my first love was young rebellion and how it made me feel. my second love was abuse.
I have been asked, on more than one occasion, how I could fall in love with a man who I was scared of.
my masochism was inside of me for years before I admitted to it. I like to talk about how I didn’t know that it was wrong for him to hurt me, but somewhere deep in the back of my young mind, I did know. I realize that now.
I realize now that maybe I enjoyed it. maybe that was part of it, my own fantasies leaking through the cracks of my innocent, good girl persona. or maybe I truly believed that his abuse was all I deserved.
my childhood had taught me that I broke everything that I touched. I came from a broken household with a broken family. I broke both of my legs at one time, and started the next school year with two bright casts. I broke toys that weren’t mine, and ceramic dishes that I threw down too hard, and the hinges of every bedroom door that I slammed shut. I broke hearts, including my own.
when I fell in love, I had finally met someone with no conscience and no concept of morality.
he was a sociopath, a narcissist, an abuser. he was the perfect subject for my poetry, and the perfect match to my masochism.
I looked at him and wrote that he was the diagnoses that flooded the pages of some therapist’s notes. he was the embodiment of the pain that he inflicted, terrifying but somehow too attractive to resist.
he was a love story jotted down by a nihilist, a black hole taking me deeper and deeper. he was a blank slate that could not be written over.
he was as empty as a bottle in the hands of an alcoholic, a freshly dug grave waiting patiently for a body.
I worshipped him like an absent father, idolizing his image as if I had only ever known of his appearance and normality and charm. I acted as if I had no idea that beneath the surface of his skin, he was nothing more than a living corpse.
if chaos theory is as real as death, and if I was never traumatized and grew up happily, I doubt that any of this would have happened. but it did.
whenever someone asks how I could fall in love with a man who I was scared of, I tell them this.
I tell them that I fell in love with him because he was already missing something inside. his mind had glitched somewhere in his past, and then it failed to restart. he did not feel emotions the way that other people do. I’m not sure if he could feel anything at all. he was already broken.
I fell in love with him because he was the only thing I had ever encountered that I knew I couldn’t break.