Ivan the terrible

Those of my regular readers who know me well have probably noticed the narrative in this blog seems to be avoiding a particular topic, specifically a particular man.

For our purposes here, I will call him Ivan. Ivan the terrible.

From the first day I met him, until the last day I saw him, I knew Ivan about a year and a half. We had a relationship, a very tumultuous one, but it certainly didn't endure that entire eighteen months. He was not monogamous. Neither was I. That, however, was not the root of our problems.

I met Ivan when I was twenty. He was thirty-six.

These are some truths: Ivan was a fantastic lover. Ivan abused drugs. Ivan played mind games. Ivan manipulated and bullied. Ivan was psychologically and emotionally abusive but not physically so. Ivan had an explosive temper that suddenly appeared like a thunderstorm on a sultry summer day and disappeared as fast. Ivan was probably mentally ill. Ivan was a bad man.

But, most of all, Ivan lied to me. All the time.

These are some things I believe but did not know for certain: Ivan had connections to organized crime. Ivan was a pimp. Ivan sold drugs. Ivan sold illegal weapons. Ivan engaged in human trafficking for prostitution.

Ivan was born in what was then the Soviet Union but left the country when he was in his early teens. He had that sort of striking Arctic beauty seen in some Russian men and, at times, the accompanying froideur. He was tall with piercing eyes and a strong physique. He was brilliant and widely read. His biography was full of holes and obvious half-truths which he would explain away with an annoyed flick of his hand.

When it was ongoing, I would have said our relationship was a story of passion. In hindsight I am no longer that foolish.

Ivan said many times he loved me. I believe, sometimes, that was true. I told him I loved him. I now know I was wrong. A dependency is not love. Nor is delusion.

The first time I broke up with Ivan, I moved from Los Angeles to New York. I know I did this because I thought distance was the only way to dissipate the toxicity between us. I was wrong. He found me and begged me to come back. I did.

The second time I broke up with him, I moved from Los Angeles to New York once more. I was determined he not find me, but he did and turned up outside my door. He begged me to come back, but I said no. He refused to leave, and the police had to be summoned. I was determined to stand my ground.

He started calling me. I did not take his calls. I erased the messages as soon as I heard his voice.

Until he threatened suicide.

Then I talked to him. I told him I was not coming back. He said if he didn't, he would kill himself. He even set a date when he would do it. I told him I didn't believe him. He said he would prove me wrong. I laughed and hung up.

That day came. I received an emergency call in New York from his assistant: Ivan was in the hospital. He had tried to kill himself. He was begging to see me in his scattered moments of lucidity. He might not live.

I went.

When he was discharged from the hospital, I was there to take him home. He seemed, surprisingly, in rather good condition for a man who recently had embraced death. He promised me we would start afresh. He would not be the way he was before. He would be tender and loving.

He lied. Again.

Then I discovered serendipitously the suicide attempt was entirely bogus. An anesthesiologist who owed him money had helped him fake the whole thing. He had lived it up for four days in Cedars Sinai until I turned up.

I left him the final time. I was determined not to flee once more to a distant city. I would stay in Los Angeles.

Foolish me.

He quickly found me and would not leave me alone. The police were summoned. Repeatedly. But, unlike the NYPD, the LAPD was rather indifferent to a woman being stalked unless she had a marquee name or was being physically abused. Never mind that Ivan stood outside my place and screamed at the top of his lungs in the middle of the night. He did all kinds of things to annoy me, including posting videos of him fucking me on the internet.

I hired a lawyer and obtained a restraining order. Ivan ignored that. The LAPD took too long to respond when he reappeared. I moved to another city within Los Angeles County that had a better police force. Ivan was arrested and threatened with jail.

That stopped him for a few weeks, but then the calls and visits started again. He said he really would commit suicide this time. I told him to go ahead. I encouraged him to jump from a tall building because then there would be no turning back.

I began losing work because of him. I realized I had to leave Los Angeles for a while. I consulted an expert about how I could move to a nearby city without Ivan finding me. I followed her recommendations diligently.

I headed to Las Vegas and started a new life. The city paled in comparison to Los Angeles, but I found the people more welcoming and convivial. For the first time in a long while, I didn't cringe when the phone rang or look over my shoulder before I went outside. He was gone. I got him out of my system. I moved on.

Or so I thought.

I lived in two different places in Las Vegas, the first for a few months and the other for a year. About ten months after I moved to the latter, my former roommate called to tell me there was a guy around the house a lot. He had come to the door looking for me. He waited outside in his car sometimes. I asked her to describe him. Tall, strapping, scruffy, a real hunk, looks like a model, but the blue eyes are very cold, soulless even. I still remember the chill I felt when she said that.

It was definitely Ivan.

She got such a bad vibe from him that she, very wisely (thank you), said she had no idea where I lived. Her house was fairly close to the place I shared, however, and knowing Ivan's tastes and habits, I was afraid he would encounter me accidentally.

I had met him while I was working in a Los Angeles strip club. And I was working at a "gentleman's club" in Las Vegas. I would not be that difficult to find. He might go for a drink, to find some pretty girls, and then he'd see me.

I consulted another attorney who determined Ivan had found me by illegally acquiring a copy of my credit report. The lawyer obtained another restraining order. Ivan was served sitting in his car outside the place where I used to live. When he reappeared the next day, the LVPD promptly arrested him. Unlike their California counterparts, law enforcement in Nevada doesn't screw around. After he was bailed out, Ivan went back to Los Angeles, either defeated or determined to try again.

Truthfully, part of the reason I left the United States a few months back was because I felt safer putting both time and distance between Ivan and me. I debated sending him a letter before I left, telling him I was leaving the country, at least for several years, and would be impossible to trace. I decided not to. I think that was a wise decision. No sense baiting a rabid animal.

I do feel safe now, but not because of the distance. I am with a strong, stable man I truly love who will protect me if need be.

There's an old adage that you have to endure a really horrible relationship to appreciate a really wonderful one. I don't know if that's true.

But I still count myself lucky. Not that Ivan was my lover. But that Ivan was the catalyst for me to change. To grow into a stronger and more independent woman. To find a fantastic man I would never otherwise have found. Had I not fled to Las Vegas, I would never have met James.

That's why I'm still an eternal optimist. Because terrible shit happens for a reason. Like Ivan the terrible.

That what doesn't kill you makes you stronger.