In some schools of thought you attract what you want, what you are. I say bullshit.
I was duped. He appeared charming, intelligent, funny as can be, intense, passionate, spiritual, a big thinker, without boundaries… for the first 6 months.
It was a whirlwind. A dream. A fairy tale. We spent passionate night after night making love 6, 7, times or more. He always lit candies and incense, played music. Sometimes he’d give me a single rose or a poem. We’d be together every night. I’d leave at dawn to return at dusk. I’d have stayed if I didn’t have to go home and bring back my mothers car. I’d have stayed forever. Nothing else in the world mattered. He held me so close. He never took his eyes off me. We couldn’t be close enough.
I felt like I met my match. Little did I know that soon it would vanish overnight.
We were married. I got pregnant, just like we said we wanted. We.
We immediately got a tiny little apartment. I was very ill with the pregnancy from the start but never made a fuss. From the beginning he completely shut off. He became a paper doll of himself. He was gone and I’d never get him back.
I still miss how he loved me.
It took a long time for me to understand there was something wrong. I was still madly in love. I didn’t understand at all.
I’m an extremely independent person. I like being alone. I quite prefer it. I help people, I am told to a far greater extent than others, but I never had any internal drive to save anyone or change anyone. Still, on the subject aspie’s lacking empathy, sheer poppycock! I loved immensely and showed it. I wore my heart on my sleeve. When it came to my intense emotions I had a habit of not being able to seal my lips. The balance held true for the opposite end. If someone was a jackass I’d confront them. If they were unapologetic and the behavior continued I walked away and never looked back.
I have had my share of bumps, bad “friends”, bad relationships. I knew to stay away from destructive people once they revealed themselves. I don’t mean someone having a bad day or going through a hardship, no. True darkness. I’ve been raped. I’ve been stalked. I’ve been hit. I’ve been held at gun point. I’ve been homeless.
I came through stronger every time. I still trusted. I never lumped anyone into a group created of generalized hate. I still believed in honesty and love. At least, I did. Now not so much.
I was adopted by a mildly abusive upper middle class family and, unusually, I never thought I was bad nor did I blame myself for all the terrible things they did. Most abused children blame themselves. I knew it was them mistreating a child. I was verbally and physically abused and at one point I thought that was how parents were. Just terribly irrational, selfish, idiotic, and mean as all hell. I thought it was normal, and in a way though they treated me poorly and quite wrong, they were mostly normal. Normal, as in a lot of parents treated their kids pretty damn awful, more or less.
I have known hundreds of people in my lifetime, and rarely did I ever hear someone say they were treated fairly, that their parents were wonderful, supportive, loving. Of course it is all subjective. Getting spanked once and denied sugar may have been one persons idea of a traumatizing childhood.
I questioned it through the eyes of a child, “fairness”, but time and time again, temper tantrums and hormone inflicted mood swings aside, being beaten (for example) because your younger brother drew a box on the wall in blue crayon, was wrong.
I was hit, choked, smacked, my head went into walls, lamps (allowing for days of picking glass from my thick hair), anything was fair game to my father. My mother remained a watching statue.
Never provoked. Never a smart mouth when I was young. I “breathed wrong”, I washed the dishes wrong. I was there, asking for nothing, clearly a burden, in their eyes. No exaggeration, I never dared ask for a thing.
I never got tucked in. I was never kissed goodnight. Not read to. I taught myself how to read by the time I was 4 mainly from a collection of fairytales. I read Poe’s Nevermore obsessively. Years later when I learned he was adopted too, the natural draw made sense somehow.
As soon as I was able, I cared for myself. I dressed myself, washed myself, my school uniforms were pressed and hung every day since Kindergarten, as if house elves had snuck into my room at night using magic. My parents tried not to touch me and interact as much as possible. They succeeded.
Their son, who was born shortly before I turned 3, was spoiled rotten. Somehow I felt pity for him, up until recently where I learned he complained we were treated unfairly, and that I got more. I may be mad but I am often the sanest one here.
My mother told me I was always crying when I was an infant so she just left me alone in my crib, every day, for hours. She suggested I do the same to my children. Of course I absolutely did not.
I have so many stories yet so many huge gaps where I remember nothing. Perhaps that’s perfectly normal. Though …I’ve never blacked out. I’ve been utterly piss-your-pants drunk and am completely aware of not only acting and speaking like an uncontrollable buffoon but I remember it afterwards. I remember dreams as if they were events in my waking life. I’ve had 4 mild concussions that I was present through, one caused by my 17 year old head going through the windshield of my car that I learned much later fractured my jaw. How can I not remember my childhood other than a handful of moments? I suspect I blocked it out for a reason.
One summer night, at the age of 22, I was preparing to go out and meet friends at a local coffeehouse. At the time I had recently moved back home, preparing to return to college. My friends and I often began our nights that way and floated to bars, danced and drank, then scrambled somewhere high on life and spirits for greasy food. I was making up for a recent 1 1/2 year relationship that ended horribly followed immediately by a couple of shorter spanned ones that were bland. I was about to go out the door to a good ole’ fashioned night of shenanigans and tomfoolery. It was then, as I walked through the house toward the door, that my mother pointed out my dress was torn and she asked me to wait. I paused, curious, and watched her go to a cabinet and remove a needle, thread and scissors. It was so surreal. She knelt down at my side and began stitching, and as she did she jokingly called me “Cinderella”. Then after a thick silence she began rambling and told me some time ago there was a baby, and this baby was sick, so a group of people got together and broke into a church, turned the crucifixes upside down, placed the baby on the alter and held a black mass.
I couldn’t move.
I felt as if I turned to stone. My lips parted and a voice I recognized as my own asked her if I knew this baby. She stared hard at me and nodded her head, uttering a deep and hideous “Yes”, behind pink eyes.
Sometimes I’m so very glad I don’t remember my youth.
Oddly enough that was also the first night I saw him.
The attraction was, on my part, like lightening striking. It was an utter cliche in every way, complete with being across a crowded smoke filled room.
I was taught what to avoid. I was taught how not to be. Abuse was the last damn thing I wanted.