Write about secrets revealed.

St. Joseph's Catholic Cemetery
Yonkers, Westchester County, New York

Graveyards are filled with secrets, the secrets people have taken with them to the grave. Mysteries. Ethel is dying, she will take with her to the grave any hope of my ever understanding my she has despised me my entire conscious life. Ethel is a compulsive liar. I know that about her, but she has concealed it from the rest of the world who thinks she is "a lovely woman."

I love to walk around in graveyards on the East Coast, to photograph the statuary. I look at the graves. I think about all the secrets that are buried. I see a husband and wife buried alongside each other. Often the wife has outlived her husband by a decade or two. Was she like Mrs. Mallard, overcome with a "monsterous joy," "free, body and soul, free" -- or did she love her husband and deeply grieve his death? What secrets about the marriage when to the grave with the couple? Did he ever cheat on her? Did she ever cheat on him? What lies were told to keep the marriage together? I think about these secrets, because I have never known any man who has been completely honest with me.

Secrets revealed. Steven lied about his crime. Kept the truth of it a secret from me. I always felt there was something "off" about Steven, but couldn't put my finger on it. Chastised myself for not believing in him because he is incarcerated. Told myself I had to give him every benefit of the doubt, even more than I would have given to someone with no criminal background,because he is incarcerated. Believed that if someone showed him that they believed in him, that he could move past his depression and separation from God and find serenity -- because this is what we promised to do for each other when we started our pen pal relationship.

I knew Steven was incarcerated for rape, kidnapping and assault. Even so, I was compelled to write to him. His eyes called out to me. Kullo maktoob, I can't explain it. He led me to believe the girl was over 18, but not yet 19 -- which makes her a minor in Nebraska. He told me she pursued him, and when he rejected her advances (because he was married and raising his infant daughter alone while his wife was incarcerated), she retaliated by telling the police he held her hostage in his house and raped her. He told me it was her word against his, that a rape kit showed “no evidence” of a rape, but because his wife was in prison for credit card fraud the police decided he must be a criminal, too, so they arrested him.

Then in December the newspaper articles covering his arrest, sentencing and conviction (a two-year span of time) appeared online – archives from the small town newspaper where he committed his crime. The secret revealed was incomprehensible. The girl was not 18, she was 13. He went to her house in the middle of the night, wrapped her in a quilt and carried her out to his van. Then he took her to his house and assaulted her twice. Then he took her in the van again, drove to the outskirts of town, parked the van in a parking lot and prepared to assault her a third time. However, the police somehow intercepted, a high-speed chase ensued, Steven crashed the van, the girl jumped out and ran to the police, and Steven was apprehended.

Steven says it’s all a lie.

I had a sixth sense that he was full of shit. I prayed to God to reveal the truth to me. God revealed those newspaper articles. I had a sixth sense that Steven was lying to me about writing to other women. I prayed to God to reveal the truth to me. God had the COs in the prison mailroom switch the letters Steven had written, and I received the perverse sex letter he was exchanging with some ghetto whore he’d just met.

Steven blamed me for his relationship with the ghetto whore. Said it’s all your fault because I asked him to discuss the newspaper articles with me and allow me to ask questions about his crime.

I’m still in the throes of this disgusting episode of my life, and it’s difficult to write about coherently.

I don’t like secrets. I don’t like to be deceived. I want to know the truth. Is the truth even out there? Is anyone capable of honesty and forthrightness there days? Who can I trust? Sometimes I don’t think I can even trust myself!

God revealed Steven’s secrets to me. It’s time for me to move on into the next phase of my very lonely life.

Write about a time you wanted to leave, but couldn't.

A spring morning at Sleepy Hollow Cemetery
Westchester County, New York

I've wanted to leave my relationship with Steven since December, but I felt I couldn't because I had made a promise to him at the beginning of the relationship that I would never abandon him. Even after I discovered he had lied to me about his crime, even after he wrote me poison pen letters with cruel, mean attacks on my character, even after I discovered he had a "sex pal" he was writing to and phoning . . . even after all that I couldn't leave him. Well, I would leave him, but he would come back, and I'd allow him to come back.

On Tuesday when he called I determined I would end it with him. I tried to tell him I've met someone else. This led to a heated argument. Of course, our 15 minutes went quickly. I told him I didn't want to wait another 2-3 days before we talked again, and asked that he call me the next day (yesterday). He said, "I'll try." I said, "Steven, this is important." He said, "I'll try." I said, "Steven, that's not fair. Please call me tomorrow." He hesitated, then said, "Okay, I'll call you tomorrow." Then, "I love you, Danny." He said it twice, "I love you, Danny." He never says my name, only calls me pet name, generic pen names he probably uses with all his women. Because he called me "Danny," I knew intuitively he would not call me yesterday, and he didn't.

So now I've blocked his number. He can't call me again. If I receive a letter, I won't read it. I won't write to him again, either.

I read once that if someone is stabbed to leave the knife in them so they don't bleed out so quickly. The knife helps to keep the blood in the body. Pull out the knife, and they bleed to death. Steven's lies about his crime felt like a knife in my heart. i wanted to leave, but I couldn't. It was too sudden, to have him in my life one day and out of it the next. I waited a whole month to confront him with what I knew about my crime. By then I had healed from the shock of what I had learned. But then Steven stabbed me himself. Attacked my character, accused me of cheating on him, refused to talk with me about his crime, threatened to terminate our relationship if I didn't stop asking to talk about his crime. Now I've been re-stabbed. I still couldn't leave him. I needed more time before I could pull the knife out.

The sex letter I received that was intended for someone else was so disgusting and sick I didn't even feel the knife as it went in again through the healed and thickened scar that had formed around the part of my heart that loves Steven. I left him physically after that disturbing letter, but emotionally I was still moored to him. Moored, but not secure. I worked to free myself emotionally, and, just as I was achieving success in my endeavor, he showed back up with a phone call. By then I was no longer angry, did not even expect to hear from him (he’d sent a letter denouncing me completely), and so stupidly accepted his call. We argued, I apologized – YES, I apologized! Steven didn’t apologize for ANYTHING! We made another phone date. This time I was prepared to dump him. We argued again. We made another phone date for the following day, yesterday. He never called yesterday, and I haven’t heard from him since.

This time I am prepared for battle. I have put on my armor, and am engaged to regain my serenity. I have blocked his phone number; he will no longer be able to reach me. I have promised myself I will not read any more of his letters. One arrived today. It will remain unopened.

I am DONE with him.

In summary, I “met” Steven in March 2010. He was good for me in many ways. He helped me to recover from and move beyond my grief over Azim’s death. With his encouragement and support, I did lose 60 pounds, and I’m on the way to losing 60 more. I’m writing my memoir. I’ve reached out and made friends. I’m more forgiving of people who are in my life. In December 2010, I discovered he had lied about his crime. Because I had invested so much time and energy and money (stamps, paper, photos, magazine subscriptions, books, toner, etc.) in him, and because I deeply loved him, I was very forgiving of Steven’s errors and omissions of character. But the kinder I was the more he took advantage of my kindness, the more he was cruel and mean and withholding. I’ve come to believe that Steven is a sociopath. Of course, I’ll never know the truth about him. I only have the truth about what I know about what it was like to spend 14 months tethered emotionally to an inmate in the Nebraska State Penitentiary.

Once, with another woman . . .

Senior Prom with Larry Landreth
Pomona, Los Angeles County, California
May 1974

. . . my boyfriend / husband / lover cheated on me.  

Every man I have ever been in a relationship with has betrayed me, except for Azim, and in that situation I was the other woman.  Here is a list of some of the men who have betrayed me:

• Dave Mathieson
• Eddie Franco
• Larry Landreth (deceased)
• Stan Lynch (deceased)
• Craig Fox
• Jeffrey Becker
• Sandler Pierre
• Virgil Hall
• John Hart
• Michael Morgan
• Michael McDaniel
• Steven DeMoulin

Dave Mathieson was my first boyfriend ever. He was DeMolay, I was Job's Daughter. He betrayed me with one of the girls from my bethel! She betrayed me, too. I was shocked, as she had been my friend before the betrayal. I was devastated and humiliated. Months later, at a DeMolay conference in Riverside, Dave tried to reconcile with me. He apologized profusely, then tried to feel me up. When I pushed him away, he whined about his throbbing woody! I walked away, left him with his hard on, and never looked back.

Eddie Franco betrayed me because I was a virgin. He had been sexually active with his girlfriend before me. I wasn't ready to be sexually active, and I didn't want to lose my virginity to someone who wasn't a virgin himself, but I did like Eddie. He had a fast car, he was handsome, he was a fabulous kisser! He was pressuring me to have sex with him, but he was still a gentleman. I might have been swayed if he'd been more persistent. Instead, he went back to his previous girlfriend because he needed to have sex.

Larry Landreth was my first love. I can't blame him completely for betraying me. My mother hated him (only because she was jealous of me) and made our lives so miserable that he finally "got even" by cheating on me with some Mexican -- which was a tremendous insult because Larry hated Mexicans! In the end she cheated on him. But there's a lot more to this story. Larry had been sexually molested for years by his priest and by a family friend. This is a tragic story which I hope to write about one day. Larry died in his 30's, after years of alcohol and drug abuse. He was born on the 4th of July and died on Pearl Harbor Day. He was my first sexual partner, I was his. I nearly killed myself when our relationship ended, not just because of the relationship ending, but also because he cheated on me while I was pregnant and preparing to abort our baby. I don't think my mind's ever been right since all of that.

Think I'll stop here. This stroll down memory lane is too disturbing to dig in any deeper right now.

Write about a year ago.

Forsythia (Yellow Bells) blooms
Easter Sunday 2011
Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, Westchester County, New York

Today is Easter Sunday. A year ago on Easter Sunday I had no hope. I weighed nearly 270 pounds, I was depressed, lonely, full of negativity, self-recrimination, guilt and grief (over Azim's death). I lived in fear. A student in one of my classes was bullying me mercilessly and the college would do nothing to help me. I hated my job, hated my students, even though I love literature and love to teach it. My house was in foreclosure.

I had first written to Steven in early March 2010, and his first letter to me is dated March 15th. By Easter we were beginning to write regularly, sharing more and more of ourselves with each other. By Easter, a slight glimmer of hope had begun to pierce the darkness that had engulfed me oppressively since Azim's death in January of 2008.

Now, a year later, I have hope. I have lost more than 50 pounds. I found out on Friday that I am in the second round of interviews for an ELI Director's position at a private college in Wisconsin; I am very excited at the prospect of moving there if I get the job, I will be there by the end of July, which means I will finally be able to leave this vortex of hell known as "New York." 

I have made several friends over the past year. Even though my relationship with Steven is nearly unraveled, I am at peace with its demise and ready to move on.

One of my photographs was chosen to compete in the Westchester County Amateur Photograph Contest at the Greenburgh Library (this is an honor in itself, even if I don't win one of the prizes), and I am preparing to enter in another contest.

I am writing my memoir on my relationship with Azim. The backstory that is emerging is healing. I am facing many of my personal demons and coming to terms with my character flaws and shortcomings. A year ago, I was paralyzed at this prospect and unable to write.

I have taken up birding (invested in a good pair of binoculars) and am learning to recognize bird calls. This morning while driving to Sleepy Hollow Cemetery to photograph spring blooming, a Great Egret flew alongside my car for a couple of miles as I drove up Route 9 towards Ardsley. A year ago I was too immersed in my pain to have noticed the graceful, powerful Egret.

I am mostly content with my isolation, not lonely that often, and mostly feeling hopeful about the future. At least for today.

A year ago my life was dreary and meaningless. Today it still feels dreary and meaningless, but I hang on to hope.

These are the things women don't know about love.

My sweet habibty
Irvine Park, Orange County, California
March 2004

When speaking with Nesma the other day, she told me that her father taught her how to get anything she wants from a man . . . and that she never fails to get what she wants from a man.  Azim loved his daughter very much, so much that he felt he had to choose between her and me.  Now that I know Nesma as a young woman, I understand why Azim couldn't make his choice, and why he chose instead to let himself die.

I do not know about all women, but what I don't know about love is why no one has ever loved me completely.  It seems to me that men love most deeply the women they feel they can't have.  Fox was that way when we dated; then the minute, and I mean the minute we were married, he turned into an asshole.

Why do men say "I love you," then cheat?

Why do men say "I love you," then say cruel words that undermine the woman's self-confidence?

Why do men say "I love you," and allow their actions to prove the contrary?

It has been my experience that no matter the man -- his age, his race, his degree of religious conviction, his level of education, his socioeconomic status -- he will pursue me relentlessly until he catches me, then spend the balance of our relationship breaking me down.

One good thing about being broken down so many times is that each time there is less and less to break.  So each time I have less and less to invest emotionally, and the pain is less when his deceptions are revealed and the relationships ends.

Azim loved me until the end of his life; I will love Azim until the end of my life.