The Narcassist in VP Clothing

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I’m at work. I cannot focus.

I’m wearing tight skinny jeans, a professional black and white tribal print top with an aqua blue cardigan and open toed black leather kitten heels. My hair is up in a bun so that I can show off my antique silver earrings.

My supervisors are out of the office on lunch. Even though I have an open concept office with two walls being clear windows so that I can see the students passing by I still feel alone. I am isolated in my thoughts and fears.

I not only work at my college but I am also a part-time student.

My college is in a secluded South Eastern part of the U.S. where young men in boots and jeans hold open doors for you and there is the atmospheric “Southern Charm” with implied etiquette. We are a college so we are educated but it is a different culture. Things are backwards in many senses, especially in regards to equality. Many times men are gentlemen but many times those gentlemen consider women inferior.

This fall I signed up for a sociology course. Sociology was my minor during my previous academic endeavors. There is something absolutely fascinating about it that has me gripped for hours upon end. My mind never wanders past the subject content. I type ferociously as I try to soak up every word the professor is lecturing on and often times ends up dictating the entire lecture word for word. Sociology is a love of mine. There is something about understanding dynamics (or at least theorizing about them) that grips me into an embrace that I never want to be let out of.

My three hour Thursday night class could not have been more disturbingly different.

The teacher, who is also the VP of my institute, didn’t teach us sociology. What he did was tell “funny” anecdotes about himself for three hours straight. When anything sociological was in fact mentioned it was straight out of the textbook and the sexism that he spewed hung thickly in the air above the small room filled with 17 bright eyed students. Everyone laughed at his jokes except for me. The jokes had an edge to them. My teacher was charming but underneath it was pure slime. He was rude and a narcissist. I had often times encountered this in my past and was not going to play into the ego of another self-absorbed man. So I sat, I listened with a straight face, no scowl crossed my features but the forced laughter that others had didn’t either; because of this he singled me out. He tried to embarrass me in front of the class. He continued to make sexist remark after sexist remark and he belittled me. He made my learning environment hostile and as I left my class, pulling out of the deserted college parking lot after 9 p.m. tears of anger and disappointment were liberally forming in my eyes

I like to consider myself a strong, independent woman. I am a woman who has not only endured more than people twice her age have but also has learned to flourish despite past events. But that teacher, who knew his status as VP ensured his maltreatment of me guaranteed him no backlash, injured my pride as well as my feelings. Every nerve in my body screamed to keep driving. The anxiety that was crawling around my chest, legs and gut kept rubbing itself against my stomach as it purred “you have the finances, you have the transportation, there is nothing to stop you, go, keep driving. Never stop until you have a new life.”

I let my anxiety roll around inside of me but somehow resisted the urge to drive to Canada (which is a solid 17 hour drive).

Now, the trepidation I feel just being in my office is overwhelming.

I had to stop the class for my sanity, it triggered too much of my past abuse. I could not be bullied, and insulted for another man’s pride once more. I did what any strong, independent woman would do in an unhealthy environment; I went to his department head to drop the course. I signed up for a history course starting in October but I had to drop this insanely backwards sociology course where “it’s just his generation” is the excuse for his behavior. Let’s not look at the many men I know his generation or before who have never treated me with such contempt. No, let’s just pick the most convenient excuse so that we won’t have to go head-to-head with the Vice President of financing. Let’s let this man try to break down an innocent student whose only mistake was not laughing. I never once was rude, I never once provoked this man. I consider myself an honest person who admits when she is wrong and even holds herself accountable for more than is necessary so I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that this was not ok and I could not go through it another night.

The head of his teaching department (he is an adjunct teacher but a full time VP) was disturbed by his behavior. “Especially in a sociology class” was a phrase multiple women mentioned. Luckily, all the dealings I conducted were with women and luckily all of them were good ol’ feminists who jumped to help me, or at the very least didn’t brush it under the rug. The problem with this, however, is that a Title IX was filed. I had no say. Because I reported what had happened he will be notified and he will be investigated. He will also be notified that it was I who complained. And that terrifies me.

I cannot describe how disgusted I felt when he said women only fell into two categories: “angry, driven and lonely” or “a Disney princess.” Or that he “refused to teach feminist theory because it was just angry women arguing social conflict.” How is someone like this able to teach at all? And more importantly if he holds women in such low regard what will the repercussions for my actions be? There will be some. This is not the paranoia of a woman suffering from PTSD, this is just fact.

I informed my coworker of the situation and she seemed horrified that I actually reported it. “No one messes with ‘insert his name here’ he’s the VP, the right hand man. You know he’s going to retaliate somehow.” And she’s right, he will. Everyone kept calling me “brave” for being honest about the situation but fuck, I honestly didn’t even care about a Title IX, I just had to get out of that class. I could not sit and hear another degrading comment about women or have him ridicule me or confront me for not enjoying his class again. I knew it would just get worse.

Here we are now. HR most likely informed him of the complaint already just before she left for a week-long vacation. HR made sure to tell me that I could drop it at any time but that he would be notified of my name and when I asked if the record went away if I did she was not at all hesitant to confirm it. She seemed to awfulize the process hoping I would let it go. No, I can’t scurry away with my tail between my legs because he has such a prestigious position or because he gets money for the school. Wrong is wrong and sexism, not matter if its a rural southern town or if it’s a booming city, is wrong.

So I sit at my desk, in front of my laptop, in a room that is surrounded by windows and shake my leg as I graze my plum painted fingernails across my laptop forming the words on this screen. This is not where I wanted to be but I’m glad I am pushing myself. I am glad that I can be an example for my son, even if he doesn’t realize it I am doing this partly for him. Sexism can go either way and I would never want him to experience the shame I did and if he ever did I would want to be able to help him learn from my experiences. But the strongest reason I am doing this is for myself.

When my abusive ex-boyfriend had charges pressed against him I was not the one who made that choice. It wasn’t empowering, the whole process re-victimized me. I had been forced to visit campus police by my RA where they took pictures of my cheek bone, jaw bone and forearms and took witness statements who had seen my ex and knew his car make and model. They were the ones who pressed charges. I had person after person visit me to tell me to do it but I couldn’t. I was scared, but also I lacked the will to. So they took away my choices. Once he informed that he had been served with a trespassing order and been arrested for “assault on a female” I fought to get the charges dropped. The whole process killed parts of me and to this day my heart sinks when I think about it.

On a good day I wish that I had been the one to contact the county police. On a bad day I wish no one had ever interfered. Now, in this present, very different situation I am empowering myself. I am going forward with this complaint and I am making sure at the very least someone goes to this misogynist and forces him to change his behavior. It is not OK to act this way. People have complained before but never to the department head or HR, how many more women have to be verbally victimized where he puts down your intelligence and accomplishments in front of a class full of students to elevate himself and his ego? I hope the answer is none but I am not naive enough to believe that.

I am dreading the moment where he is informed. My coworker says “I wish I could be a fly on the wall when he finds out” but for me, I am terrified of what the repercussions of my actions will be….

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About Last Night,

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I never do well this time of year. I’m not sure if it’s the way the cool air hits me that so reminds me of the smell of his worn leather jacket or if it is the leaves that crinkle beneath my shoes that take me back to pulling him drunk, for the thousandth time, from his motorcycle, being sure to avoid his ever present pistol. Whatever the reasoning every Fall I consistently have a knot in the pit of my stomach that follows me around just like he did for so long.

Last night I almost unblocked him on social media. Maybe it is my PTSD and obsessing about being proactive about his movements or maybe it is my general never-ending, absolutely irrational love for him but I googled him. I used to google him to look at his mugshot, to guilt myself for not saving him from the police, then I googled him to be aware of his locations so I would know if he was within stalking distance again. Now, I google him because I am a sick individual. My bond with him is like a smoker who knows she has lung cancer, she knows she has a chance of living if she would just put the pack down, and she does, sometimes for a while, but the draw of smokes is ever present. Maybe things could change, maybe for once she could just have a puff and not need more. Maybe for once he could love me without beating me. My brain plays tricks on me. Just like cancer, he will kill me I go back. If I pick up that pack again I will cease to exist, whether literally or simply emotionally.

Today, I am in an emotionally stable place. I am quite alright with my life presently and I would describe myself as being in the same happy go-lucky place as before he broke me. I know, obviously, what he did to me. I know that he will never stop, he will never not be a sociopath and that what he felt for me was not love, it was complete ownership. The obsession was obsession about property, it was not about any “undying love.” And I hate admitting that, but even knowing that I feel his pull. He was my drug before I ever took my first Xanax. The high from our romance is one that I will never forget. I was drunk in his view of me.

There is something heady and explosive about being a relationship where the partner views you as optimal in all senses; physically, emotionally and mentally. It doesn’t matter that you’re optimal because you’re easily manipulated or because you’re too kind to say no. All that matters is that you are his everything, even though you are also his nothing. The relationship is one where when you are not arguing you are laughing uncontrollably and can’t keep your hands off of each other. I still remember the rough feel of his tongue in my mouth, overtaking mine and going towards my throat or his hands cupping my bottom as he showered me with endless kisses. When he was remorseful he was awkward and vulnerable. I got lost in those moments. I wanted to heal him. Not in the same sense as my college sweetheart where “once I tweak this broken piece of her she will be the bestest, shiniest doll.” No the moments where I wanted to cure him of his shame was because of my love, it broke my heart to see him that way. I never wanted him to feel shame, especially in regards to me.

I am fully aware that I sound like a crazy woman, or maybe just pathetic. How can anyone still fondly remember the man who raped her, broke her bones and disintegrated her sense of identity? What is so fucked up within her that she can’t hate him?

I’m not sure if it’s the PTSD or if I’m a broken china doll that had an integral piece stolen four years ago that I will never get back. Either way, I had to talk myself out of messaging him. I ended up crying on the phone with one of my best friends, smoking a black and mild as my body quivered in fear. In my mind I HAD to talk to him and because I wasn’t a punishment was waiting for me in my psyche. There is still a part of him that lurks in the shadows there, ready to pounce on my mind the moment he sees an opening. He doesn’t sleep so he can find me at any time, even in my dreams. And that is the scariest part of it all.

An hour into the conversation with my girlfriend, with one less black and mild on the earth, I was able to disconnect to take a shower. I lathered soap and washed every curve of me. Soon though I couldn’t fight the compulsion to make sure I was living. There was a disconnect within me where my soul was not connected with my body. Last night I pooled the steamy water and lay face-first in it. I had to find someway to remind myself I was alive and that is wasn’t 2011. For less than a minute but more than thirty seconds I lost my air supply. When I re-emerged sputtering, coughing up water and crying I wasn’t myself but I at least wasn’t numb.

Last night I crawled into bed remembering the feel of his hands and the smell of his chest. Last night I fought interacting with him. I had to tell myself he will still be incapable of guilt and if anything this go around would be the one I don’t come back from. It is hard fighting a relapse. Last night I did not want drugs, I did not want booze. No, what I wanted was much more deadly. I wanted him.

Must be deranged, anti-social and corrupt to ride my ride

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30th May 2015

I should be studying right now. I should, at the very least, be living in the present instead of drowning in memories of the past. I write because if I don’t get it out somehow then I have no doubt I will be smothered by his shadow that lurks behind every door in my mind. He makes me miss the pills and booze. They clouded any memories of him that happened to bob to the surface of my recollections. Now I have nothing but sheer will to combat them with, and one can see how well that is going by my much more frequent NA meetings and “Just for Today” meditations.

My best friend had girl problems today so he stopped by my home to recount his date last night. He looked at me so seriously as we sat on my porch tonight; the light breeze of early summer caressing our faces and the smell of fresh country grass tickling our noses; as he asked me why he attracted “crazy women.” I gave him the usual explanation but it sounded vague and impersonal to me for once. I was suddenly caught up in thoughts of my captor. What was it about me that attracted a man like that? And furthermore, my abusive relationships have not just consisted of him so am I just an easy target or is there something about who I innately am that draws unhealthy men to me?

If my best friend can wonder why dramatic, manipulative women follow him around like a bitch panting in heat then is it not safe for me to wonder why narcissistic, anti-social men with loose to no moral compass seem to find me appetizing? There is my most significant relationship who still, unknowingly, torments me to this day. Then there is my son’s father who never used his fists to beat me down but he has certainly used his words and mind games to. If we just take away his womanizer issues; where he gave me chlamydia while I was pregnant; then we have the fact that he lies constantly and doesn’t bat an eyelash at using someone, even a child or handicap adult, if it benefits him in some way. And if you upset him in any way then prepare for your most personal insecurity to be brought forth, passed around and dissected until you are trembling as you try to hold your tears in.

On a scale of who beats who as being the most destructive relationship then my love of four years ago wins, hands down. This victory should not negate that my son’s father is just as disturbing on a vocal and mental level. My past lover wins only because he had the trifecta of abuse down pat. Don’t worry sweetie, if he didn’t mind fuck you then he’d beat you and if he didn’t beat you then fear not he will rape you. There was no escape in regards to him. At least my son’s father has never been obsessed with anyone besides himself, we are all insignificant pawns in his game. I would much rather have that than the ex-boyfriend turned stalker who breaks in to teach you lessons.

I hate that I somehow ran right into the hands of another troubled relationship after my beloved’s terror all those years ago. If my best friend attracts the looneys then what can we call what I attract? The sadists? The demented alphas? And more importantly why are these men drawn to me? If there some sign over my head that says “vacant for the deranged”?

The most upsetting part of each of these relationships is I loved both men. I joke, to cover the truth, that the only reason I stayed with my son’s father was because I was on drugs, but if I hadn’t gotten pregnant I’m not sure we would have ended and it wasn’t until I was halfway through my pregnancy that I realized I wasn’t really dating him, I was simply dating the man I built him up to be in my mind. The real father of my son was not the man I daydreamed of. Just like my most demented love, my son’s father pretended to be someone he wasn’t in our honeymoon stages and little ole, gullible, lost me bought all of it.

I flinch as I remind myself I was nothing special. To my lover of days past, I was special only in the fact that I gave him a police record (not by choice). I think if he hadn’t lost a promotion, or had to pay two grand in legal fees, he would have moved on quicker. Not quickly, he only does things in his own time, but at least quicker than what did transpire. I am not as hurt by my son’s father. I am just another “baby mama” to him. And yes, he is my baby’s bio-dad but he’s never driven the ninety minutes to meet him or even asked anything without prompting. His desecration of my life also was not as severe. If anything he enriched it by giving me the most beautiful son with no strings attached to an unhealthy relationship. My dictator would never have allowed this. I was property to him. If I was a good pet then I would be rewarded. When the police intervened he was in the middle of training me to be his good pet. I had ran away and that’s why the good pet had to get punished.

In my history class we are studying slavery. One of the definitions for slavery in my dictionary goes “a person entirely under the domination of some influence or person” I couldn’t go anywhere without his knowledge. It was not always a “rule.” At first I thought it was endearing that he had a print out of my class schedule on his fridge but looking back it was a way to keep tabs. He would text me and ask which parking deck I was working, as my campus job of a meter maid, and he’d survey it. The only times I was not being watched was when he was conducting his own business. His business usually ended in a celebratory drinking fest with him calling me in the wee hours before class slurring his words as he informed me he’d be staying with me if I was in my dorm. If I was stranded at his apartment I’d spend hours staring at the wall as I waited for him to return. After the cops and my family stole me from him I became close to catatonic where I would curl in the fetal position and stare at the wall for hours. In the moments I would pretend I was back at his apartment waiting on him. Life was better under his thumb and abused than without him and brainwashed that happiness couldn’t be equated with freedom.

I’m still not sure why I attracted these men but maybe by sharing with this community anonymously, a small part of what my most heartbreaking relationship involved I might be able to read another chapter in this textbook and not let him consume my every thought until I’m searching google at 3 a.m. for some sign of his internet footprint. I don’t have to be that 19 year old girl, more scared alone than when she was being beaten. I can be this resilient woman, mother and survivor. All I have to do is peel back my current state from the past. Then it becomes a bit easier to survive my day to day life without the drugs. The more I do it, the more I’ll be able to live without him or the substances I used to numb him.

Hi, my name is _______ and I am an addict

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The disease of addiction is much like an abusive relationship. I know it is slowly killing me but I can’t leave it because I didn’t become addicted over night. I became an addict through my relationship with the drug. Like a relationship at first it starts out light, and fun. It is something that I do occasionally. If I knew that it would get so ugly, that it would destroy so much, I wouldn’t have ever started anything with it. I would have never had that first sip, that first huff or that first pill. I wouldn’t have risked those odds. But like an abusive partner my addiction is sneaky.

My addiction is not awful right at first. No, first it gives me cheery memories with laughter and mirth. It gives me nights on the town, midnight munchies and stories that have me giggling with my hands wrapped around my sides as I rock from the humor before I can tell the end. It gives me parties that run so late I can just walk to my 8 a.m. class, still tipsy and a little high, with no sleep.

Somehow stuff slowly derails though; it’s an extra glass, another hit then suddenly, before I can even blink my addiction has isolated me. Once it has me isolated it tells me that I am nothing. It chokes me as it croons that I chose wrong and now no one loves me EXCEPT the addiction. It’s no longer fun and games as it was before so I chase what I used to have. I keep using more and more. It isn’t even about the liqueur or pills anymore. Now it’s about not being able to handle life without being numbed. It’s about not being alone because everyone always leaves except for my booze and drugs, unknowingly my addiction hides from me that people are leaving because they can’t handle it, not that they don’t love me.

Soon my addiction becomes my life. There is no separating it from me. Each time I try and break its hold I end up missing it. I know it is destroying me but the connection is emotional and mental, not just physical. So because I lack the motivation to stay away I keep going back. I start taking more and more pills a night. I find myself drinking at least a bottle of Malibu a night. I keep giving myself to it until I am faced with the choice to get clean and leave it for good or let my addiction lead me to jails, institutions or death.

clean date: March 21st, 2014

In the beginning God said let there be love

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23rd May, 2015
When I met him I was barely 18. I knew men could hurt you. My mother had gotten me a pink pepperspray for my birthday that I carried everywhere I went. I was not ignorant but I was naive. I was too trusting of a certain dashing, flaxen stranger. I remember thinking that he must be “one of the good ones” because he opened his car door for me. He asked me what I wanted to do and didn’t tell me what the date would consist of. I was absolutely taken by him after the first five minutes.

We spent our first date walking around downtown of the big city I had just moved to. He knew I was from a small town. That night I told him about my life before university. I spoke fondly of how my family lived so far in the country that you could count the stars if you wanted to and that we had the most pure air a person could breathe. My family’s home had 3 acres engulfed in trees and high grass that the crickets sang in at night. I smiled as I recounted growing up chasing fireflies with my siblings, and staying outside until any exposed skin was covered in mosquito bites and a thin layer of dirt.

Looking back on that date; that amazing, once in a lifetime date that would define my future; I hate admitting that he was conditioning me. There were small whispers of warnings that I ignored, and berated myself for even considering at the time. But, four years later, if I am ever to move on, I have to acknowledge that he was deciding molding me into exactly who and what he wanted. He was putting in my mind that he was a gentleman, a considerate person and someone who deserved my trust and eventually love.

That night, when we went back to his place and watched a movie, me snuggled under his strong arm and him stroking my cheek, I felt at peace. There was an electricity between us that could even be felt just spooning. But there was also the patronizing, jaded, part that I was innocent enough to believe I could change.

We saw each other more and more often. We texted and called when we weren’t holding hands and debating about whether or not we should try the cute Greek restaurant that had recently opened near campus. But slowly I could tell things were starting to unravel. He knew I had a trip to France planned and he became more and more hateful of my actions, even those I couldn’t control. I saw more of the temper that was hidden behind his captivating charm. When angered his words became sharper, the patience he had once allotted me seemed to be becoming dry.

One night, he showed up without warning. It was near finals time, I had been withdrawing emotionally partly because of the stress of exams but, more importantly, because he was pushing me away. He was drunk. He had driven his motorcycle intoxicated once again. As I reached his parked bike he barked that I was such a stupid girl. He laughed as he muttered to himself I was no better than one of the retarded children I wanted to work with. There was no preface to this statement. My mind reeled for a response as I put his arm over my shoulder and led him to the benches in the shadows of my dorm. I didn’t even think to leave his wrecked body and mind on the street corner for the campus police to handle. In the many instances in our future I would never consider this an option.

That evening his eyes were clouded from the effects of the beer I could smell on his breath. He patted my cheek as he crooned that I was such a good whore for not correcting him. His smile turned menancing, and for a single second I saw the monster that lay within him. My gut clenched and I fought my primal instinct to run from this predator in sheeps clothing. But then, as if he somehow sensed the change in our dynamic, his eyes softened and he asked if I was ok? I jerkily nodded so that he would stop talking and just pass out from the booze.

He never apologized that night.

I left him the next day. He didn’t question it. We had lost our spark and I wasn’t willing to go through a maddening relationship while I would be out of the country for two months. So we separated. I cried, but not for the awful words he had spoken, but because I had given up on him. I kept telling myself we had the potential to be great. And we did. But somehow our complicated, addictive and intense recipe was altered and the man I desperately wanted to love disappeared.

While I was in France, he seduced me via social media and emailing. I had no idea that when I returned the true destruction was begging to be freed.

Welcome back, sweet memories

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The longer I stay clean,the longer I process my addictions, is the longer I slowly start to remember the abuse. I fear discussing it with anyone. The fact that I allow him to still affect me four years later is madness. I am quietly becoming insane. Insane, not in my traditional sense, no, insane in the way that my thoughts periodically go to him throughout the day. When I am not fully submerged in Mommy-mayhem mode, as I’m washing the dishes, my thoughts travel to the blonde haired, blue eyed monster that I was so entranced by.

When I clean the memories are the worst. They are the most toxic because they are not the abusive memories. They are the memories of us laying on his hand-made, horribly uncomfortable couch, his hand traveling across my back as we watch the movie he had allowed me to choose from red box. My mind drifts off to the scent of his axe, too strong, but in a way fitting for him. It makes me hate myself. I was broken for so long from his obsession and sadism that surrounded me. Now, I am consumed by thoughts of him. Four years later, when he is tired of me. I am finally thrown away like an old, worn up toy. And I hate the feeling. Why can’t I be that bright fire truck, shiny, and new, that he HAS to play with?

Then, as if my brain is in salvation mode, it brings me silently to the abuse I’d repressed and ignored. It might have been the drugs blocking it, or the pregnancy, but now it all rains down on me. When it rains, it’s not light mist hitting my face, it is a hurricane, destroying my psyche. The conflictions I felt in 2011 choose to reappear. I start to remember when he showed up to my high rise shit-faced and he couldn’t get erect, but when he started criticizing it suddenly all worked out. I used to remembered this as passionate sex, where I got so heated my water-proof mascara smudged, giving me the “raccoon look.” Now I get the full story from my mind. He had to put me down to get it up and I, as a bright eyed, happy go lucky, 18 year old, just took it. When he left, to avoid Andrea, because God-forbid he knew my friends, he was still drunk and made me stay on the phone with him until he got home so he didn’t fall asleep at the wheel.

I fear I am having a mental breakdown sometimes. Why does he haunt me at my most stable time? I have never been so consistently OK. It has been 14 months since I touched any substance, it has been over two years since I last intentionally overdosed. Why do things have to change? I have this beautiful baby now, with his bouncy curls, and wide smile, that I would do anything for. The memories don’t affect him yet. I don’t cry from them, I just get this tension in my chest. When I hold my son it slowly eases away. But what if one day he’s not enough? What if I stop being the attentive, attached mother that I’ve come to be proud of? I don’t want to handle this with medicine. I’m scared if I don’t deal with it now, one day, when I’m in my 30’s or 40’s it will all come rushing back. I’m scared that the longer I avoid my memories, when they do come back they will come back with a vengeance, because when has anything about him not involved vengeance?

There are so many weird things that trigger thoughts of him. I have had to stop watching cable because commercials of the new “Mad Max” movie are constantly popping up. Mad Max was his favorite movie. It’s how he started his motorcycle gang. He made a page to recruit people and covered it with photos from the movie. It’s almost comical, I could never remember what Mel Gibson movie it was. Now I can. Now that I don’t want to and the trailer for this new Mad Max doesn’t fail to appear on any channel I enjoy. So instead I watch Netflix. Or when I’m feeling daring and a bit masochistic I force myself to sit through the commercial in the hopes that I will miraculously become desensitized. It is ridiculous that four years later I still have to alter my life to accommodate parts of this man.

I think back to that perfect first date and am now realizing that I romanticized it. When we were driving to downtown he sped, he was aware that it scared me a bit but he did it and laughed about it. It was not a bright banner warning me of abuse but if you coupled that with the constant remarks about how young I was it was something. I’m still not as old as he was on our first date. I am two years younger, but I still would not choose to be with someone who is a freshman in college. He saw me as easy pickin’s, and I was. I had been cheated on, I had been hurt emotionally, betrayed but nothing prepared me for the pure ruination he would bring to my pretty little world.

I hate myself for writing this. I am a strong woman. I have grown from his abuse and I have become more resilient than I ever imagined I could be. So why am I burning with our memories? Why am I allowing myself to be re-victimized? That is the perfect description for what I am doing; re-victimizing. I ascended from the decay that he left me in and when I have stabilized myself for a significant period of time I start spiraling lower and lower. I am allowing myself to remember. I’m not resisting the part of my brain that he still occupies enough.

I allow him to visit my mind. I remember how sure he was of himself. He knew what he wanted, he knew who he was and he always had an explanation for his character defects so that they were never his fault. I think part of the reason the physical abuse escalated so quickly was because I saw him at his worst and he resented me for it. He wanted to eliminate any part of me that could judge him. He would use sexual manipulation. It was one of his favorites. He knew I prided myself on being sexually alluring. And he tore down parts of that. He made me feel green and inefficient. On the first date I was this temptation, this seductress that he had to have but as our relationship progressed I became talent-less to him.

The sexual manipulation is probably the hardest part to expose. I’m not sure I even have gone in depth in regards to it because I am ashamed. Not being able to satisfy him intimately made me feel repulsive. Just writing this I feel disgusting. He made me hate feeling virginal in anyway because it was the worst quality I could have, that I couldn’t even “be a good hole.”

I truly do not want to look at this section of the relationship because it became a part of my identity to be such a good fuck. I am terrified that if I divulge what he thought of me I will be perceived as just that. It is a paralyzing fear that once I talk about our sex life that who I became will all go away. That I will be viewed as sexually inept once more. His words haunt me. I don’t know what changed in us. We were so good sexually at first.

After we broke up, the only way to save my pride was to emasculate his penis. If I complained about it being too thin or too small then we never had to see what was hiding behind my mask. If I took the offense then I never had to address how I struggled with my sexual identity. The only times it was mind blowing for him was when he overpowered me in some way. What does that say about me? He had to hurt me in some way for me to be good in bed. Later in life I embraced being a slut because at least that meant I was satisfactory.

So much about our relationship shaped who I am today. Seeing the correlation of things causes me to pause and wonder if I am truly anyone or if I am just a product of him. The fucked up thing about all this is that I should be the most confident now. But instead of being content my twisted brain has chosen for me to feel completely insecure. It brought back the savage memories of the beast who killed a part of me. I had forgotten he had murdered beautiful pieces of the girl I was before. Now I’ve been reminded.

Searching for a listener; is anyone out there?

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22nd May, 2015
Domestic violence is an uncomfortable topic. When it comes up people awkwardly clasp their hands and shift their eyes back and forth searching for any means of escape. It isn’t something we, as human beings, enjoy discussing. Even in my battered women’s group it was often tiptoed around; it was almost as if we actually discussed what they did to us that they would somehow reappear. Except for the women who insisted emotional abuse was worse than physical. These women were the ones who had never experienced being raped by a spouse. I, however, stuffed and buried my memories until they were six feet deep inside the caverns of my brain, locked away from my “polite” thoughts.

Now he has come back into my life, except this time it is me subjecting myself to it. It is not him crashing into my life for the millionth time, terrorizing me in some way. One of the worst parts is I’m becoming bitter to the people around me. No one wants to hear about it when I’m upset. I need “professional help.” I hate that I’m resenting the people around me because they don’t realize how much I am suffering.

My brother posted a story on snapchat. It was a picture of a sign that said “what did your parents give you” and he wrote trauma underneath it. The moment I read it the crimson, scaley, serpent of rage visited me. I wish I had my brother’s life. I wish that the worst thing I had were parents who guilted or shut down when they were upset. He is so fucking spoiled in that regard and he doesn’t even realize it. My brother wasn’t flung into a state mental institution for 10 months of his life in his formative teen years. No, the worst he had was a father who moved to Canada when he was 16. Jacob is now the same age I was when I met my torturer. What I went through, that was trauma. I don’t know if I will ever recover from what he did to me. It’s almost as if I have Stokholm syndrome and I’m having to de-brainwash myself because even after I was rescued from my figurative kidnapper I still idolized him. I still loved him and had to fight the urge to go back and become his slave once more. That is trauma.

I am bitter. I have to fight the urge to let my jealousy of other’s purity taint our relationship. I avoid my brother. I know, rationally, that to him what he went through was trauma. And it has impacted his life in a significant way but my emotion mind pushes me to into a corner where the only thoughts I’m allowed to have are ones of disbelief mixed with craze. How could he use “trauma” in regards to such a light situation?

What my brother went through was light compared to the darkness that was my life. Yes, I didn’t live with my tormentor, yes I could have made excuses to avoid him except excuses wouldn’t have worked for longer than they left my lips. He knew my schedule, both school and work. Sometimes I would see his silver, four door, drive around campus while I wrote parking tickets. I tried to tell myself that he was just protecting me but what he was really doing was searching for something to punish me with. I was his property. Not every day in the physical sense but mentally I was always his. He made me love him, fear him, burn for him and run from him every day. I checked my phone obsessively to see if he texted me, then when he knew I was with male friends he would call back to back to back until I had to shy from my companions knowing gaze. He used his fists, his feet, his dick and his words to make me his prisoner.
When I try to share about my brander, because I am on the verge of bubbling over with fear, people stiffly listen until they can go back to their peaceful world where I am just a drug addicted whore who somehow manifested the mental check outs without any sort of catalyst. It is so much easier for people to look at the choices I’ve made rather than to even begin to imagine what I went through. Abuse is a tricky subject that people would rather avoid than address. When you are going through the abuse they manipulate you into leaving, into pressing charges but when the drama calms and all that is left is the shell of a loved one they trun away and go back to their lives. They are confident and secure in the fact that they did their job and “saved you” and now they weren’t obligated to do anything else.

Many friends and family members have told me “I’m there for you if you ever need it.” And they truly believe that they would be but in reality they are only there for me if it’s something they can feel useful when helping me. They do not like simply listening to what I’m struggling with if they have never encountered it before, especially if it involves any sort of dominance and control that was exerted over me. They don’t know what to say, they don’t want to say the wrong thing so instead they sweep it off to the side until the “professionals” can fix me.

The “professionals” aren’t there for me at midnight when I can’t sleep because every time I close my eyes I can’t escape his bottomless, clear slits glaring at me because I’ve somehow displeased him in some unknown way. There is no one there when I am having a mental breakdown. They shuffle it off to the next person. My family told me to call the numbers people in NA gave me, the people in NA tell me to call my sponsor and then my sponsor tells me I need to talk about this with someone qualified and trained. How are I supposed to feel when everyone passes my emotional baton to the next runner? They can sleep well at night because they’ve given my battered soul a more reliable option.

No one realizes they’ve actually left me with no options. I never told a human being about what he was doing to me until I was drunk and running to get in his car one October night. My best friend says he’s there if I need anything but how can I tell anyone about my insanity when for the past week everyone has scrambled to actively avoid any conversation about it? What am I even supposed to say, “hey, so remember four years ago when I dated that psycho and hid everything from you? Well now I’m totally fucked up over it. Yea, I can’t move on from it because I’m now obsessed with him.” He would respond in his supportive, you’re my best friend and I’m sorry you’re going through this sort of way but he would want to change the subject as soon as possible. Am I wrong to just want someone who will sit down with me and listen to me recount my horrors and not be disgusted with me, waiting for the opportunity to change the subject with all possible haste?

I deal with a constant buzzing of anxiety in my chest every day. It’s the memories building and waiting to make their escape. I distract myself by the hour but they claw my insides as they beg to be released. They hold the promise that if I let them go they will let me go. Tit for Tat. But I hold them close. I stroke them and keep them inside me. If I give a burning desire in NA, I don’t say that the anxiety is even related to my abuse, I just say some memories are coming back and I’m struggling to not turn back to drugs. They made me forget once. Self-medication is like an old lover, she dances around me, reminding me of her powers, of what we had together and what we could have together again. She promises it’ll be different this time. I have to remind myself that it won’t. Just like he and I ended in turmoil, the drugs and I ended the same. I fight her allure almost as much as I fight his.

I need help. I’m used to being rescued either through sex, drugs or alcohol. I’ve been left without any knowledge of how to rescue myself, and it has been made clear to me that I am on my own. So for now I distract, I love on my son, I clean, I go to meetings and I write. I will save myself this time or I will crash and burn trying. It’s anyone’s guess at this point which will end up happening. I do know this, however, if I am able to overcome him, and fight my beautiful ex-lover then I will be much stronger than I would ever have imagined possible after what he put me through. I pray I can escape him finally.

His Picture

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21st May, 2015
I have tried to write this paragraph four times already. I cannot portray on paper how I truly felt when I saw his face for the first time in two years. It either does not capture how I was affected or it is less than eloquent, so for now I will simply type. Maybe if I can manage that I’ll be ok.

He looked thinner, yet harder at the same time. His eyes were missing the mischievious, boyish glint that I was so attracted to when we first met. They just looked empty, almost void of any sort of humanity all together. There was no smile dancing across his face. There was not even a smirk. His irises were the same however. His eyes are blue, they always have been. They are a shade deeper than sky, definitely darker than the crystal blue that runs on my Ferretti side of the family. His were lost though. His blonde hair was styled the same as always. I could practically smell the Axe and feel the sticky substance clinging to my fingertips.
His body was slighter than his already slight frame. Or maybe he had just toned everything that had started to soften. His face had less meat in it. He had the eyebrows that spoke to a perpetual glare.
He was terrifying and exhilirating and shameful all at once.

My body went into overload as I stared at his picture on my friend’s phone that I had TOLD her to look up. The color left my face as I gazed into the eyes, frozen on the thought that he would somehow sense that I was on his profile from a friend’s phone and facebook. I had to keep telling myself that he couldn’t find me. It was a mantra I told myself as my heartbeat seemed to slow.

As I was transfixed on his photo I became hyper-aware of myself suddenly. I could feel my heartbeating from my chest to my very fingertips. The one piece of hair that had escaped my ponytail clung to the side of my neck. My eyes were barren. I have depleted them this past week from him. I had to force myself to breathe, to control my shaking so I wouldn’t scare my new friend.

My body had voided itself of any temperature physically but mentally I burned for him. He had no control over my body’s reaction to him but all the control over my emotional reaction to him; not now, but he made sure the damage had been done. There is this small child inside me who is secluded to an abandoned house, with broken windows, leaky faucets and broken floorboards. She trembles when he passes by her windows. Then there is a whore, who walks the streets searching for him, inside me. She is a prostitute who knows how the game is played and doesn’t care. He was her pimp. He controled her life and whenever she stepped away from him he beat her. She can’t quit him though. She remembers how he groomed her in the beginning and prays that if she behaves herself, continues to follow him from place to place that he will love her and never let ago.
I am completely demented.

Seeing his picture has made so many emotions resurface. If I thought I had repressed things before now I am even more crazed. Now it is not only memories it’s old emotional connections as well. It’s new emotions. It is more uncertainty than I ever thought possible for a person to experience. There is the how. How did I allow myself to be dragged into this relationship? How did I end up so fucked up when all I wanted was to be with him? There is the why. Why did he not love me as much as I did him? Why did I never leave? Why did I take the beatings, the rape? Why have I not moved on? Then, there is the beautiful and unexpected who. Who is he now? Who have I become?

In his picture he wore a leather jacket. I can feel it beneath my fingers, the leather smooth and worn from age. The interior some sort of faux silk. I want to run my face against it as he embraces me, clinging to me as if I am his life source, his only beacon of happiness. The only way I am able to combat this memory is by reminding myself that his clutch will soon turn painful. His claws will eventually dig into my ribs, breaking the skin underneath my shirt. We cannot hold the pure contentment for long. He is not capable of loving me for extended periods of time.

I have to fight myself as much as I fight him. The moments where he wasn’t dominating me he was caring for me. He was chasing me. To this day I have never been in a relationship where a man continously stole me. It wasn’t healthy, it was not okay but then again, I don’t have any idea of what a healthy relationship of equals feels like.

Just for tonight though I will try to keep him from my thoughts. Just for tonight I will quiet the reminiscences. Maybe if I truly distract myself my charming abuser won’t visit me in my dreams. Maybe I can sleep alone tonight. Maybe.