Vegas

Here’s a happy life update: I’m moving to Las Vegas. My last day in New Jersey will be July 12th.

Jersey was never my dream. In fact, living in this state is one of the many things I can attribute to privileging the needs of others over my own. Throughout college, I dated a man originally from India who was working on his PhD. After five years together, we got married – but for different reasons. At the time, I had wanted to start a life with someone, and felt marriage was a requirement as part of that. My husband never wanted to marry, but his job search would go more smoothly with a spousal visa. In fact, he was offered a position with Montclair State, contingent on the university not having to fund a work visa.

We were not aligned, and still I went ahead with a paltry ceremony at the officiant’s home. We moved from Philadelphia to New Jersey. While I welcomed a change of pace (we lived in a very rundown part of the city), residing in the New Jersey suburbs without a car was difficult. Finding employment wasn’t easy, either. Degree and all, I was working as an apprentice dog trainer at a retail pet store. Whether it was ninety degrees or freezing cold, I’d walk two miles to my place of employment, and then at 10pm, walk two miles home.

I wasn’t happy. I was young and didn’t know how to work through the feelings I had about my post-college life. While my husband was able to turn his intentions into reality after our time at Temple, he wasn’t especially sympathetic to how our circumstances left little space for me to self-actualize. But I also had no clue what I wanted, outside of a stable relationship.

We didn’t last. And I was stuck in New Jersey. I didn’t help myself when I entered a relationship with Scott, the abusive sex addict I lived with for over three years. (Because while I had no clue what I wanted, the one goal I had in my life was a stable relationship – something to fill the hole left by my estranged family.) Meanwhile, my ex-husband has since moved to New York. No ill will towards him, but it’s funny that he got to end up in a city, and I got stuck in this state.

Life has since been a lot of ups and downs. New Jersey hasn’t been all that kind to me; anyone that reads my blog understands what I mean. It hasn’t all been for nothing, though. While I’m never going to be that person who offers platitudes such as, “everything happens for a reason,” my experiences have proven my resilience. I’m alive, and I’m here, and I like the person I am for the first time in my life because holy fuck, I’m really fucking strong.

I used to feel that being a survivor was a negative. What’s the point of trying to exist in this often shitty world with a massive amount of baggage playing interference? After I left Scott, my life didn’t stop being a rollercoaster, offering proof that it wasn’t enough to simply leave an abuser. That didn’t fix my life. And some of the relationships I formed since, however brief, hurt me more in some ways than he ever did: I couldn’t understand why people would play me, or be unkind, when I was so upfront about my past with abuse and bulimia and overcoming living out of my car and so many other crazy things. All of this after enduring a childhood with a schizophrenic and seriously abusive father. I disclosed this information (perhaps too) freely – why add to my pain?

More than ever, I understand that I’m overly sympathetic to people, especially men, who share the same experiences that I do. They’ve been abused as children, dated cheaters, deal with abandonment issues, externalize their fears of not being good enough in destructive ways. The people I’ve dated that I care about most (because I am crazy enough to still want the best for them) and will always remember are also the ones who hurt me in extremely callous ways (see: Javier), largely because they have something in common with me that most people don’t: they know what it is to feel broken. Unfortunately, they took that out on me.

Javier would often tell me he’s “just this way.” My former rock climbing friend that I genuinely loved echoed similar sentiments. Both broke my heart. There was a time when I thought that of myself, that I am this way and people can take it or leave it – but if I had kept that mindset, I’d still be puking in toilets.

It’s funny that seeking a stable relationship was always the first item on my life checklist, but that it’s going to be the last thing I figure out. Everything else in my life has come together beautifully. I’m no longer a retail dog trainer and am relocating because my well known employer asked me to take a huge opportunity in Las Vegas. My struggle with depression and bulimia is finally coming to a close, it feels like. And I know myself. I know what I like and what I want. I am not the person I was when I was with Scott, living my life around his needs. I’m not the girl who broke down in public at the rock gym when thinking about how my climbing friend would never love me, how I had no idea who I was outside of my pursuit of someone that cared about me as much I cared for them.

I’m the woman who survived. The person that will not allow pain to be a reason to hurt others. I’ve had my ups and downs, and dealt with experiences that would tank anyone. But I made it through it all. It’s a testament to my intelligence, my will, and my innate resilience.

This is the right time for me to move in so many ways. I can start fresh while mentally positioned to make the most of it. For the first time in my life, I will be moving as part of advancing within my career. Not because of a man. I’m successful. Despite everything I’ve gone through, all those times I thought I would not get back up again – I’ve won.

Happy

As personal as my writing on this blog tends to be, I typically maintain a creative distance between myself and whatever morose subject I’m covering. This is not a diary (for the most part), but rather an expression of thoughts and connections branching from my personal experiences. Much of the content here is, well, negative: Girl With a Tale has been a way for me to navigate painful emotions and cope with traumatic events.

Not my original intention, of course. At first, I wanted to simply host the scraps I’d normally delete somewhere so I could go back to them at my leisure. With the blog, I didn’t need to worry about losing ideas to computers I had to leave behind or backing up musings that had potential to grow. My intentions led to achieving my writing goals. Ideas started here gained momentum and shape elsewhere, becoming poems and prose that I shopped around, including a short story on having my heart broken and an abortion in the same month. In all the despair I host here, I’ve created things, sad as some of them are, that I hope ultimately resonate with others.

I want to change gears with my writing, at least eventually. My tale isn’t grief. At least, that’s not the entire story. Life is not pain and suffering; as I wrote back in March, to live, you often need to let go. So here’s a start in creating something different in this space: I will to put my happiness in plain view, since I’ve often failed to explore my joy and progress.

The week I turned 30, I found out news regarding my job that I still can’t share, but there’s a huge opportunity potentially coming my way that will change my life. I also saw Javier, my ex, as we crossed paths at Exchange Place that same day. It was fitting to see the man that broke my heart and cheated on me within hours of finding out the good news. Javier, who ceased to respond to any of my messages begging for clarity or answers, looked the same as he always did – beard and sunglasses masking the width of his large face, a brown trucker hat, the kind with mesh sides, covering his thinning black hair, brown and green clothing hiding a paunch while simultaneously putting in plain view his inability to disconnect himself from the “military man” identity he held onto post-discharge.

He was someone I had decided to attribute my previous successes to: I regained control of many coping mechanisms I abused while we were dating, and made significant progress both with my career and fitness. But he wasn’t there for me, as supportive as I had thought he was. Yeah, I could text him about hitting a new PR at the gym, but I saw him once a week, and very rarely on the weekends. Looking back, I realize how silly I was to think I was doing well specifically because of a man who treated me like I was last on his list of priorities. Work, family, friends, the doctor that lives in Neptune (impressive find, as he doesn’t have a car), the girls in Brooklyn he crashes with instead of going home, and then finally Amber, the girlfriend. Or a girlfriend. I honestly don’t know. Because once confronted, he refused to say.

Seeing him left me with a variety of feelings to sort through. I primarily felt empowered, though, since I stood my ground as he walked past me, smiling widely and waving. He offered an awkward pause as he decided upon which action to take, until finally weakly waving in return. The moment didn’t send me into a negative spiral. Instead, I smiled on my way home to Harrison, probably looking like an idiot to others on the PATH when I audibly laughed to myself in joy. I’m strong, I thought. And for once, not just physically.

Later that week, on my birthday, he texted me. “You probably still hate my guts but I wanted to wish you a happy birthday regardless,” Javier wrote.

I responded, “I don’t hate you. Thank you.”

A conversation began from this, where he suggested we meet up so I could get the closure I had wanted months ago. Initially I agreed, but the day after, I wrote back to him letting him know that I had made peace with the fact that I never received the answers I wanted. That I didn’t think I’d get anything out of seeing him one last time except for an unnecessary helping of grief.

“I know that it’s hard to be a decent person when you’ve been through a lot in your life,” I wrote. “And you have. I get you, and that’s probably the reason I can never hate you. I loved you and I still care about you, but unless you wanted to make a real attempt to be friends (which means being honest and also treating me like one) – don’t respond. This chapter is otherwise closed. Good luck in your life.”

He hasn’t responded. I wish things had ended at Exchange Place with me grinning all the way home, prideful and confident. The brief back and forth didn’t result in me coming undone, but it reminded me of how hard it is to set boundaries with others -and especially men. I agreed to meet him at a time and date of his choosing initially, instead of demanding convenience for myself. And it was hard to turn him down, as I desperately still want to see him.

I’m not manically happy to have told him I’ve made peace without him providing closure – it’s not like the triumph I felt when he had to respond to me at Exchange Place, giving me a briefly lived power over his emotional and physical response to me. But still, it’s a quiet joy. It’s progress. If I don’t want to repeat my mistakes, then it’s time to not allow men to use me as a means to an end – whatever that end is. Love is not one-sided sacrifice. And as trite as it is to say, love does start with me – specifically with respecting myself and my needs.

Javier had two months to tell me the truth or to give me the closure I wanted. Instead he spent that weekend with another woman, at his home that I was not allowed to see. (How absurd, I realize, to feel the way I do about someone that made me sit in a ShopRite parking lot by the apartment he shared with his mother – for forty minutes – instead of letting me inside.)

I owe him nothing, whereas I owe myself the world. I’ve already spent so much of my life being a victim. I was little better off than an abused dog, cowering and afraid and unable to enjoy the act of living. But going into thirty, I can finally say that I’m happy. Not because of a man. Not because of another person’s intervention. I’m happy because I worked for it.

Two years ago I was living out of my car, having given up everything to escape an abusive relationship that led me down the path of an eating disorder. A year after, I was unemployed while dealing with a rock bottom I had to some degree brought upon myself. Last spring, I seriously considered that I wouldn’t recover from how severely I had regressed in my ability to cope, resorting heavily to binging, purging, and drinking to deal with sexual assault and unwanted pregnancy. The gym became a distant thought, and despite the weight I gained, I figured exercise no longer mattered: as far as I was concerned, the brief period of my life where I felt empowered after leaving Scott was a mistake, and that this was real.

Since my 29th birthday, however, I’ve been promoted twice at a job I love. When I think of Scott criticizing me for working as a veterinary technician or for not making enough to be suitable for marriage, I get to have a good laugh, my career putting me on track to make significantly more than a teacher. The gym is again a place of relaxation, focus, and progress for me. (In fact, I just hit a one rep max for 165lbs on bench press, among other recent feats.) I drink socially without embarrassing myself or losing my keys, purse. Most impressively, my eating disorder is quiet. To say it’s “gone” would be perhaps too optimistic, but I haven’t binged or purged for months, and I’m not terrified to be flexible in how I eat. I let myself enjoy food the way I used to envy in others. I never imagined I’d get here, to be honest.

I made the decision to work on myself, which wasn’t natural to me, or the least bit easy. When Javier and I were dating, I told him that I know how to survive, but to actually live is beyond my ability. Without conflict, it’s difficult to know what to do with myself. He understood me. “It’s about who gets you the most,” he once said. And I still agree, which is why it will be hard to let go of the love I had for him. People who will hurt me always get me the most, because what we so often have in common is pain. Unfortunately, many don’t turn their lives around. They don’t stop hurting themselves or others. Their interest in survival means that they will never know what it is to live. And if I don’t want to be the girl that repeats the same dating patterns over and over again, the next thing to add onto my list of successes is, “I stopped falling in love with the suffering of men who don’t want to change.”

For now, though, I’ll enjoy my progress. I will focus on the good I made out of the difficulties I’ve experienced throughout my life. Every day that I live with pride in my accomplishments is a testament to my strength and resilience. “It’s about who gets you the most,” Javier said. Well, I realized if that person is me, that’s just fine.

Bowflex

He texts me, Update: I’m trying to figure out how to do sled pulls on the Bowflex. There’s so much wrong packed into this statement that I don’t know what to say to him, so I decide on silence instead.

Nothing obliterates my interest more quickly than men trying to relate to me through a common interest in the gym – mostly because it’s powerlifting that I’m actually focused on, versus being able to claim that I “hit the gym” however many times a week. I actively avoid the strange, ineffective bodybuilding routines that I see men performing; bad programming is just something I don’t tolerate or respect. To that end, I absolutely would not be caught dead on a Bowflex. (Although up until his text, I forgot those were even a thing. For the rest of the year, and perhaps for the rest of my life, I’m going to be perplexed by the fact that someone tried to woo me via their experience with equipment advertised on TV at 3am, following demonstrations of OxyClean and Nad’s.)

Also, no one can do sled drags on a Bowflex. That’s just a solid case of what the fuck.

He texts me a day later, Change of heart?

I say, I’m just really busy. I can’t really do a lot of back and forth texting. I’m sorry.

I block his number. I guess I’m one of those girls.

 

“I think I love you,” he says, rubbing his bristly, balding head against my arm.

For the past several hours, I’ve spent the night hearing about his job and his friends. When I mentioned that I like video games and played World of Warcraft in high school, he added very one sided conversations about his experiences as a gamer to the long list of topics he went on about. Things haven’t improved, and instead of engaging with anything I say in response, so far he’s just smiled dreamily at me before rolling into whatever subject next came to his mind.

The “I think I love you” statement catches me by surprise, though. We’re a few drinks deep into a long night, and if he’s already drunk, I’m embarrassed for him. We’re not exactly connecting and yet he seems to think there’s a vibe; I briefly wonder if I’ve been in his current position without realizing it on first dates. Before I can tell myself the thought isn’t worth my energy, he kisses my hand several times, sloppy and with sound, bringing my mind to a decision tree where the first fork is a choice between pulling away and letting him do his thing. I’m not here to make him feel bad, so I just deal with this overt public display of affection from a man I do not know all that well before interjecting with, “It’s getting late. The trains aren’t running as frequently past midnight. I should make a move.”

“I’ll walk you back to the PATH,” he says.

Oh, goodie.

We leave the small West Village bar and walk in a silence that is more uncomfortable for me than it is for him. I’m already thinking about how I’ll tell him tomorrow that I just wasn’t feeling it, or that it’s too much trouble for me to go into the city with my current routine. He, on the other hand, is humming, rubbing his thumb against the palm of my hand. He’s happy. Because of me, or because he thinks this is a very successful date.

When we reach the PATH, he leans in to kiss me. I reciprocate because it’s the easiest thing I can do at this stage. I don’t want to deal with his disappointment. I want to avoid a confrontation.

He’s attractive enough. Still, his self-importance leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

 

Alone on a Sunday, I find my thoughts drawn to the men I did love. I’m not unhappy to be relaxing by myself at home. I don’t miss them. Relationships, I’m coming to realize, are probably the worst thing to happen to me. It’s in this area that my self-esteem is worn thin, damaged by long history of abuse, and still recovering. (I wonder if my usual detachment to dating is only interrupted by the men who will break my heart because that’s my conditioning. Love is pain, sacrifice without gain.) I’m afraid that most people are too good for me. Give me a man without a car, who doesn’t know where he’s going in life, and I’m in love.

Perhaps I find silly reasons to write off successful people. Maybe I should give the man trying to impress me with the Bowflex a chance or see if Mr. Self Important is better at having a conversation after a couple more dates. On the other hand, maybe it’s time for me to be alone, to not use dating as a crutch. In some ways, I feel like all I’m doing is conducting a search for the next fuck that will make me miserable, but who I will nonetheless be devoted to as part of my pathological inability to form, or even want, healthy relationships.

Javier

Through repetition, I become a master of bad habits. Ignore the omissions, time lost to promises broken or partially fulfilled. Tell myself that love is fickle – between my dedication and passion, I maintain, you will come to find a home in me. Patience is a virtue, I say to an empty room, yearning to see the shape of your lips on a Friday night.

You’re slow, you say. I assume I know what that means: slow to fall in love is something I can accept. There’s no significance in how little I know of you outside of us, you tell me. You’re just a private person, you respond, when I ask to put a picture of us in plain view. It’s not that you’re ashamed of me, no. But I still don’t know your friends, your parents. I cannot come to your apartment. Two seasons later, and I wonder if I’m your girlfriend outside the walls of my bedroom.

I lie next to you after waiting days to hear the sound of your voice, my stomach full of acid. I am not happy, I realize. I feel like my lungs will collapse. I am just so tired of bad habits, of waiting in empty rooms, of day dreaming that you will see me more than five times a month. My gut feeling, the one I’ve denied for so long, tells me that I’m less than a fraction of your life – that you’re a cheater and I’m a choice you refuse to make.

You’re not slow to fall in love. You’re slow to utter honest words, to let go of what keeps you warm. And what lies you tell her, or them, I can’t guess. But I will remember you always by those you told me. I don’t want you to be sad.

Climb

Maybe she’s just prettier. Perhaps he was just an easy choice, more malleable than the men I’ve chased, more emotionally available. I don’t know the answer, but I bring my imagination to their relationship regardless. He just looks so happy to be here with her that I can’t help but wonder what they discussed on the car ride over, if they went out for brunch first at one of Hoboken’s nearby bars. The man’s smile, fixed across his bearded face, probably made her feel warm when she walked with him side by side, even in the chilly outdoors.

When it occurs to me that no one has looked at me that way in a long time, I feel a sense of sadness that’s difficult to put into words. I’m often the object of people’s lust, but I have felt little in the way of being loved.

I come back to the thought that I’m lacking. I always do. She looks more like a woman compared to me, at least from what I can see at a distance. Her climbing skills are certainly better than mine: she’s ascending the white and blue rock wall at a steady clip, pushing off footholds with her long legs. Whereas she’s graceful and lithe, I’m brute strength in an incongruously small and childlike package. It’s likely not just about the looks, either. I’ve had a hard life. I have baggage.

If jealousy and envy are not the same, then it’s the latter I feel when her companion shouts “to the left.” I’ve asked Sean, who is not my boyfriend, to become belay certified, but that’s too much of a commitment for the man I regularly drive to the rock gym.

I watch him now, his black work shirt rolling up his back as he makes his way on one of the bouldering walls. He finds the routes easier to solve than I do, especially since we started climbing together regularly, and completes a V5 that I can’t even start. For such a tall and not particularly graceful man, he looks athletic as he reaches for the next hold. When he climbs down and turns to smile at me, I feel my stomach tighten: my body knows what my mind denies, that I’m hoping for something to happen that never will.

Eventually he will become one half of the couples I desire to be, but I won’t be the woman to close the circle. Friend, fuck buddy, lover – but not his girlfriend, and not his partner.

It will never be you, he’ll eventually tell me. But I know this now. The problem is that I hold onto the lessons of my childhood: the people you love are supposed to cause you pain; the more pain you bear, the more true your feelings. He doesn’t love me, and he may not even care about me. But I accept that, because it’s not the worst way someone’s responded to my love for them.

In a year, I’ll excavate the part of me that considers what I deserve in relation to how I’m treated, but that will be a sad day too, because what I will realize is that I don’t know how to give love to men that are able to love me in return. If I don’t suffer, it’s just not real. What a joke, I’ll think, to come so far in my life and still be so broken.

For now, however, it’s my turn to climb. I push my hands, one after the other, through the opening of my chalk bag, a white plume following each motion. “You were awesome,” I say to Sean. And I walk past him, placing my fingers on the start of a problem I can solve.

Cope

March begins with a broken heart. For a moment, I fear that this year will be the same as the last: my capacity for love will become a fire that turns my world to ash. But I’ve since learned that life is not grief or pain.

Life is how you cope with loss. To live, you let go.

Summer Boys

We made it a summer habit to walk along slick stone, to fumble across (often) or gracefully traverse (seldom) the cliffs that reached over the ocean’s edge. Some nights, I felt brave: I didn’t know how to swim and was afraid of heights. If I looked out and down towards the horizon, I would feel the nauseating tension that accompanied being near an identified risk, my nervous system calculating all undesirable outcomes with every near slip. So I did not look, or at least not often enough that I’d falter. And even then, my sight would only rest on where the sky and the ocean met so that I could see that my life, however meaningless, existed within a world as beautiful as it was dangerous.

I never knew if you could swim, and I guess I’ll never find out now. I didn’t know if you, like I, were afraid of heights. And looking back at that time, it’s almost certain I didn’t care about more than your presence beside me.  Mine, mine, mine. Young love is selfish, isn’t it?

Bullies

My once friend passes her eyes along the bruised length of my neck, the discoloration left by his teeth extending under my jaw. Sarah Jane’s judgment brings a cold light to the typically unreadable expression she wears. At this point, my co-worker is finding any reason to be unhappy with me (she reminds me uncannily of my father, with her simmering rage over the most mundane things), but I’ve finally given her ammunition.

SJ will be fired in a few weeks, but I don’t yet know that. (I won’t, up until the hour she’s escorted from the office.) I have less to worry about than I realize, but the panic weighs on my stomach like a boulder. Limitless is the word I’d use to describe my embarrassment, but I didn’t ask for a man to bite me in so many visible places. I wish I could say that, explain how while I had consented to sex, I had not consented to wearing imprints of his teeth around my neck and across my shoulders for the days to come.

“I bet you were sick yesterday,” she says. Her words, more like a hiss than human speech, react to the cold November air: clouds form in front of her painted orange lips and drift off into nothingness. (And while the air so quickly forgets the shape of her words, I will remember for weeks, perhaps maybe months.) “Good thing you’re back.”

“I was just run down,” I say, meek as a mouse.

“It makes me uncomfortable to stand so close to you,” she says, apropos of nothing. She’s looking down on me – literally, as she’s got almost a foot on my own small stature – her fire engine red hair hanging past her face like two long drapes. There’s something that approaches malice in her eyes. Maybe I’m just reading into it; perhaps she’s not a bully, and I in fact deserve her quiet rage.

“It’s like I’m some giant,” she mumbles, turning heel before slithering back towards our office.

 

Such a private man, this distraction that’s wound tight as a garrote around my heart. He will tell stories to his friends in front of me, where I am not a character despite the memory belonging to us both. He will not take a picture with me, or create an association between us that is anything more than convenience for himself. But he will leave his mark in all the public places that I occupy alone. (I feel acute embarrassment, a humiliation that is severe but not as disastrously consuming as what will come later.) And still I throw myself at him, desperate for someone to love, accepting he may never care for me because I’m closer to thirty than I want to be but still incredibly and sadly so fucking unfamiliar with the concept of self-respect.

My whole life, survival has meant keeping others happy. If I bury my own wants and needs, I will not be kicked or abandoned. When I tell him I took the day off work because I couldn’t figure out how to cover up the marks he left behind, he just laughs – and I find myself where I often have in the past, afraid of my own anger, more terrified he’ll leave if I express my unhappiness than I am over his callous disregard.

I told you to stop. I told you not there. I told you and you continued anyway. But I swallow air instead.

Modern Sex

“You’re making me feel like I’m forcing myself on you,” he says, pulling the waistband of my leggings down around my hips. After tugging my clothes in the other direction, having already turned away from him in bed, I finally grab his hand and push his clammy fingers away from my body. This doesn’t deter him – but in my experience, that’s never been enough.

“Women who say ‘no hookups’ are almost always willing to fuck on the first date,” my friend with benefits told me. Despite this and his many other absurd observations, he was the fuck boy that ultimately broke my heart – and hardened what remained, to the point someone would later describe me to his friends as “hilarious, but covered in blood splattered armor.”

When I met him, I was ready to love and desperate to be loved. Over time, he made me realize the truth about dating: women do not win this game.

Later in the same year, a guy I was dating who didn’t allow me to leave his home for work before having unprotected sex with me more than once, echoed the same belief. “They put in the app that they don’t want a hookup, but they’re always down to come back home with me,” he had said, during a conversation comparing me to the lesser members of my sex. His criteria for a woman worthy of a relationship was vague and did not factor in his own shortcomings. Lucky me, I thought.

With both men, I was an idea, shaped to fit the category that best suited their own lives. And with both, at various points, I wondered if they realized I was a person, a woman who struggled every day for her autonomy and independence and happiness, rather than a gaping hole where they could stuff their emotions and their dicks.  

Because I don’t know how he’ll respond to the truth (so, you turned out to be pretty fucking weird and offensive, but I’m here and I’m tired), particularly after listening to his drunken rants about eating disorders and how his sister never loved him (how did I get here again?), I lie and tell him I don’t like to have sex when both parties are inebriated.

“I’m not drunk,” he protests. (They always do that, don’t they? That, or it’s some variation of “I don’t have a problem.” Grown, financially independent men who choose alcohol over therapy – gotta love ‘em.)

Am I just a walking sheath? Dump yourself into me, is that what my expression reads? Your baggage, your cum. I can’t imagine anything better than the burden of a broken man who is not aware that their brokenness is not special, unique, that I too suffer and desire and need and that I am not a sieve, I do not catch the shit and the debris so they can leave with the best parts of themselves.

“You ladies say no when you really mean yes,” another man told me, back when I was dating around, aimless and half-heartedly seeking a distraction from Mr. Fuck Boy. The context of his proclamation was troubling, to say the least: he had just rolled off of me after using me like a pump and dump and was sweating profusely onto my sheets. I did not want to have sex, but our night concluded with him finishing on my stomach despite my protests.

Of course, I had experience allowing my mind to slip away from my body, so it wasn’t all that bad, him fucking me even as I said no. For three and a half years, the span of my last serious relationship, I thought it was normal for men to harass you until you gave in, that it was up to you to say no even after you already did, to stop something with words that already failed you. So when this man violated me, I channeled apathy because the alternative was to blame myself.

In the past, I’ve given myself over to the wheedling of men. But I’m exhausted in a new way, unable to bear the thought of yet another disappointment, another trip home feeling disgusted because it was safer to say yes.

Maybe it’s because I’m tipsy, but I think to myself that I’d rather die than let another man take off my clothes when I just wanted to sleep. If trying to connect with another person culminates in exchanging my bodily autonomy for safety, I can’t do this anymore anyway. If the choice is between being alone and playing some kind of rapist Russian roulette with men, then let one of them just fucking kill me already so I can be done with this game.

You could’ve just said no. You could’ve been firmer with me. You’re responsible for your own safety. Why didn’t you just leave? It’s your fault. Slut.

“I’m going to leave,” I say. I don’t wait for a response before I abandon his bed, because after a decade, I can act on what I know. Whether casual lover or girlfriend or something in between, men choose – no, control – when you are a person and when you are a thing.

Abuse and Selfishness

Mid-March, freelance writer Richard Greenhill contacted me to discuss a Reddit post I made about my then boyfriend, as he was interested in writing about cuckolding and hotwife fetishes.

If you’ve read my blog, you already know from some of my earlier pieces that my ex of three and a half years was obsessed with sexual fantasies involving me and other men. (You can read Your Bulimic Girlfriend, Wedding Bells, and/or The Bulimic and the Sex Addict if you want more insight.) While having particular kinks is not bad by any means, my ex took things to an entirely new level, where our sexual activities included (almost from day one) demands for me to change my body (get implants, plastic surgery, dye my hair, get my nails done, do my makeup so it’s “sluttier,” and all sorts of things), as well as his articulation of strange and dangerous scenarios at gas stations, glory holes, and more. I didn’t enjoy this; we fought often about his inability to talk about any other subject. Sometimes I had the nerve to bring up how sexually unsatisfied I was, my needs and wants elided by his all-consuming fetish, only to suffer through the same one-sided sex talk later that day. To make matters worse, he never respected my boundaries, or when I told him “no.” He would continuously beg me to help him get off, whining and needling me, and not allow me to go to sleep until he got his way. Whenever I dug my heels in (which wasn’t often), he’d become increasingly manipulative. He would tell me that rejecting him made him feel unloved, especially because I was so terrible at showing my affection in any arena outside of sex.

Looking back at my Reddit post, where I asked for relationship advice and reassurance that his behavior was not OK, I cringe. Writing the above, and knowing that I endured his sex addiction despite the pain it caused me, makes me feel like a fool. My post to Reddit wasn’t even completely honest: I wrote that our relationship was fine aside from our sex life. Well, it wasn’t, even aside from the relentless sexual coercion I faced. I developed Bulimia during the course of dating him. I was financially dependent on him, having gone back to school at his urging, and was reminded every day that I should feel lucky and grateful to have his (or his family’s) roof over my head. Prior to leaving for residential treatment at Renfrew for my eating disorder, he had cheated on me. He was still talking to the girl when I came back, hiding that he had a live-in girlfriend.

Even during my time at Renfrew, when I was supposed to be healing and focusing on myself, he’d ask anytime I called him if I told my therapist about “how we are sexually.” I didn’t even tell my truth when in the best setting to do so, as I subconsciously knew that my treatment team would likely intervene. (My therapist was already concerned I wouldn’t do well in recovery, given that he was such poor support, and that was without her knowing the more gruesome details of our relationship.) Worst of all, when I left for residential treatment, we had promised we’d both work on our compulsive behaviors – and while I took the steps I needed, he spent my two weeks in a psychiatric unit for damaged girls and women watching cuckold porn and talking to the chick he cheated on me with.

These are not details I discussed with Richard. His Vice article, published earlier this month, focuses on when the cuckold and hotwife fetish puts strain on a relationship, and uses my story as one example (among a few others). After writing about my experience at Richard’s request, the part of our conversation he featured in his article is the conclusion I came to as I tried to answer some of his questions. Cuckold/hotwife fantasies differ from other fetishes because they involve the objectification of both your partner and the relationship between you. (Striped socks have nothing on this kink.) In understanding this, I also understand how many red flags I ignored as I fell deeper and deeper into a shared life with a sex addict. I could rattle off the list, but they all suggest the same thing: he didn’t see me as a person, and he was selfish.

While the men featured in Richard’s article were able to identify wrongness in their obsession (even if they couldn’t overcome it), experiencing – much like my ex – an inability to be intimate with their significant other, my boyfriend of three and a half years was unable to acknowledge the damage he inflicted. Not just on me, but also on himself. As part of his unwillingness to handle his sex addiction, he lied and cheated and manipulated. When we ultimately broke up, the story he told didn’t include three and a half years of sexual harassment. He didn’t tell people how he made me feel insecure by constantly demanding that I change my body, how I dress, and even how I do my makeup. No, the story he told was that I was a crazy girl with an eating disorder. Because disclosing my medical history (even the “crazy” part) to everyone we knew mutually (and those he met afterward) was more OK, and more socially acceptable, than acknowledging his role in destroying my sense of self.

Don’t mistake writing about my ex as dwelling on a situation I’ve left behind. While it’s only been a little over a year, I normally don’t think of him outside of trying to create a poem or some prose based on a period of my life that was emotionally rich. There are triggers, of course: I’m angered whenever I feel like someone is controlling what I can say or do, since my relationship also involved trying to control how I dressed and behaved outside of sex. There are also areas in which I’ve grown as part of my experience, as much as I hate to admit it. I’m not quiet when I feel wronged, and I’m learning how to express myself. I stand by my opinions. And I am likable this way, even if my ex made me fear that I’d have even less of a life simply by being myself, that I needed to be quiet and demure to be both loved and liked.

As much as I attempt to move on, however, I’m in recovery. It means that even if I’ve put the past behind me, I’m still dealing with how a sexually abusive relationship affected this present version of myself. Due to my abusive father, I went into my adulthood with an inability to distinguish healthy relationships from unhealthy ones. And then I stumbled into my ex after a relatively OK marriage (where the man I was involved with made me feel lovable and worthy of love for the first time in my life, even if things ultimately ended between us). My ex undid a lot of the progress I made, and he undid it gradually. So when I decided to leave him, I was somewhat lost.

Although I’ve attempted to rebuild my life instead of allowing it to fall apart, I’ve made mistakes. I thought being upfront about my past would protect me to some degree. I wanted to know what it was like to have fun, to live. I also didn’t want to get hurt. So I was fun, and I tried to weigh the risk of being vulnerable and being hurt against the reward of finding love. In the trysts I fell into since, I learned that being hurt and finding that you’re still capable of being vulnerable enough to offer your heart to another are not mutually exclusive. But it’s also scary, sometimes, to see how little progress I’ve made in identifying my own boundaries. I only see evidence that they looked at the partial picture and intentionally avoided the strokes that didn’t fit their fantasy after the fact. I’ve let the reasons they used to justify their bouts of selfishness be the seeds of doubt. I’m not good enough.

At this point, nearly fourteen months after leaving a relationship I thought would culminate in marriage, I want my core belief to be that these people were not good enough for me, leave alone worth the time I invested in them. This is the benchmark of recovery, the thought that will let me say, I’m an abuse survivor, and not an active victim.