Green-Eyed Godzilla

I've had to deal with a few creepy and potentially dangerous stalkers over the years. They send death threats, leave angry messages on the answering machine, follow me around, hang out in front of the apartment. I even had one break into my building late one night and scream through my apartment door. That was bad news.

Normally they don't last very long. I stop being nice pretty quickly, and soon enough they get bored and choose someone else.

Sad thing is, to a certain degree I understand their behavior. Or if not understand it, at least empathize with it. Not because I'm under the impression that I'm a fascinating individual worth following around (I most certainly am not), but rather because I've been there. That is to say, I've been a stalker. And believe you me, it's hard work. And it's no fun.

I entered my mid-teens quite a mess. I was paranoid, suicidal and heard voices. But the voices I heard weren't in my head, and weren't telling me to do things. I firmly believed that the voices I was hearing were coming from people a block away, or in another room, or across the street-the voices of complete strangers who were laughing at me.

I wasn't much fun to be around in those days.

A few years later in college, things weren't much better. But they had changed in nature. For the first time in my life, I found myself in a relationship with a young woman. (Prior to that, I'd had exactly one date, and it had been a disaster.) When it became clear after a few months that this woman was no longer interested in me-and was in fact "cheating" with any number of other men-well, it just wasn't something I was willing to accept. I continued to act as if we were still dating.

When she stopped coming by to see me the way she used to, I began writing her letters and making too-frequent phone calls. I began waiting for her outside the place she worked so I could walk her home. If she gave me the slightest bit of notice, said something pleasant, acknowledged me in any way, I was elated-and further convinced that I was doing the right thing to win her back. If she reacted coldly-or if I interpreted her reaction as chilly or indifferent-I would be plunged into another weeklong depression. That, too, only spurred me on, thinking that the only way I'd be happy again would be if she treated me with kindness. So I wrote another letter or made another phone call.

At the same time, my brain pieced together ugly fantasies about whom she was with and what she was doing. I stopped sleeping. I couldn't concentrate on my schoolwork. My apartment grew filthy.

I was seeing a shrink at the time, the result of one of my suicide attempts. He was a good man-a chubby, hairy, informal character who remains the only shrink I've ever respected even the least bit.

Part of my general problem, he told me, was that I over-interpreted things. Tiny things. Absolutely insignificant things-a gesture, a misstep, a slight change in the tone of a voice-imbuing them with meanings and implications they in all likelihood did not possess. I would take the tiniest sliver of information and build a cathedral around it.

"Be a scientist," he told me. "Look at the actual evidence in front of you, and don't make anything more out of it than what you're given."

I tried this, and found that in most situations it was sound and helpful advice. Most situations, perhaps, but not those involving this woman. In that case, this "be a scientist" crap actually backfired.

A scientist gathers facts and evidence before drawing any conclusions. So, I figured, what better way to do that when it came to this woman than by following her around, lingering outside her apartment and listening through her door, and pressing other people who knew her for information about her comings and goings?

Despite what sitcoms and poets might claim, being nuts is not charming, romantic or fun. Every moment of every day is occupied with ugly and painful thoughts; there are hours of plotting, composing and scheduling required-inevitably leading to nothing but disappointment, more misery and bitterness. Before long you start feeding on that misery. The ultimate disappointment becomes the goal, even if you never admit that to yourself.

One week after receiving a particularly bad response from her to a semi-coherent 10-page letter I'd shoved under her door one morning, I went to see the shrink again.

"Well, what the hell did you expect?" he asked, after I explained what happened.

"I?I don't know," I told him, a little taken aback. "I thought I was doing what you told me to. I was getting information. I was being a scientist."

"No," he snapped at me, "you're acting crazy. And how do you expect her to react to someone who's acting crazy?"

I could see what he was saying, sort of, but even if I knew it was true, it didn't deter me. There was never any threat of violence in what I did. Nothing overt, anyway, in the phone messages or letters.

After three months or so she took steps to avoid me, changing her routes, shifting her schedule around, instructing her friends to not tell me anything. Naturally, I doubled my efforts.

One night I was listening through her door when I heard her talking and laughing with some other guy. Something dark burned in my brain. Instead of pounding on the door, I ran back to my apartment and dialed her number. I wanted to let her know that I knew what she was up to. I wanted to shame her somehow.

I dialed her number, and waited. Her roommate answered. I could still hear her-and him-laughing in the background.

"Is she there?" I asked.

The roommate was silent for a second. Then she said, her voice nervous, "Umm?no?she's not here."

I found that just stupid and annoying. "Listen," I said, "I know she's there. Let me talk to her." I was trying (and failing) to keep the anger down.

After another pause, the roommate said, "She can't talk to you right now."

"Uh-huh," I said, and hung up.

I sat at my desk, staring at nothing. Ten minutes later the phone rang, and I picked it up. I knew it was her.

"I don't want to see you anymore," she said without any introductory niceties, "or talk to you anymore, or hear from you ever again. Got it?"

I said nothing in response, just hung up the phone.

Then a strange thing happened. I immediately began to feel that giddy sense of elation I only felt when she tossed me a scrap of kindness. It was like an enormous lead weight had been lifted from around my neck. I wanted to run around, dance, whoop with joy. That was it. All that suffering I'd been through. It was all over with, and I knew it was over with. For good. I could finally admit the truth to myself: I really, really hated her. o