Obviously, being a therapist, I know the extent of abuse. I deal with it on a nigh daily basis — both from my own past, and through helping others along their own journey. Rarely, I’m so forcefully confronted with the spectral fingers of my own — even though it does still claw at my brain upon occasion.

I’m hardly masochistic; in fact, I hate pain. Really. Not a fan. Emotionally, physically, a combination of both …. I’m not even that big into catharsis except with very special reason. And even then, it’s tightly controlled. I don’t run from pain, per se — I’m done with that phase of my life. I confront, I deal, I regroup, and I get back out there. If there’s something I’m supposed to feel in order to move through something into the next phase of my life, I do it.

That’s why I’m not quite sure how I’m feeling right now.

Allow me to explain.

This morning, going about my usual routine, responding to my Facebook messages, I saw that stupid little, ‘Hey! This guy’s friends with one of your friends! Maybe you should friend him, too!’ box in the corner. Normally, I don’t give a shit. But when it’s my abusive ex-I-hesitate-to-call-a-boyfriend — I do.

And … I did the wrong thing.

I clicked it.

Oh, fuck, no, I’m not requesting the asshole’s ‘friendship’ in any form. I was just … curious. It said there were several photos that had been added in the last few years or so; whenever the hell it was I was last faced with his terrorist-looking-mug. (Really. He looks either like a terrorist or a serial killer in his older profile photo. It’s disturbing. Dunno why he picked that one. Though, it may be the most truthful representation of what’s inside — which, I feel, is pure narcissist.) An-yw-a-a-ay ….

I poked through, and saw … a look which was at one point familiar to me. An expression that was loving and tendre, gazing to the side of … some chick. And … I underwent some (very briefly expended) detective work. (I think there’s a 10 minute cap before you can consider yourself ‘cyber-stalking’ — though, considering he fucking actually cyber-stalked me, to the point where I had to get a damned restraining order — yeah. I’m good.) It revealed that she is, in fact, his girlfriend. They both — in fact — appear quite happy, and he is, in fact, becoming an employed professional.

And all of the sudden, I find myself doing something I never do.

I want to fucking cry.

A single word beats against my brain: Why.

Why, why, why, why?

Why, when I fucking gave all I had to give — which wasn’t much, and I still gave it — when I was at the absolute lowest point of my life, when I had been so successfully beaten down, broken, and embittred to the point of just not giving a shit, allowing myself to become another cog in the machine — a retail drone — foregoing ever realising any of my dreams, and resigning myself to — not failure, but mediocrity — when I was the only one putting any fucking bread on the table, going out and busting my ass to ensure that the Goddamned lights stayed on — the main point of contact when anything went wrong –

WHY … was it that all he could do was fucking hate me?

WHY?

A person can drive themselves mad with this question in no time. So, naturally, I quit asking it. Years ago. Occam and I sat down, cut through the bullshit, and decided upon the most likely cause:

He’s just an asshole. He’ll probably be alone for the rest of his life (poor guy) and I was the one speck of happiness in that dismal, failure of an existence — which is why he hated me even more so once I finally fucking left, (four and a half years too late) that he completely shot to hell.

I felt … pity. And, I moved on.

I decided that, while it takes two to tango, there really wasn’t much I could have done in that situation that I hadn’t already. I gave what I had to give. I stuck with him. I kept plodding on, plowing through. Day after fucking day, fight after Goddamned fight, I remained faithful, strong, and capable. I carried him to the point where I thought I would break — and for what?

Because nobody ever had.

Mister P and I have a sickness. We like to help heal the wounded birds — help the poor lost souls out there find their way — if at all possible — because we know what it’s like to be lost. We remember how it feels to hit rock bottom, and wonder how the fuck we’re ever going to get back up.

And, yet, we have. And we keep doing so. We’re survivors. It’s what we do.

So, when I met this charismatic fellow with a brilliant smile, I thought — wow. There’s a lot of pain in those eyes, even though he tries to hide it with an almost blinding smile. And, foolish me, the fixer in me just had to get to work. And, work it was. And work, I did.

I can’t give up — it’s a problem I have. One of my failings as a submissive. I’m going to scream at and curse you before I’ll cry — no matter how much it fucking hurts. I won’t let you win.

Yeah. That‘s not love. It’s not a relationship. It’s not anything — except an endurance test. Quizzically, I ended up with some of my absolute best writing during those four, almost five, lonely years. My mid-twenties. I existed working and writing. I’d go to work, do my time wherever it was from which I was currently drawing a steady paycheck, punch out, go home and write. I’d write like a fiend. I’d type until my fingertips were calloused, and I was approaching early-stage carpal tunnel, and my doctor told me it was either publishing or get out of clerical quickly. I ditched clerical and became a host for a restaurant. And I’m still the best fucking host they’ve — possibly ever — had. Because when I do something, I do it one-fucking-hundred-and-ten-per-cent. Or … I don’t do it at all. Another failing of mine. There’s a lot I’ve done. Sadly, I know it could be more.

But, I digress.

You’ll hear Mister P go on about the ‘Pizza Delivery Guy’, or, use pizzas as a form of measurement. ‘ … all I’m saying,’ he begins, ‘Is that’s gotta be a LOT of pizzas.’ (Regarding whatever winnings he’s brought home, or so forth.) And yeah, that’s why. Because when I knew him — almost solidly — he was a fucking pizza delivery driver. We he capable of more? Fuck, yes. Would he do it? Even Goddamned try? … No.

Until I left.

His whole fucking world seemed to open up for him when I left. Kana and the fucking crows. (That confuses you? Google it, slacker. And then watch the series. It’s breathtakingly beautiful.) I left, and he actually started fucking living. Went back to school, graduated, and apparently, found another very capable, strong … short … auburn, (though, chunkier, to be frank — not that it matters, though he’s — fuck. A good wind could knock him down) … young woman, and … make her his girlfriend.

And … love her.

You can tell that he loves her.

So, that leaves me with another resounding question I cannot answer, and I probably shouldn’t even try.

… why couldn’t he love me?

What was so … wrong with showing me love? Why did he have to hate, tear down, manipulate, ruin and destroy me?

And, yeah. If I think about it too much, it makes me want to fucking cry.

Sigh. So, I don’t. I go back to writing … and, living. Because I’m happy now — despite the past. I am loved, and I love in return. Again. And regardless of why he couldn’t love me doesn’t matter, because it doesn’t affect me anymore. As Mister P says, ‘Who gives a shit?’ Of course, to an abuse survivor, when we find that our abuser truly loves, is treating properly, and altogether being a good person to someone else, we’re left wondering. Did they learn? What taught them?

We try not to resort to the obvious darker question.

‘What was wrong with me?’

I don’t think anything’s wrong with me besides what I know, have accepted, and am working through. That’s all I can do. I have my goals, and I’m slowly achieving them. We’re all a bit cracked for sure, but if we were perfect — we wouldn’t be here. We’d all be pretty boring, too.

I’m glad he’s found love. I’m glad he can love someone. But it really gets under my skin when I remember the note he left me, with the one single red rose I’d ever received in the entirety of our relationship. (I’d gone with my best friend to move out of what had been our apartment — that I’d chosen, up-kept, etc., ad nauseum, infinitum.

‘I hope you find someone whom you’re willing to love.’

… Willing to love? Had he been there, I would’ve shown him how willing I was to shove it up his fucking ass. Willing to love.

Yeah. Who was unwilling? Who didn’t try?

Useless now. Wasted energy.

… and I refuse to waste anymore of it. On this.

Tags: abusers, Narcissists, past abusive relationships, surviving abuse