During my dry period, I’d taken that time to fix myself and cleanse myself of bad habits. But here I was, chasing after the profile of the same asshole who had broken my heart in the first place. A single father no less, emotionally unavailable, and a complete megalomaniac.
Over and over again, I’ve broken my own heart. By my choices. By my unwillingness to see what is in front of me. Blinded by my romanticism of underwhelming characters.
I’ve developed some bad habits over the years. The worst of those being my inclination towards toxic men.
As a developing young woman, I was always fawned over arrogant, miserable douchlords. At first glance, they always appeared to be mysterious, intellectual and intriguing. I saw it as a challenge. If I could soften their demeanor towards me, if I could gain their affection and attention, then I had won. That was the all of the validation that I needed to confirm my self- worth.
It got worse as I got older. As an adolescent, I would just admire from afar. I knew better than to toil around with philanderers and heartbreakers, never taking their advancements seriously. But then, hormones. But then, nesting. And god dammit, feelings.
It’s like some weird primal attraction that draws me to these emotional vampires. Almost as if I’m hard wired to seek out my own destruction via one sided relationships.
He never cared to get to know me. Yet presumed to already know everything about me. He would make comments about my middle-class upbringing, as if I understood less about life because I grew up in a nice neighborhood. I’d lived a life full of loss and trauma, which he would downplay because I was middle class. Funny enough, he clearly was too. But still, I am a typecast as far as he is concerned. A cliché. A hippy vegetarian living in a la-dee-da world. He tried to put me into a box. Break me down into digestible pieces so that he could devour me.
I saw him for what he was. And instead of running away as I should have, I tried to understand. I hoped that if he accepted he could not manipulate me, he would just drop the act. Because sometimes, believe it or not, he could actually be cool. But that doesn’t play into his agenda. He can’t bother with someone who can’t be controlled.
We remained distant, starting up and burning out quickly until we both had had enough. He didn’t want to be seen, and I couldn’t date a fabrication.
He shied away from me because I possess something he can never have, substance. I am not a fabrication. I am an integration of genuine experiences, emotions and strength.
My existence challenges his because there’s more than meets the eye. When it comes to him, his image is all that he has.
He would often test his boundaries as well as my threshold of understanding. He would confide in me- disturbingly heinous things about himself to gauge my reaction. I’m still not sure if he meant those things-or if he was just trying to get a rise out of me. Either option points to psychological mayhem.
He’d brag about how insatiable he was- he often he could come among many other sexual deviancies. I’m convinced that he attempted to get me pregnant on more than one occasion. He would lie about carrying protection and insist that we do without. Perhaps this is a tactic of his to keep women addicted to him; creating an attachment without having to put any effort into keeping them.
He has since left the company that I work for. I later learned from coworkers from the other location that he had multiple girlfriends the entire time that we were involved. In addition to this, his family frequented the restaurant, and not one member of his family has an accent. Not German, not Colombian, and certainly not Irish.
The cock-sucker is a bloody American.