I was already two mimosas in (thank FSM!) and had been texting with Rachel:

I was ready to enjoy a brief day in NYC before heading back to Arlington to pack up my apartment.

The day was a good one, filled with wandering about the city, doing some random shopping on 5th Ave and in SoHo, visiting the Cupping Room Cafe again…

Somehow our brief day had turned into the entire day, so that evening we headed back to the Blue Ribbon Brasserie (again, have I mentioned he’s a creature of habit?) for another fabulous meal. The place was packed, so we sat at a pseudo bartop waiting for a real table to open up.

Brandon knew that I was nervous about being general counsel for a company (I’m a lawyer, y’all, but I’ve never done THAT before), so he had decided to spend an obscene amount of money to hire an experienced general counsel as a member of my new staff to help mentor and guide me along the way. He had also determined that I should speak with some of the legal counsel for some of the largest tech companies (Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, etc.), to get a feel for the day-to-day of managing a legal department for a tech company.

He was busy making a list of all the people he wanted me to speak with when my phone buzzed. I saw the following message:

I stared at the message for so long that Brandon finally asked what was wrong.

“Um…,” I turned my phone around and pushed it towards him. “Uh…how does he have my number? And what do I say?”

“Who?” He picked up the phone, laughed, and slid it back to me. “Just answer him. He has access to your Facebook account — he probably just went digging through the data. Or had someone else do it, anyway.”

Brandon, having decided better, grabbed my phone from me and furiously shot off a message, starting a game of insult ping pong:

Brandon finally gave me the phone back, and I received several messages in quick succession from Mark:

The rest of dinner was uneventful — more yummy food, a different fantastic wine (we’d gone through their entire stock of the wine we loved the night before), and an actual, real conversation with Brandon about what our future was shaping up to be.

And then disaster struck.

As we left the restaurant on the way to leave the city, Brandon decided that he needed to go back to Scores — not to see Natalya, of course, but because he needed comfort and safety, which he claimed he found in strip clubs. He promised we would only stay for ten minutes — long enough for one drink. It’s hard to describe the hurt that I was feeling, or the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach as Aaftab helped me into the car.

I texted Rachel to ask for her help:

We arrived at Scores about an hour and a half before close. Brandon spent the time with Natalya— talking, laughing, touching — and refusing to talk to me. I spent the time trying not to cry. At 3:00am, when the club closed, Brandon asked me if we could take Natalya home. I refused; I was too hurt. Instead of listening to me, Brandon called Natalya over and asked if she needed a ride home. Natalya looked at me and thanked him, but explained that she had a ride with a friend so she was fine. Brandon insisted, however, that we would take both her and her friend home.I pulled Brandon aside to privately share how hurt I was, that I couldn’t do it, that I couldn’t watch him treat me or our relationship this way. (Look at me trying to use my words.)

His response? “Fine, we’re broken up then.”

Devastated doesn’t begin to describe how I felt.

Brandon ushered the two girls into the car, and climbed into the front next to Aaftab. I climbed into the very back.

During the drive to lower Brooklyn, I was frantically texting Brandon, and texting friends to ask for help. My texts were calm and measured. I was trying to get him to see how his actions were hurting me. I was trying to NOT be that “hysterical girlfriend” that has become such a media trope. I was failing miserably.

Twenty minutes into the drive, Natalya’s friend offered Brandon some coke, which ratcheted up my fear, anger, hurt, and anxiety. The last person I’d been in a relationship with who’d done coke beat the shit out of me regularly, most often when he’d been using. I was not okay. I was panicking in the back of the car as I watched Brandon and the two girls doing lines.

When we arrived at Natayla’s place, Brandon told everyone else to stay in the car. When he got out to walk Natalya to her door, her friend looked at me, “So, who are you?”

I tried to be calm. “I was his girlfriend until about an hour ago.”

She was shocked, angry, and sympathetic. “He’s a fucking asshole.” I nodded.

The car was silent as we drove to drop of Natalya’s friend, after which Brandon moved moved to the middle of the car to the seat next to me. I was still shaking uncontrollably from panic, fear, and anger. He refused to look at or talk to me, just began frantically texting / emailing people on his phone.

When we stopped for gas at New Jersey service area, I went to get out of the car to grab some food and water, hoping it would calm me down. Both Aaftab and I asked Brandon if he wanted to come in with us. Brandon refused, and smiled in a way that make me feel incredibly uneasy.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

Brandon refused to answer. Aaftab tried to get him to answer, as well, but he refused to say anything about why he wouldn’t leave the car. He just looked around the parking lot furtively. He did, however, demand that Aaftab bring him back some chicken, cigarettes, and something to drink.

I went into the service station with Aaftab, who kept looking to me as if I would have answers. My stomach was in knots and I was no longer hungry. I grabbed a water and waited for Aaftab so we could head back to the car.

The ride home was silent. Aaftab eventually put on some music (one of Brandon’s playlists) but the three of us were mute. I spent the ride staring at my phone waiting for responses from people (who were obviously asleep and getting ready for work, not checking their phones — what was I thinking?) but finally gave up and just stared out the window.

My phone finally buzzed as we neared Virginia, and I anxiously checked it. It was from Brandon:

Suddenly, I felt Brandon grab my hand. I tried to pull away, but he grasped it even more firmly. I saw that his eyes were full of tears. “I’m so sorry,” he mouthed. He gripped my hand and I could tell he was shaking. I couldn’t look away. (DAMN YOU, EMPATH NATURE!!!!)

We arrived at the Hilton and I walked inside, zombie-like, to pay for a room while Brandon talked to Aaftab about the next day. I don’t know that I slept that night, so much as passed out from the mental, physical, and emotional exhaustion of the week.