The case of the ex

Anna Benson may win an award for being the “craziest-soon-to-be-ex.”

The soon-to-be former wife of former MLB player Kris Benson allegedly broke into his house, armed and bulletproof-vested, demanded $30,000 and basically threatened to either beat or shoot the stuffing out of him.

Then told the New York Post this:

“I’m a good girl, a nice girl,’’ insisted the buxom ex-stripper, who now says she wants to start a bulletproof-vest company. “I would never hurt [Kris]. I am still in love with him.”

It’s just that “we have been married for 15 years, and he can’t keep it in his pants. He can’t stop f–king my friends, in my house. But that doesn’t mean that I don’t love him.”

***

What is the craziest thing an ex has ever done to you? It will take some detail, but I’ll tell you about a former beau of mine from college.

He was tall, blond and adorable. We met at the college newspaper and we didn’t initially hit it off – he later admitted that he thought I was “scary” and “mean” and “that girl would eat me alive.”

We bumped into each other after spring break – when we were both tanned, rested and healthy – and watched the NCAA championship game that night at his apartment with his roommate. Thus the beginning of our relationship. We spent a few months together, including two long-distance, but I reached a point where I had to take the next step of my life without him. (that’s called being an adult – he was 23 and still in college, while I was 21 and starting out the rest of my life.) It wasn’t easy, but I hung up the phone on a Tuesday night in September and knew I would never look back.

About a year after we broke up, I stumbled upon a website he had created. When I scrolled down, there were about a dozen photos of him and I on a graduation trip to Toronto. I was creeped out seeing my face smiling back at me as he and I had our arms wrapped around the Stanley Cup, or seeing us sitting on a deck over Yonge Street drinking beer, or reading every passage where he referred to me as his “ex-girlfriend.”

So I called my best friend from college, trying to get over the creepiness of all of it. She, being the romantic she was, reassured me that it wasn’t stalkerish or inappropriate but that instead, my ex only continued to hold a candle for me. I took her word for it. And erased the history from my computer’s internet browser. I never wanted to stumble upon that page again. It was too real of a reminder.

About five years later, an email showed up in my queue. From the ex. He was visiting Colorado and his friend had told him he recognized my byline in the local paper. Could we get together for lunch? Sure. Five years had passed. Whatever wounds there were had likely healed and I’d moved on. So we met in Boulder and had a great time, drinking beer with his friend, white water rafting nearby, zipping around the town and going back to my house, where the ex and I had a heart-to-heart talk. The morning that the news broke of Kobe Bryant being accused of rape, the ex – whom I had permanently placed in the “friend zone” – was on a plane back to Philadelphia. And I knew I’d clearly moved on.

He hadn’t.

His friend and I became good friends and one night over beers, my new friend insisted he tell me something. Remember that trip when your ex visited me and we spent the day with you? And the three other times he has come out to visit? Your ex planned all of it because he wanted to get back together with you.

What? He was so five years ago!

Before Googling was cool and before Facebooking was in vogue, my ex had digitally trailed me as I relocated across the country. He knew where I lived, he knew what beats I covered, he kept track of my friends and our mutual friends, and when he realized a mutual friend lived near me in Denver, he bought a plane ticket to Colorado and insisted on going out of his way to visit me.

I was horrified. I’d just broken up with a boyfriend, was dating two other men at the time and here was an ex, appearing out of nowhere, not just trying to jumble my feelings further, but trying to re-light the twisted candle he still held. And I don’t know what was worse, blatant stalking or latent stalking.

Wasn’t going to happen. So I called him on it. Picked up the phone, called him and asked him what his intentions were when he came to visit. Then he was horrified, as if me presenting him this evidence was an attack on him. And he said one thing to me:

“You damn bitch! You goddamn bitch!”

He never denied it. I hung up the phone as he kept shouting. I haven’t heard from him since.

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