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This is my account of events. There is the truth, my account and his version.

I am a recovering ex-girlfriend. And like a recovering alcoholic, I still have strong cravings. Wanting him, needing him, just one last time. Moments of frenzy are peppered throughout the days when the yearnings overwhelm me and I am reduced to a tortured mess. Like a wounded animal, I sit quietly listening to my labored breathing, my beating heart and as the tears flow freely, I am taken to place where only he occupies. I am haunted by his image, his laughter, and his words. I am consumed by hate, by love, by hate, just consumed.

My story begins in a dimly lit office building. Rustling papers and overzealous fax machines were the setting for our love tryst. As an 18 year old, I was about to embark on a journey to the US to pursue my college education. Every year many hopefuls from a small country in Southern Africa take a rite of passage to new surroundings in order to receive their education. I sealed the envelope and my fate.

Across the table, I saw him, he smiled and I was smitten. With his dreadlocks cascading down his neck, his eyes intent on consuming me, he was simply the man for me. Our telephone conversation turned into a daily activity, as we exchanged long heartfelt stories. He was relentless in his pursuit, caressing me with promises, establishing a relationship that I was not prepared for.

Our first date he took me to the local restaurant and through his words, he made love to me. Deeply penetrating me with his voice, he embodied everything that an 18 year old desires in a man. The first kiss was frightening as my body responded to him, with maturity and such power. I wanted more from him, what I didn't know. I couldn't go back.

In the US, our love flourished as we clung to each other. Nothing would destroy this young exciting love. Even after I discovered that he had another girlfriend two months into our relationship, he apologized and told me she was crazy, and it was over. Our relationship was built on a lie and, now I realize that even though I loved him, I never fully trusted him.

My young body belonged to him, as he had made it. My lost virginity diminished between the floral sheets was long forgotten, as he possessed my womanhood, but also my mind, my heart, my confidence, my entire being. He ignited my body and I became his. Our lovemaking sometimes tender, angry, and hurried, reflected our changing needs.

As my feelings grew, my hunger for his acceptance intensified, I lost sight of whom and what I was and became simply a piece of property defined by his presence. There were warning signs that I ignored, didn't want to see, just like the random condom wrappers that I found in our car after his trip to Miami the year of 2001. He told me that they belonged to a friend. I ignored the many tales from my friend who had heard about his numerous affairs. He denied these vehemently. By 2000, our relationship was dismal. We didn't exist as a unit.

I drilled the concept of monogamy to him every day. My voice became raspy and hoarse as I pleaded for his unconditional love. Eventually I realized painfully that monogamy was an idea foreign to him. I practiced what I preached, choosing to stay home and maintain our relationship while he provided services to other women, that I blindly believed were reserved only for me.

Physical changes became more eminent as I gorged on all food products and created another human being who spoke and looked a little like me, but waddled miserably from one day to the next. My body consumed and layered in fat, simply become an object of disgust. As he ridiculed my expanding figure, and reminisced about my lithe days, I rebelled and continued to feed my starving soul. I stopped living, moving aimlessly without a purpose.

Social interactions with other people were limited as I shielded myself from the obvious truth. It was over.

The summer of 2001, I saved up money to move out of our apartment, and was looking at various apartments. He told me that if I moved out we would be over. Our apartment was a symbol of the turmoil, chaos and self-destruction that I was going through. One dish in the sink led to plates, pots that never got washed. The apartment was our little war zone, where there was no resolution, just angry exchanges and sporadic romps at 3 am when he returned from endless nights of clubbing or nights with random women.

August 21, 2002 he bought me roses, bright orange, red roses. I slowly examined them suspicious of the long stemmed beauties. This was a new development in our relationship. There have never been flowers. Later on that day I noticed a receipt revealing that he had bought two bunches of roses. One was for her and the other for me. But I didn't know that at that time. I simply ignored that.

I kissed him and he darted his tongue quickly in and out of my mouth and laughed. I smiled at this ritual that we had developed. He held me and said laughingly, "I should stop doing that, when I get a new girl she will be freaked out."

I pulled away from him and asked him what new girl. He sighed and walked towards the door. I ran after him, but he pushed me away and grabbed the car keys to leave. I let him go finally.

"If I leave, I am not coming back." he threatened me.

I wanted him to leave and never come back. I hated him. I was sad, tired and angry. He left that day, like he did on many days.

Over the next few weeks, he removed traces of his existence from our apartment. Television, computers, stereos, material things that had no value, he proudly lugged out of my world. With every piece that he took, he shattered my heart. I would go to work, come back home and find an empty spot on the television stand. I had no idea where he was going with his belongings, but then he never told me.

AA meetings give you the 12 steps, my steps escalated to 67 as each day brought a new pain and I had to find a new way to get rid of it. None of the fixes were long term; I had to get through the night. That was my concern, I had to go to work, eat, wash, sleep, breathe and live. These trivial mundane activities became unbearable chores.

The healing process was excruciating. I bought self-help books. Thirty days of healing turned to ninety as I was still on the first step to recovery. I shed miserable tears for that man. He called only to ridicule me and tell me he didn't love me. I needed to work on myself, he advised me.

"Call your mother," he barked over the phone. I didn't, I was too ashamed. He didn't love me any more. There was nothing left to love. My happiness existed within him. Through his smile, his frown, I danced merrily, I hurt and I lived only for him.

I would wake up and hear sobbing and then would slowly realize that it was me. Stumbling to the bathroom I would stare at my reflection, my puffy, bloodshot eyes would glare at me. My face drenched with sweat, with tears was a constant reminder of my failure as a woman. The sun would stream through the window and I would find myself curled up on the bathroom tiles. That was an indication that a new day had begun and I had to do it all over again.

Our break up was a slow agonizing death; however the funeral occurred one summer night. That afternoon, he had come to my apartment to fetch another priceless electronic gadget, we had made love and he had left. Yes, even after the break up I continued to willingly surrender my body to him.

Then I met Jen. With mousy blond her, and a malnourished body she knocked at my door and our two worlds collided into one. My boyfriend was now her boyfriend and was living with her. She told me about her lovely house and how he fit in with her life. I was not aware of all of this, nor was a prepared for this revelation. I was stunned as she stripped me naked and told secrets that only my former love would know. He had left me vulnerable for the world to see. All my hidden flaws, blemishes, and weaknesses this stranger knew. It was like being pushed out of the door naked with everyone staring and there is no way you can cover yourself. Except I had no choice, I couldn't cover my defenselessness, my ugliness. She knew me intimately. My body, her body and his body had merged into one. And at last, I saw him. I felt bitterness and confusion as I stared at him.

Through a haze I heard her ask me, whether we had made love. My body was tender from our lovemaking that afternoon. The sheets still damp with our passion, I told her truthfully, "Yes, we did."

And then he with one word he devastated me. And like the coward he is, he denied it. He stood before me, mocking me with his lies.

I was officially meeting him for the first time. The lying scheming man was the man who I wrongly believed was worthy of my love. Raw emotions were unveiled as I saw my vulnerability through him and I finally saw myself for who I had become. I didn't like it. The fragile, perpetually love starved woman was me. I was emotionally emaciated and I had no one to blame, but myself.

"Please tell the truth, for once in your life." I pleaded.

He looked pitifully at me. I walked away from him, from the chaos that he had created. No help book could have prepared me for this; I had nothing more to say to her and this sorry excuse for a human being. As her midnight black Mercedes gleamed in the darkness, I saw him frantically manipulating his way out of his mess and into a world that he desired, a world without me.

Strangely enough, they were calls from Jen at my job; they were perpetual calls from him as well. She wanted to know whether he was calling me. I remained silent as she interrogated me. Yes, he continued to call me. He of course explained to me that she was crazy. In his demented world women that expected the truth from him were crazy. Her irrational calls were making his diagnosis credible. But luckily, for her, I know him and I know his lies.

Then he married her, not me. He married her for love, for his green card, for sanity, for freedom, I don't know.

Sometimes I hear my cell phone ringing. With a slow voice, he identifies himself and my heart sinks. I don't know why he still calls. He doesn't even know why. Our lives are no longer on the same course. We never shared interests, nor did we share friends. But the calls are a sad reminder of what was and what can never be. The phone calls from him are random now, not so frequent and the saddest thing is his confession of love. He tells me that he is not happy with her, they argue a lot. It is not the same with her. That is no longer a concern of mine.

He claimed that during our relationship, I changed. Yes, that is true I became intolerant of his lies and I wanted him to be someone he wasn't, a faithful boyfriend. We had both changed and immersed ourselves in the sinking relationship. Sadly, it was buried and we were simply casualties waiting to be rescued.

The list is endless; I wasn't supportive, I didn't give him love. Who knew that I had so much power? It is a pity I didn't use it for me. I could have used it to destroy my love for a worthless man. Words, hurtful words, have been repeated over and over again.

And then one night he had the audacity to ask for my body. I rejected his request to contaminate my body. For five years, I had eagerly shared my body with him, now the thought repulsed me.

I felt contempt and pity for my first love as he began his riddle of treachery cleverly disguising it as love. Softly he lured me, caressing my now mended heart. I played along knowingly, happy that our deceitful ride was over.

It has been a long journey to recovery. With each day the hunger subsides, the longings become a mere whisper, memories are simply shadows lurking in the past, and steps are being retraced as I gain sight of who I am again.

My body has emerged as a vehicle that transports my soul from one day to the next. My heart no longer the weak volatile instrument beats happily to its own rhythm. Love letters, memories, pictures have all faded since the demise of our union.

There are scars from the relationship, some emotional, some physical, but with each day they are slowly vanishing. I am single and happy with my life. I loved that man. Ours was a pure simple love, not tarnished by past loves or experiences. He represented all that was good and innocent about first love. My story, his version, the truth have been blurred with time.