IRISH LOVESTORY - Paranoia

 

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Paranoia

It must have been 2006 when we moved into the house on Leighlin Road—Loch Abhainn. Its name whispered “lake river” in Irish, and I liked to think the water reflected the currents of the soul. Ours surged like a dam ready to break, threatening to drown everything in its path. Black, fat spiders—creatures I had always feared—crept quietly into the corners, drawn, it seemed, to the chaos of our lives. And Jack… Jack began to change. His love, if it had ever been fully mine, started to vanish like smoke slipping through my fingers. Yet, when I questioned him, he wrapped me in words of devotion, convincing me of a love that felt more shadow than substance.

Physically, we burned with desire. That bond never faltered, no matter the storms. Arguments only seemed to intensify the fire between us. I couldn’t complain there—he was passionate, magnetic, and our closeness, visceral and raw, tethered me to him.

Then Niamh appeared. Goth, grunge, leather and piercings—her wildness uncontained, her presence a storm I could not ignore. I felt a cold unease, a gnawing suspicion that Jack admired her chaos, her freedom, her danger. I tried to dismiss it, tried to tell myself it was nothing, yet the seed of dread had been planted. He told me of her suicide attempt, of how he “saved” her when she overdosed. I understood the heroism he saw in himself—but why, I wondered, did he not save me in the same way, when I needed it most?

There were moments I loved him still. The nights in the pub, when he drummed with such intensity that sticks flew from his hands, his energy raw and unfiltered—I trembled with a mix of fear and desire. The sound was intoxicating, a rhythm that mirrored my own pulse, my own unspoken longing.

Dreams haunted me—visions that clung to the edges of my mind. Niamh in a wedding gown with Jack, her laughter ringing in my ears. Another, more terrifying, of him chasing me through Carlow with a knife. My subconscious, always prophetic, whispered truths I didn’t want to face.

Summers in Ireland were gentle, deceptive in their calm. Wandering by the River Barrow, swans gliding across the surface, I found brief respite. Jack, meanwhile, treated our new dogs—Ice, a Samoyed with a snowy mane, and Lola, a mischievous little Jack Russell—not with care but with the thrill of ownership. Ice had been a gift from Jack to Julian, costing four hundred euros—a sum I didn’t know where he had suddenly found. Alice, upon discovering she was pregnant, had disposed of both her dogs, leaving us with these two. Their lives, like ours, drifted in currents of indifference.

That summer, we decided to fly to Prague, a week of escape with Pete and Joe. But the unresolved anger Jack carried with him came along. In our hotel room, in what should have been a carefree week with the guys, he suddenly brought it up again. He waved a printed piece of paper, claiming it contained a conversation between me and the stranger.
“This is your conversation,” he said. “I’m done with this. I’m leaving, and I never want to see you again!”
“But Jack, there’s nothing between us! He’s just a stranger trying to bother me!” I said, my voice shaking. I could see how furious he was, and after a long moment, he calmed down slightly. But even as things settled, it didn’t feel like a real resolution—just a temporary pause in the constant tension.

From then on, my life, my love, depended on constant proof, endless demonstrations of devotion. I thought it would be a great idea to prove to him that I had always been madly in love only with him. I brought three diaries from Ireland, meant to restore his peace of mind, showing him everything—my constancy, my heart—but even that was never enough.
“You don’t love me. You never loved me. You came here with another man, and I wasn’t your first,” he said again and again. I existed in a cycle of proving, defending, appeasing. The greater my proof, the more he demanded.

Back in Ireland, the spiders returned, crawling through my dreams and waking hours alike. Each night I killed them, yet they persisted, mirrors of fear and paranoia that had rooted themselves in our home—and in his heart. 

And still, I loved him. Despite fear, exhaustion, the unrelenting demand, I stayed. Like an Eskimo dog returning to the sled, battered, loyal, bound to a path I could not abandon. And in the quiet, creeping terror, I began to wonder: could love survive suspicion, fear, and devotion demanded at the cost of the soul itself?