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Authors: Marcia Clark
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months was idyllic. Experiencing that kind of happiness was completely foreign to me. Daniel
was my lover, my best friend, my cheerleader—and someone who could give me a game. Challenge, thrills, and comfort, all in
one package. For the first time in my life, I let myself get wrapped up in a relationship with a man instead of holding him
off at arm’s length. I was afraid but filled with wonder—a pale cave creature basking in its first exposure to sunshine.
If I’d given it a moment of rational thought, I could’ve predicted what the death knell of our relationship would be—but I
didn’t want to know. And so the corrosive forces seeped quietly and imperceptibly into my subconscious, then bled out, inch
by inch, into the space between us.
Daniel, being a nationally recognized expert, had speaking engagements and court appearances all over the country. But when
we met, the season for lectures had just ended, so I didn’t realize how much time he usually spent on the road. When the season
picked up again six months later, he was traveling, doing lectures and court appearances that kept him on the road for at
least two weeks out of every month.
Without even realizing it, I began to back away. Suddenly I couldn’t find the time to take Daniel’s calls, then I forgot to
call him back, and on the days he was in town, I always seemed to have to work later than usual—which, given my habitually
late hours, meant that on some nights I didn’t leave the office till nearly midnight. At first Daniel accepted my excuses—a
gnarly case, a recalcitrant witness—but eventually he began to ask if there was something wrong. A very faint voice from deep
inside whispered that there was, but I didn’t want to hear it. Daniel, on the other hand, didn’t have my powers of denial,
so finally, over what was supposed to be a romantic candlelit dinner at his house, he asked me point-blank if I was seeing
someone else. Horrified, I’d sat speechless. When I mademy voice work, I managed to ask him how he could think that. He told me: all the nights I’d been too busy to see him, all
his calls that I hadn’t taken—and never returned. I told him that there was no one else, and that was the truth. But I also
told him that the only reason I’d been so scarce was that I’d been overwhelmed with a double homicide I’d been preparing for
trial. Although I’d wanted to believe that was the truth, it wasn’t.
The truth was, my old scars—the ones that had always screwed up my relationships, the ones I thought I’d finally vanquished
with Daniel—were reemerging. Carla, my shrink, called it a problem with object constancy. Having suffered the early traumatic
loss of Romy, I never learned emotionally that when people leave they also come back. And so every time Daniel left town,
a part of me, on a deep subconscious level, sealed up against the pain of the complete loss my child-self knew was bound to
happen. Of course, I didn’t know that at the time. It wasn’t until after we’d broken up that Carla pointed it out and I realized
what had happened.
The saddest part is that even if I had known earlier, I couldn’t have brought myself to tell Daniel. It made me feel weak,
which I hated, and beyond that, I didn’t want to tell him about Romy. Because worse than having to admit weakness was having
to admit guilt.
Daniel and I patched it up, but problems left unresolved never go away; they just hide in dark corners, where they fester
and simmer—and eventually boil over. Over the next six months, Daniel would periodically point out that I was withdrawing
again. I’d make excuses; he’d forgive me. We limped along that way for the rest of that year. But finally, just before Christmas,
I accepted the fact that my demons had defeated me again, and I told Daniel good-bye. The sadness and tears in his eyes pierced
my heart with a physical pain. The year that followed our
was my lover, my best friend, my cheerleader—and someone who could give me a game. Challenge, thrills, and comfort, all in
one package. For the first time in my life, I let myself get wrapped up in a relationship with a man instead of holding him
off at arm’s length. I was afraid but filled with wonder—a pale cave creature basking in its first exposure to sunshine.
If I’d given it a moment of rational thought, I could’ve predicted what the death knell of our relationship would be—but I
didn’t want to know. And so the corrosive forces seeped quietly and imperceptibly into my subconscious, then bled out, inch
by inch, into the space between us.
Daniel, being a nationally recognized expert, had speaking engagements and court appearances all over the country. But when
we met, the season for lectures had just ended, so I didn’t realize how much time he usually spent on the road. When the season
picked up again six months later, he was traveling, doing lectures and court appearances that kept him on the road for at
least two weeks out of every month.
Without even realizing it, I began to back away. Suddenly I couldn’t find the time to take Daniel’s calls, then I forgot to
call him back, and on the days he was in town, I always seemed to have to work later than usual—which, given my habitually
late hours, meant that on some nights I didn’t leave the office till nearly midnight. At first Daniel accepted my excuses—a
gnarly case, a recalcitrant witness—but eventually he began to ask if there was something wrong. A very faint voice from deep
inside whispered that there was, but I didn’t want to hear it. Daniel, on the other hand, didn’t have my powers of denial,
so finally, over what was supposed to be a romantic candlelit dinner at his house, he asked me point-blank if I was seeing
someone else. Horrified, I’d sat speechless. When I mademy voice work, I managed to ask him how he could think that. He told me: all the nights I’d been too busy to see him, all
his calls that I hadn’t taken—and never returned. I told him that there was no one else, and that was the truth. But I also
told him that the only reason I’d been so scarce was that I’d been overwhelmed with a double homicide I’d been preparing for
trial. Although I’d wanted to believe that was the truth, it wasn’t.
The truth was, my old scars—the ones that had always screwed up my relationships, the ones I thought I’d finally vanquished
with Daniel—were reemerging. Carla, my shrink, called it a problem with object constancy. Having suffered the early traumatic
loss of Romy, I never learned emotionally that when people leave they also come back. And so every time Daniel left town,
a part of me, on a deep subconscious level, sealed up against the pain of the complete loss my child-self knew was bound to
happen. Of course, I didn’t know that at the time. It wasn’t until after we’d broken up that Carla pointed it out and I realized
what had happened.
The saddest part is that even if I had known earlier, I couldn’t have brought myself to tell Daniel. It made me feel weak,
which I hated, and beyond that, I didn’t want to tell him about Romy. Because worse than having to admit weakness was having
to admit guilt.
Daniel and I patched it up, but problems left unresolved never go away; they just hide in dark corners, where they fester
and simmer—and eventually boil over. Over the next six months, Daniel would periodically point out that I was withdrawing
again. I’d make excuses; he’d forgive me. We limped along that way for the rest of that year. But finally, just before Christmas,
I accepted the fact that my demons had defeated me again, and I told Daniel good-bye. The sadness and tears in his eyes pierced
my heart with a physical pain. The year that followed our
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