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"Diary of an oxygen thief": how a man fell in love with girls, and then left them to hurt

real story

By Sahina BanoPublished 3 years ago 11 min read
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Already none of us is surprised or misunderstood the term "psychological abuse", and there are quite a few recommendations and advice on the Web on what signs you can calculate toxic men. However, not so long ago we had the opportunity to look at the world through the eyes of this very abuser with the help of one of the most honest books on the topic of emotional abuse.

“The devil is not so terrible as he is painted,” - so think many women who have never encountered the concept of psychological violence. But the victims of abusers know very well how skillfully they can destroy not only self-esteem, but also derail the life of a partner. That is why the autobiography “The Diary of an Oxygen Thief. How I hurt women, ” written by an Englishman who wished to remain anonymous, quickly became a bestseller. Here is an excerpt from an honest story about how a man broke the hearts of girls. Why did the abuse bring him such pleasure? Read in this material.

Strange infatuation

I loved hurting girls. Psychological, not physical - in my entire life I have not hit a single girl. Okay, one time. But it happened by accident. In short, I really enjoyed it. Well, sort of like serial killers say they have no regrets or remorse for the deaths of all those they killed. So I was like this: I loved this business. I didn't care how long it would take, because I was in no hurry. I waited until they fell head over heels into me. Until they look at me with big, like saucers, eyes.

I was dragged from the look of shock on their faces. And then a glassy gleam in their eyes, when they tried to hide how much I offended them. And everything is within the law. I think I killed a few.

Their souls, I mean. I was hunting souls. But don't worry, retribution has caught up with me. That is why I am telling you about this. The same thing happened to me, only worse. Worse - because it happened to me.

I carried the burden of guilt for my crimes everywhere with me - more than a year after I quit drinking. Once upon a time I could not even look at the girl, much less believe that I deserve to talk to her. After joining Alcoholics Anonymous, I haven't even kissed a girl for five years. I was serious. Probably, deep down, I always knew that I have a problem with alcohol. It began to dawn on me that things were bad when I began to run up against beatings. Maybe that's why I switched to girls. And the girls didn't start beating me. They just stared at me, shocked and disbelieving. Their eyes, you know ... All the pretense and "rules" were instantly absorbed. There were only two of us and pain.

All those intimate moments, all the quiet sighs, gentle touching, lovemaking, confessions, successful orgasms, failed orgasms - it was all just fuel.

The deeper they got stuck, the more beautiful the sight was when that very moment drew upon. And I lived for this moment. During this period I worked in London as a freelancer in advertising. Art director. The idea was to create an impressive waiting list so that when one girl gets closer to maturation - usually after three or four dates with a couple of phone calls in between - another will get in line. Then, after one goes to the scrap, a new one can take its place. There was nothing unusual about my method, everyone did it. But how I was blissed out of it! Not from sex, or even from the conquest itself, but from inflicting pain.

Are they themselves to blame?

It was after a crazy evening with Pen - the details will be in a minute - it dawned on me that I had found my niche in life. I somehow managed to lure these creatures into my lair. Half the time I tried to push them away, but it only gave the opposite effect. And the fact that they were attracted to a guy like me made me hate them even more than if they burst out laughing in my face and went their own way. My appearance? Yes, nothing special, although they tell me that I have beautiful eyes.

After those stormy days, I heard one saying, which seems to be quite appropriate. Wounded people hurt others. Now I understand that I was in pain and I wanted others to feel pain too. This was my way of communicating.

I got to know women, on the first evening I got an indispensable phone number, then, after a couple of days, having made them sweat a little, I called - all so nervous. They loved it.

I asked them out on a date, pretending that I almost never do it, and saying that I don't go to bars in London so often, because I don't really know what is here and how. That was true, by the way, because the only thing I did was get passed out in local bars around Camberwell. I was half drunk even before we met, but I was witty, charming, like a boy and shivered all over. She smiled and made comments about my shaking, thinking I was nervous trying to make a good impression on her. Tried to calm me down.

I didn't really care if I put her to bed or not. I just needed company until everything was enough for me, until the courage accumulated in me to hurt. And she seemed happy because I didn't try to paw her. This went on for a couple more dates. And all this time, I encouraged her to talk about herself. This is very important in order to achieve complete success later.

The more they open up and put into you, the deeper the shock, and the more satisfaction the very moment at the end brings.

So I was told about the habits of dogs, about the names of teddy bears, about the mood swings of fathers, about the fears of mothers. Do I love children? How many brothers and sisters do I have? In strategic places, I raised an eyebrow. Grimaced if necessary. Stupidly grinning or imitating shock - in general, what was required by the situation. I exhibited these pre-prepared masks "on the whistle". It was easy. It felt good. Guys always did it to get fucked. I did it to get even. Take revenge on the entire Feminine. This was my mission.

A start

Penelope Arlington. I dated her for four and a half years. This is a long term. She was kind to me. When I spoke, Penelope turned to me, and it seemed: the only thing that matters now is the meaning of my words. I loved it. It was only much later that I found out that she was not in bed. And at that time she seemed to me to be a whore. In fact, she was not. But it’s the pain I’ve inflicted on her that I most regret. Because she didn't deserve it. Not that others deserve it, but she wouldn't have left me if I hadn't ripped her soul to shreds. And I needed her to leave me, because she stood between me and my drunkenness. And one evening I just broke down. I kicked myself into dizziness, and with a thud, the whole chain of events began to unfold. Why suddenly a person sets out to break the heart of the one whom does he love? Why do people kill each other? Because it gives them pleasure.

If the task is to achieve that the soul is scattered to smithereens, it is better for the performer to go through the same experience. The wounded hurt others more skillfully.

I'm tired of the girl I've been dating for four and a half years. I used to love her. This was the worst part of what I am about to tell you about. There is a possibility that she is somewhere out there at this very minute reading these lines. Pen, I'm so sorry! I needed to hurt you. I knew that everything was nearing the end. I knew that you began to despise me. You tried to hide your feelings, but they rippled across your face. Disgust. I began to hate you for this. For not having the heart to say what you really think of me. So I had to gather my courage and do it for you.

It was Friday night and I was sitting in some pub in Victoria Park. Once again, I quit my job. I was sure of one thing: I needed to get drunk until I passed out. By half past seven in the evening I was stumbling. We were supposed to meet Penelope at eight. I started off with something like, "How can I forget these four years?" Her questioning look, then an attempt to walk away: "Do you like my blouse?"

This usually worked too. But I figured it wouldn't work today. Not today. Today we will go all the way to the end. And I did it. Now she was shaking. From uncertainty. I was trembling too. From excitement. She ordered a drink from the counter. I'll be damned if I'm going to pay for it, - and I took a place at the round table, deliberately insolently devouring other girls with a glance. She saw it. She should have seen. And still no reaction. Four and a half years were at stake. Mostly good ones. So why doesn't she give me a day off for one evening? But that was exactly what was such an exciting factor for me. I decided everything. And she could not understand what was in my head.

I knew I could cripple Pen. She probably could have crippled me too, but she didn't have time, because I was going to do it first. But why?

I really loved her ... in my own way. Loved me very much. She was beautiful, funny and caring, but I was bored ... so bored! I had to think about other girls to get an erection. I had no desire to start the long and arduous journey to her orgasm, let alone mine. I was afraid to accidentally touch her, lest it be mistaken for an invitation to sex. And in order to at least feel something through this dullness, I decided to do with souls - hers and mine - what would be the equivalent of extinguishing cigarettes on paralyzed limbs. I hoped that if I could feel pain, it would be accepted with joy - as a sign of life. Or maybe I was just drunk. Anyway, my resolve was rock-hard and I said, "This is how I look when I pretend to listen to your boring chatter."

And he depicted a frozen mask - the sweetest expression of innocent blue eyes, round with feigned interest - the same mask that he put on at school, communicating with teachers. Pen peered at me suspiciously. This was new. I turned to the side like a mime preparing for the next character: "This is how I look when I pretend to be in love with you." I gazed at her lovingly but respectfully, as I had done before many times - and quite sincerely at that. I did it sincerely even now, but only because I wanted it to look convincing: “Wait ... What else? Oh yes! This is how I look when I pretend that you are witty ... So then I can sleep with you. " And I whinnied at the top of my lungs, throwing my head back and slightly to the side, and from time to time glancing at her out of the corner of my eye. Sorry girls! Guys also know all this and are able to. It began to dawn on her. The eyes were dim. I could help her with this: "And this is me."

“Your boobs are drooping,” I said as I hit me with my fist. I leaned back in my chair to see the effect better. "They're too big and hang too low." This was said in case there were still any doubts.

I waited for it to reach her. He raised his hand to his chin, as if pondering the next remark. Made the face as pleasant as possible. I become damn attractive when something gives me pleasure - or so, at least I was told: "By the way, I had sex with another girl - besides the one I told you about."

Now I was on my way to victory. Therefore, he smiled sympathetically. There is no need for a winner to gloat. He only needs to win. She looked different: different, new person.

I couldn't get anything else out of the situation. "Have you had enough?" I asked.

No hesitation. Just one nod from her. Down the chin, up the chin. She must have felt a breath of mercy. She felt wrong. Everything she did made me know that I had achieved the desired effect. That inside she is sobbing.

Love
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About the Creator

Sahina Bano

Freelance Blogger and Content Writer. I owe a website and write for my clients.

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