When I think of all the kids I have been privileged enough to encounter in my short time working with youth, I can remember every time one of them said or did something that changed my entire perspective. I remember the stories that I heard from the students in South Dakota that made me realize what I wanted to do with my life. I remember the middle schooler who said inspirational things about life and then told me her life was not meaningful. I remember the six year old who told me she wanted to die. I remember the high schoolers who told me what life was like at their school, telling me things that I never thought could happen. I remember the elementary school girl who made her fingers into a gun and pointed them at her head. I remember the tears of the kids who couldn’t go home when they wanted to and couldn’t think about anything else. I remember the kids who cling to my arms crying and can’t tell me what it is that they’re feeling. I remember the four year old who ran around the room pretending to shoot people. I remember the boy who ran around the room knocking things over and screaming and then flung his arms around me and held my hand and sat in my lap. I remember the faces of all the kids I’ve ever worked with. I have so many names etched into my existence. I have so many voices laced into my dreams. I have so many stories weighing down my heart. Sometimes I wonder how I manage to rise in the morning and smile at my kids when they run to me shouting my name and hid my tears until I fall into bed at night.
My parents sent me a package for Christmas.
I deleted the text my mom sent me telling me about it and tried to forget. It came a few days later. There was a box and a padded envelope. I took them to my apartment. I felt so angry holding them. And at the same time I felt guilty. I felt real shame. That here was a set of parents sending me gifts when I hadn’t sent them anything. Parents who were willing to give me things while I was planning to separate myself from them for good.
I dropped them on the floor and walked away to take off my jacket and boots. I considered leaving them untouched. Seeing that name on the address label—the name they still called me, probably always would—the name I thought I wouldn’t have to think about, the name that shouldn’t have belonged to me anymore if things had gone right. I walked back and ripped open the envelope. Inside was a money pouch decorated with passport photos of other countries. I opened it, thinking that maybe they’d left me some cash inside. But they hadn’t. Of course not.
I opened the box. A bunch of wrapped gifts lay inside. I took the top one out, noticing the tissue paper and ribbons that my favorite gift shop always used. The thought just made me angry. I wasn’t thinking in pictures but feeling in memories when the flashbacks came. All the times I’d gone in there buying things, shopping with my parents. The time I went in with my friend who came to visit me over break because I was panicking in the house for the four weeks I was forced to stay with them. The time years before when I went in with my mom to buy a present for my dad, and when I snapped at her just a little she threw the gift back at me and stormed out the door like a wounded high school mean girl. The times I’d walk in by myself when I was let out of work early to avoid going back to the house.
I put the gifts back in the box and shoved everything into my room, which was already littered with dirty laundry and leftovers from the semester. They stayed there for a while. Thinking about them made me angry. And also guilty. I felt so ashamed that I was begrudging gifts from my family. Didn’t that mean they still thought about me? That they actually did care? How ungrateful was I to want to remove myself from that? I thought back about the things they’d done. And they times it seemed like they might have loved me.
Maybe I was wrong. Maybe the abuse was all in my head. Maybe I was just an ungrateful, naïve, attention-seeking nobody influenced by a few books and opinions.
A conversation with a friend reminded me of the things my parents would love me to forget.
When they told me not to tell anyone I was gay, and forced me to cut off contact with the support group I was talking with.
When my father berated me for writing a letter to the governor advocating for environmentally friendly policies.
All the times my mother shamed me for embarrassing her in public—scolded me, shunned me, for things like forgetting my phone number when ordering a book and being too busy to help my brother when we were volunteering at a theater. For asking for rides to work and my internship. For asking my little brother if he needed help with his math homework.
I remembered my father standing in the kitchen facing me and my little brother and saying “I can’t believe you would be influenced by the most selfish person I know” and turning to stare me full in the face because that person was me.
All the times my parents locked themselves in their room or the office for hours and hours each day and how many days we went seeing them only at meals.
The passive-aggression surrounding each individual chore in the house, the tension and fear when doing them was wrong and not doing them was worse. How helping without being asked was something to be ashamed of because the smallest thing would be done wrong and nothing was worth being thanked for; but how waiting to be asked just showed how ungrateful, spoiled and entitled we were as children. The genuine anxiety that went into every load of dishes and every basket of laundry.
The hearts pounding because you never knew if the silence from the parents was because of something you did that they’re just not going to mention. The whispered conversations behind slammed doors.
My mom ranting about me to her mother on the phone every Sunday; the unsettling number of times she vented to me about my dad’s parents, pitting me against them and him, even when the family took the thirteen hour drive to visit them. She always found time to pull me away and tell me all the awful things about my dad’s family. How it all rubbed off on him, how much she hated him. And how much I should hate my oldest brother for being like him. And yet despite that demanding I be sweet to his face, thank him for each tiny service as if it wasn’t his obligation as a parent to provide for us. She micro-managed my every interaction, told me who to be at every turn, yet still found reasons to blame me for everything that went wrong.
The tone in my father’s voice when he accused me of using feminism to promote my gay agenda. His refusal to talk about my sexuality or my two relationships with women. His voice when he called me to yell at me about my email telling them I’d started taking medication. Asking about every detail of my life, insisting my illnesses were all in my head, that I was stupid and naïve for believing the doctor when he prescribed the medication. Demanding to know why I never told them anything anymore. I retaliated. “Do you really think I feel safe with you after how you handled my coming out?” He denied saying the things that he did. I remember him saying them. That he didn’t believe I had a right to get married, that if I was gay I could never have my own family. That most gay people were bad and flaunted their sexuality. That night on the phone I threw statistics at him about transgender suicide and homeless LGBTQ youth. “But none of that is you,” he told me. “You’re choosing to be oppressed.”
Throughout the next few days I opened the presents one by one. A jar of coconut oil. A stick of lip balm. A book about opera. A pair of thick striped socks. I left them lying in my room. They were all things I needed or liked. I felt so ashamed. It meant they knew me. They knew what I wanted.
But then I realized they never bothered to ask what I needed.
They sent me a money bag as if that made up for all the times they refused to give me money. They gave me lip balm as if that would heal the wounds left by their words. They sent me coconut oil not knowing I’d bought one earlier that week with the groceries that ate the last of my paycheck. They gave me socks as if that was the only comfort they cared to provide after twenty one years of abuse.
The gifts they gave me were safe gifts. They were the things I always wanted, the things I would never say no to. They came from stock facts about me. That I like to cook, I like opera, I like cool socks. Things they always knew. That almost everyone who knows me knows.
They never bothered to ask me what I wanted. And they keep refusing to give me what I need.
I’m not going to feel ashamed because of that. I’m not ungrateful. I’m not selfish. I’m not naïve.
I’m more of a person than they ever let me be.
I don’t have to like their gifts. I don’t have to be grateful for them. I don’t have to be guilty I didn’t get them anything. I don’t owe them anything for pretending they know me.
In the end the most liberating thing for me is how wrong they both are. My dad said I would never have a family of my own. My mom told me I’d never know what it was like to feel the unconditional love towards a child. But it’s the other way around.
I have a family now that’s more real than mine with them ever was. A family of people who love and support me for real and who know what I need and ask me what I want.
And I know the unconditional love towards a child. I feel that for every kid I’ve ever worked with. The fierce desire to protect. The patience to work through their most trying moments. The energy to see them day after day and always bring a smile to the table no matter how hard my day has been. The sadness when they walk away without saying goodbye. The comfort of knowing that no matter what happens, the love we shared will never, ever go away.
I almost feel sorry for my mom. She doesn’t get the comfort of knowing that. She blew it with me. And she doesn’t get to see the joy in my kids’ faces when they run up to me squealing my name. And she’ll never feel the swell of joy I get when I know how much I mean to them. And they’re not even my own children. I can’t wait until I have some of my own.
My parents didn’t send me those gifts because they cared. They sent them because it was an easy thing to do. They want to reel me back in. A consolation prize. And that’s exactly what abusers do.
It’s been a year since I set foot in that house and I’m never going back.
I saw two kids (siblings) from one of my old groups at the store today. I noticed the older sister first and did a double take when I saw her, which unfortunately drew attention to myself. We made eye contact a few times. She said hello, so I said hello back. She was staring at me pretty hard. I think she was trying to figure out how she knew me. She poked her little brother, who was sitting in the seat on their parent’s shopping cart. She asked him who I was. He looked at me and his happy little face glowed with a warm smile. “Hi Tonie!” he chirped. The sister looked back at me and said “Oh! Tonie!” she ran over to give me a hug. “Hey sweetheart” I whispered before she ran back to her confused looking parent. They left the store, the little boy waving at me from his seat.
I almost cried–I miss them so much, and it’s amazing to witness their happiness when they see me again. I hope that in my future, as I continue my work with youth, I have many more moments like this.
We’re put in groups with other random people who wanted to learn, and who want to learn this. We’re expected to take time out of our weeks to join together in a room and listen. We’re expected to participate, to listen to each other and speak up. We’re expected to look at others as humans, with respect, We’re expected to grow ourselves and take chances and make choices.
I get too attached to people because I have never EVER had the loving support I do now before this point. Love was conditional; affection was withheld. In my parents’ house there was a standard that had to be met. If you didn’t reach the threshold of perceived goodness, your worth was in question. Love was a privilege in that house.
I love my professors. They trust me and believe in me. They critique me not to shut me down but because they can see potential in me. They know I can do better. They want to support me. They want me to succeed, not because it somehow benefits them—because they see what I can be, and they want me to be there. For my own sake.
It’s a kind of caring I’d never had before but was fortunate enough to receive as soon as I came to UWGB. Within the first three weeks of classes I had a professor who spotted me as someone she wanted to see succeed. Someone she could challenge.
I was terrified of this and at the same time I was thrilled.
I was learning what it felt like to actually be appreciated. To have someone in my life who believed I was capable of great and important things.
But I was terrified of failing, because I had no idea that there would be any reaction but disappointment and isolation.
I still haven’t quite convinced myself that my professors aren’t going to do that to me.
That my friends will not shun me if I say one stupid thing.
That my real family, the family that’s been built around me in my four years at school, will not isolate and abandon me if I don’t fall in line.
My worth is unconditional. It’s not the tree that falls in a forest when no one’s around.
Love should be unconditional. Affection should not be a prize for perfection.
I still get too attached sometimes. Maybe more often than not. I want people to fill the roles I wished my parents had. I crave the unconditional love and support.
Lately I have seen more of it. When I have the energy to open my eyes. I can feel it. When they ask me. When they talk to me. When they give me that moment to breathe.
I love them too much for it and I don’t know how to give that back. I want to be as good as them. I want to be as strong. I’m building a new me on an old and broken foundation. It’s almost like I have to tear down what was there just to get something solid started.
It feels like a never ending struggle. Maybe it is. But I want to be okay someday. I want to help people the same way I’ve been helped. To see in them what they don’t themselves. To show them. You are worth it. You are strong.
When I look at myself from the outside, I see someone who’s successful. I see someone who’s composed, eager, passionate and grounded. I see someone with a good sense of humor who’s willing to laugh at themself. I see someone who’s face many battles and come out strong. I see someone with boundless energy, who never wants to stop trying. I see someone beautiful. Someone whose expressions change with the mood and whose watchful eyes follow the quiet people, the ones who can’t speak out. Someone whose outsides change with the season, whose thick and vibrant hair pokes out from under cozy hats, whose bright face is punctuated by studs and rings. I see a tiny body vibrating with energy and pain. I see hands rough from a lack of self-care. I see skinny limbs wrapping around a broken heart. I see a spirit worn from what it has seen, a world of people full of pain and love and joy and heartbreak and betrayal and learning and power and gains and fear. I see an open heart willing to take in the greatest burdens in hopes that it will grow enough to help everyone it encounters. I see ears tender from listening to the voices all around it and a mouth well-used defending the rights of those they care about. I see a world of words pouring forth from their brain and an intensity of emotion boiling inside the small figure. I see marks on the pale skin, ridges built from pain too massive to contain. I see ready hands and a comforting smile. I see elegance; I see flaws. I see fear in the watchful eyes. I sense anxiety behind the comforting words. Nervous ticks punctuate their movement. I see sadness hidden behind the colorful attire. I see someone who acts like they know who they are but in reality is struggling and fearful of never knowing. I see someone who’s been trying and is afraid of the day when trying is no longer enough.
I’m sorry I’m not good enough. You know I’m trying. I see you accept the help from others you say you don’t need when I offer it. I’m sorry I can’t fulfill the role you somehow thought I could, no matter how many times I told you that isn’t who I am. For once I’m standing up for myself. I though you of all people would be the one to cheer me on. You even said you wouldn’t hurt me like the others. Maybe you don’t know, hurting doesn’t just come from active bullying. It comes from a lack of caring too. I’m sorry I’m not special enough or pushy enough to warrant your love and attention. I’ll stick around because you asked me to, but I can’t share with you my life if I know I’m just going to get blank stares and blanket statements. I thought you were different. I guess my hopes about the world and the people in it were as ridiculous as everyone said before I met you.
My roommate drove me to the Crisis Center. It was chilly and grey outside, but my sweater was protecting me from more than that. I was shaking from the moment Stacie told me to leave. By the time we got there I could barely hold the pen to fill out the needed paperwork.
We sat in the waiting room for too long–the longer we sat, the more real this became. I was having a hard time grasping it (did I really want to die? Did I really feel unsafe enough to risk being committed?)–I could only imagine how my roommate must be feeling.
When they finally called me back the crisis counselor asked me what was going on. I cried when I tried to tell her, and already I knew it was worse than last time. Last time I was preventing what by now had already happened.
“On a scale of 1 to 10, with 1 being very little thought, and 10 being planning suicide, how suicidal are you?” she asked.
“I don’t know. I guess 7.”
I asked for my roommate to come. She called in another counselor to keep the numbers even, she said. They asked me again. On a scale of 1 to 10. I said 7.
“Why 7? What does 7 mean?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know.”
How had I been feeling? What lead up to this moment? Had this ever happened before? I held on to my roommate and she rubbed my shoulder. I broke down more than once, unable to answer, sobbing into her shirt.
They couldn’t help me until I gave them more information. What was 7? Why was it 7?
Finally I broke: “Because I never want to say it’s more than that.”
They asked me to pick again. I told them 9.
I could feel my roommate reacting beside me. I felt awful. The counselors were dragging things out of me I’d never admitted to anyone, and I told her almost everything. She was hearing for the first time about my suicide attempt from the previous summer, hearing more information about my past, my history, my fears, my feelings. Things I never wanted anyone to know about me. It all had to come out. All on the floor, so they could pick through it, spread it out, smear it everywhere. I felt raw, exposed, vulnerable. Dissected.
They asked me if I could keep myself safe tonight. I said I didn’t know.
In that case, they told me, I should let myself be committed.
My roommate and I sat for at least two hours total during the visit to Crisis. The counselors kept leaving to work things out, then coming back for more information. Finally they told me all of the spaces were full at the treatment center, and the only way for me to get in would be to go involuntarily. And given what I had been saying, they thought that would be a good idea.
So much for avoiding the police car ride. I was questioned again, searched, patted down, dragged away from my roommate, cuffed, and lead to the police car, where I couldn’t even buckle myself in. I had to sit sideways so my cuffed hands didn’t dig into my back when pressed against the plastic seat. This was my second police car ride this year.
The officer was as nice as possible given the situation. He talked to me about my roommate, saying she seemed like a wonderful person. She was, I emphasized, the best I knew. I couldn’t think of anyone else I would rather have had with me at that time.
He asked me if I needed any number from my phone, and when we were at a stoplight, he asked me to walk him through opening it and pulling up my contacts so he could write some down for me.
When we got to the treatment center, he helped me out, and the first thing he told the staff upon our arrival is that I had been very cooperative.
I was relieved that my experience with the cop had been so positive. I was lucky that I’d gotten one of the campus officers who knew me from RA training. He was the one who had taken me to Crisis this summer. I hoped he wouldn’t have to do this with me again.
I was processed like a human, and I think it’s kind of sad that that surprised me. When they saw I was cooperating, they took off my cuffs. A nurse lead me into a small office and read me some paperwork, explaining what would happen while I was here and what my rights were. I signed a lot of things. They checked my vitals. They took away my shoes. They let me keep my piercings in. They gave me a tour. Showed me my room. The door didn’t lock. The bed creaked loudly when I sat on it. They gave me toothpaste, mouthwash, and deodorant. They had mango water. I went through ten paper cups. They gave me soy milk with a vegetarian dinner. At 6pm my roommate was allowed to see me. I cried again. She hugged me. They wouldn’t give me the pants she brought me because they had a drawstring. I couldn’t keep my phone. They let me keep my gel pens and my coloring book and my journal. I told my roommate what had happened so far. She offered to contact all of my supervisors for me to let them know I would not be at work this week. I was scared. They said I would be here for 72 hours. I couldn’t see my cat. I could only see my roommate once a day. My friends didn’t know where I was. My cat would be worried about me.
My roommate said she would reach out to my closest friends to let them know what was going on, without giving too many details. I couldn’t stop crying and hugging her. I just wanted to go back home. I wanted to be okay.
She had to leave. One of the nurses held a group for those of us who were there. I met some interesting people. Not all of us were scared. Some of them had been here for a long time. I felt selfish and scared. I didn’t want to be here for that long.
I went to bed early. Every time I moved, even a little bit, my bed creaked loudly. The door didn’t lock and they checked on me every fifteen minutes. I worried that someone might come in and try to do something to me. I tried to analyze how I felt. I was scared and lonely. But I couldn’t tell if I still wanted to die. I could barely feel anything.
I woke up. I didn’t want to shower. But I did get dressed. Good sign. I was less scared. Still nervous. I colored my book. Breakfast was pretty gross. One of the patients asked if I wanted to be friends. When I said yes he kept trying to touch me until I yelled at him to stop. Another asked for help opening her food. She couldn’t stop shaking. Another kept murmuring to herself about machines and wires. She said she had PTSD. I wondered what had happened. She cried to another patient who told her to talk to Jesus. Everything happens for a reason, she said. I lay in bed and listened to them and felt angry. Sometimes things just happen.
They asked us to do chair yoga which was silly because we still used our legs. I was the only college student there. The third group I went to was run by an exasperated man who didn’t now how to talk to us. I felt I could have done better after only being here for a day. I wrote a letter to my roommate. They took my vitals again. I talked to a doctor, a psychiatrist, a social worker. They called my roommate. They asked for my insurance. If they could call my parents. I almost yelled no.
My counselor called and asked if i was okay. I told her I felt better. It was true. I wasn’t planning anymore. She said she thought I would be okay. She told me to tell the truth. Don’t lie to get out faster.
The third time I saw the social worker I cried when she told me I could go home today. I called my roommate. She was picking my up at 3:30. I missed a group because I was talking to the social worker. They got to go outside. I heard them come back and one of the patients said “It almost got scary.” I felt bad for missing and almost wanted to stay a little longer to be with these people more and learn their stories. I felt very privileged. One of the nurses talked to me about that. I was an easier case, she reminded me. I was actually pretty okay. I felt that now more than ever. I was going home. Most of the others had to stay. I packed my things and sat on the creaky bed waiting. I jumped up when they came to take me out. I hugged my things. Dropped most of them when I ran to hug my roommate. I felt like a child. But it was okay because I was going home.
On Monday I was planning suicide. I woke up with a grim determination that it was time for my life to be over. I felt nothing. Not when my roommate said good morning. Not when my friend walked to work with me. Not when I taught Safe Ally Training to a bunch of wonderful people with one of my closest friends. Not when I tutored one of my own students, not when my boss joked around with me. I was wearing the mask my mother had taught me to use after years of her isolating me when I showed emotion.
I laughed. I smiled. I engaged in conversation. I was productive. But inside I was numb, burnt out by pain and loneliness and self-hatred. Inside I was convinced my friends had never really loved me, that my close friends would soon cease to love me. Inside, I was ready to die.
A few friends reached out. Noticed I was upset. I felt nothing. I went through the motions. I counted the hours till I could escape.
I thought of asking for help. Calling Crisis.
It never occurred to me to tell a friend. Never occurred that there were people who cared. I was convinced no one did.
I decided to go to work first. The last job of the day. My kids.
As I got ready to go, thoughts of self-preservation left in favor of writing out a will. I left my wallet, my money, and my cards on my desk. I5 gave my cat extra food, extra love. I snuggled the bunnies that didn’t like me. I conversed briefly with my roommate’s boyfriend, pretending I was invested, pretending I wasn’t about to leave and never come back.
When my ride dropped me off after work, I decided, I’d walk away and never come back. I’d find a bridge. I’d jump. It would all be over.
I wore my mask all the way there. Engaged in pleasant conversation with my ride. No one was allowed to see what was going on inside me.
I went through the motions at work. Laughed with my co-workers. Pretended everything was fine. They had no idea.
Then it was time to check in my kids.
I walked into the room where I was supposed to be to check in my 12 kindergartners. Incidentally, the teacher had let them out early today. Over half of them were already there, and they were looking for me. Under the table. Around corners.
They yelled my name when they saw me, and one ran into me for a hug. Several asked where I had been. I laughed and told them I hadn’t known they were there.
“Were you worried I wouldn’t come?” I asked one of the more vocal kids.
He tilted his head in consideration, then shook it definitively. “No, I knew you would be here,” he said.
That’s when the feeling came–for the first time–guilt. Worry. Regret.
How could I leave these kids behind?
I heard them saying my name with enthusiasm. I saw their excitement at seeing me. I saw their pure joy when they received new shoes as part of the programming for the day. I witnessed their sadness and fatigue when they encountered difficulties during the day. I listened to their needs and allowed them to skip homework. Instead, we played quiet games and colored pictures until it was time to go home.
I smiled and laughed with the parents, telling them about their child’s day, saying goodbye to the kids and hearing them chatter excitedly about what they had done and how excited they were to come back.
What was I thinking? I couldn’t leave my kids behind.
I rode back with my ride, in silence this time. I loved my kids. But I couldn’t shake what I had been feeling all day. I made a deal with myself: if she dropped me off in the parking lot, I’d run and find a bridge. If she walked back to the building with me, I’d make up some story about “forgetting” my ID and let her let both of us in.
But when she dropped me off at the parking lot, I walked back to the apartment slowly, and thought about the kids–would they miss me on Wednesday if I was not just late, but really and truly not there?
What about the class I mentored for? They were coming over on Tuesday. Maybe I could still around at least until then.
A stranger let me into my building. I knocked on my apartment door, and my roommate let me in. i bluffed it off. Pretended I’d forgotten. I was just tired. Went to bed.
Her friends came over and I went back and forth, trying to be social, trying to convince people I was fine. But I’d always retreat back into my room, feeling like crying but at the same time too numb to do anything but lie there.
No matter how many times my roommate asked me what was wrong, I couldn’t say anything. I was just sick, I lied, just tired. I didn’t know why I was so sad. There was no reason. I kept the mask on.
Tuesday morning it was the same. I skipped my 8am class. Too sick, I convinced myself, even though it was only a small cold I’d been living with.
I got up ad went to work again. Tutoring. I joked around. But inside I was seething. This time I was angry–angry at absolutely everything and everyone. I even hated being queer. I hated everything about myself and my life. I wasn’t looking forward to anything, I was just sticking around to do what I felt was necessary before I took the next step, whether that was suicide or calling crisis.
My supervisor decided for me. I stormed into the Pride Center, ranting about something or other. She asked me what was wrong. Said I didn’t look like myself.
I told her I wanted to die, but I kept waiting until my commitments were over, but they never were. I was living hour to hour with suicidal thoughts and it was only a matter of time before I did something.
She said, “You need to talk to someone.”
I said, “I know, I will, after tonight.”
She said, “No, I think you should talk to somebody right now.”
I pushed back a few more times. I needed to go to class. To see my students. To attend the club meeting for which I was co-president. Eventually she won.
“Should I see someone on campus?”
They would just tell me to go to Crisis, so I may as well just get a friend to drive me there and skip the police car.
Another friend was there and gave me a few pointers. What to look for. Where to go. I texted some friends, asking who was available to drive me. Within seconds my roommate replied, telling me to meet her outside the Union.
I gathered my things and walked outside. My numbness was wearing off as the situation became more real. Why was I doing this? Why was I so scared? Why did no one trust me to stick around?
I’d had the training. I should know.
I wanted to die.
I wanted to die, and my friends were trying to keep me safe.
Even if that meant going away . Even if that meant being processed by strangers. Even if that meant admitting that I was a danger to myself.
Candles for Orlando, June 15, 2016 Five hundred, twenty-five thousand, six hundred minutes. What happens in the span of a year is a blur of motion: feelings smeared across a moving train, purple sorrow, red hurt, green anger, and yellow fear. It’s a whirlwind of emotion, pain twisting around regret and spiraling into depression. But […]
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about my abuser. She was the first person I ever dated, but more and more I’m reluctant to call what we had a romantic relationship. I used to think I was in love with her. But I’m starting to think it was more of an infatuation. I was obsessed with her. With getting to know her. With being in her life.
And she took advantage of that. She used that to her advantage. She held it over my head. Even if she didn’t know what she was doing. She abused me. She refused to commit knowing I would stick around anyway. She sucked up all my emotional energy to fuel her ego. She flushed herself up on my concern and my care. And she gave me the bare minimum in return–checked in just enough to keep my energy up, touched me just enough to make me tingle. But she withheld real intimacy. She tallied up my weaknesses and methodically touched each trigger when she needed to set me off, needed to steer me a certain way. She held labels hostage. She set all the expectations knowing I had never done this before. She ridiculed my concerns, making it clear that my requests for clearer boundaries, better times, a stronger connection were unfair and selfish. She told stories of healthy relationships with the side note that those relationships were unrealistic, clingy, and gross. I kept most of my ideas for myself. I trusted her too much. I trusted that she knew where to take us. I trusted that what she said was true, that it was normal for couples to refuse to acknowledge they were together, to refrain from making long-term plans, that it was okay and healthy for her to refuse to invite me to her gatherings with her “other friends.” It was fine that we never held hands, even when we were alone.
I was not allowed to ask for more. I was not allowed to expect more. I was not allowed to feel resentment towards her restrictions. If I complained, she gaslighted me or guilted me into taking it back. I had to follow her rules. I had to stay on her track.
She could talk about the man she was in love with even while she claimed she wasn’t attracted to men. She could spend all her time with me talking about him, how perfect he was, and how much she missed him and couldn’t stop thinking about him.
If I mentioned my self harm, it was treated as trivial and unimportant. Not worth her time to discuss or try to help me. Apparently I just did it too often for her to care anymore.
I could not be weak; I had to monitor my emotions by myself and take her for her word without breaking down. I was not allowed to self-deprecate, because comforting me was just too inconvenient.
And yet I could not be strong: I couldn’t stand up for myself, I couldn’t question her, I couldn’t begin to stray away or do anything that indicated I knew I deserved better.
I had to stay exactly where she wanted me, while at the same time she berated me for not growing up, not taking care of myself, not being the person she wanted me to be.
She never said “I love you” until she was blackout drunk.
She never thanked me for staying with her the night she lost her grandmother and drank herself into a stupor.
She never apologized for making me miss the obligations I too readily gave up for her sake.
She never asked me about the scars or the lowering grades, the skipped classes, the guilt spirals, the emotional distress, the self-abuse (mental, verbal and physical).
Everything was fixed with a tight hug, a mumbled excuse, a reminder of how shitty her life was.
I clung so desperately to what little she gave me because I didn’t know anything else. I was used to being taken advantage of, abused, neglected. I was used to being consistently invalidated and mocked. My parents had been doing it to me for 20 years. When she fell into my life, it just seemed natural to let her do to me the things she wanted to do.
She never made plans; I had to deal with her last-minute texts asking me to drop everything and come to her. When it was my idea, the timing was bad, the idea was wrong, the details were illogical. When it was hers, I had no say but followed along because I thought I loved this person.
For four months I did everything she wanted, everything she asked, everything she needed, because I though that’s what I wanted, I thought, that’s what you do for the people you love.
I thought I loved her.
I never really did.
It felt like love at the time, but since then, I’ve felt what love truly is. I understand the difference now.
I was infatuated with her, obsessed with breaking down the wall she’d so viciously built up. I was sure I could get through to her when no one else could. I was intent on learning every detail of her life so I could examine and cherish it.
Since then I’ve felt real love from my friends, my chosen family, the amazing girl I dated for two and a half months, and the incredible people I’ve filled my life with since the abuse.
I thought I had no regrets. I comforted myself with the belief that everything happens for a reason.
I’m sick and tired of excusing her. I’m sick and tired of refusing to admit the regret I feel for every time I let her shove me down. I’m furious that my society had me convinced that in the long run my abuse was worth it, because everything happens for a fucking reason.
Sometimes things just happen.
And you can be angry as hell.
And that’s okay.
Because sometimes there’s no good reason for things to happen. All the lessons I leaned from my abuse, I could have learned from having loving parents and a secure support system. I could have learned it from a better social life growing up, from a few casual dating experiences I was never allowed as an adolescent. I could have learned it from so many other events.
There is no good fucking reason I had to suffer at the hands of a selfish cunt for a year and a half because society allowed me to be stupid enough to believe that I DESERVED IT AND IT HAPPENED FOR A REASON.
I want everyone to take a minute to reflect.
You don’t owe the universe anything.
Sometimes shitty things happen.
And it’s okay to be fucking angry about it.
Because there was no good reason. It just happened.
Allow yourself to feel the extent of that pain, because no matter how shitty it may feel to know you were hurt without there being a positive outcome, it’s so much better than lying to yourself and excusing the actions of your abuser to defend the idiotic idea that people getting hurt is okay.