“It’s Not Your Fault”

It goes like this: his pain was deeply rooted in an unhappy childhood spent wanting, longing for love that should have been freely given from the two people who were supposed to protect him above all else in this world. His aversion to my ‘joie de vivre’ grew from seeds of envy and repression. Here was a grown child who loved to call himself a man, floundering in insecurity and disappointments all piled up on him over the years because there had been no one to show him how to address them, help him file them away somewhere safe. It wasn't about me.

It wasn't really about sitting to have nude portraits drawn of myself, a bucket list item I had always felt just a little too insecure to check off my list. The day I made the decision to be drawn in this manner, I went to him full of excitement and butterflies and shining eyes. Proud of myself and high on confidence, I told him of my date with a woman artist who was the friend of a friend's friend and his reaction that day was the first irreparable crack in the veneer of our situation. Here was a person I thought would encourage me to pursue any silly dream I could dream because his words had once told me so, and yet he met my smiling eyes with disdain curling around his in a most sinister fashion. I was bombarded with questions, none of which had anything to do with tender curiosity but more an ugly, desperate tinge of judgment. Anger. Jealousy. Who would be there and who would see them and what would they be used for? Why did I need to fulfill this fantasy and what was I lacking that I should need to debase myself this way and, horror of horrors, what would people think of me? These questions I dutifully answered and he despised each response I gave especially when I explained, with firm resolve, that I didn't care what people thought. I was doing it for me and me alone. It was one of the first big fights we would have but it surely would not be the last. Despite his failed attempts to cloud my mind, I went and met the artist for what became a wonderful, reaffirming evening.

When I got home that night I felt potent and alive. I was so moved by the art created around my image that I immediately posted to one of my social media accounts, not just a photo from the session but also a long caption about being brave and owning my life, etc. The self-love post was up less than five minutes before my phone rang and, when I answered, there was fury at the other end. This photo was inappropriate; I was in a relationship with him, why did I need other people to see me in such a lewd way? What kind of message was I sending and how would people view me now and didn't I know that this person or that person would see it and what would people say and what about his friends and family - what would they think of him if they saw that picture? Didn't I know that I now represented him and that this post was disrespectful, too sexy? I was bewildered. At first, I tried to calm him. Reassure him. He would have none of it. I was seeking the wrong kind of attention and I was with him now, so I shouldn't need to get validation from anyone else. We went around in circles for a long time; me trying to get him to see that people will sexualize a goddamn potato if they want to and also point out that there were photos of me in a bikini on my page so what's the difference, really? He said he knew he sounded crazy and controlling but that's not what he was intending. I pointed out that he was, in fact, attempting to control my mind and my choices. In the end, I removed the post. His dark magic had worked. I didn't want to hurt him or make him feel more insecure than he already was. I told myself I was doing the right thing. I sat on my kitchen floor and cried. That was the night my resentment was born.

A few weeks later, in spite of our disagreements and fueled by a new influx of confidence the artful drawings had unleashed, I agreed to model for a childhood friend interested in starting a boudoir photography portfolio. This decision I was hesitant to share with him. I told close friends and family members, giddy with anticipation. Each of them remarked at how wonderful it was that I was embracing my body this way, happy to support my growing esteem. Each of them were also miffed that I wasn't sharing this with the person I was in a relationship with. I withheld my plans from him as long as I could, until I knew I couldn't keep it from him any longer. I didn't want to have to lie about it, or keep it hidden, as I had every intention of sharing tasteful tidbits once the pictures were available to me. I even talked about involving him in the shoot - not only did I feel that might help him to be more accepting of it, but I also had high hopes that perhaps having his photograph taken might help him to see himself differently and offer him a chance to learn to be comfortable in his own skin. This was all met with much of the same diatribe as the first situation, though my invitation to have him there with me seemed to soften the blow ever so slightly. And so the day arrived.

He showed up late, with darkened eyes and an air of loathing, which I tried to ignore. It was easier to do with my friend in the room, though I knew there'd be hell to pay after she left. The session went well enough; I was nervous and acting silly, all the while his eyes burned angry holes into me as I posed and arched and giggled and stripped. Days later, when the photos were ready to be viewed, I did so enthusiastically. I saw myself in a way I hadn't before - through the lens of someone else's camera, in soft light and with such feminine wiles as I could never capture in lascivious bedroom selfies. Awestruck I showed him the pictures, careful to emphasize the beauty of those we had been in together. He picked out his flaws. He told me I looked beautiful, but with sarcastic bitterness in his voice he hissed "you don't have to answer to anyone about the way you love yourself." He asked me not to post any of them. And I reluctantly obeyed. My resentment grew.

Even though his words were delivered with venom, intended to paralyze and eventually kill me, he was correct - I don't have to answer to anyone about the way I love myself. Anyone who doesn't like me, my choices, my past...that's their business - not mine. It's as simple as that. Any time I told him as much it seemed to set his eyes on fire, and not in a sexy way. More like the way a backdraft consumes you after you open the wrong door in a burning building. He was filled with an even greater need to knock me down to his level and feed me fears that were handed to him a long time ago, long before I ever took up residence in his life.

After that, it seemed, everything was a battle. I could hear nothing but contempt in his voice whenever he asked me questions about where I was or what I was doing when we weren't together. Before a Christmas party one night I texted him a picture of myself in a lovely dress, essentially asking him "what d'ya think?" and his response was immediate: "you never dress that hot for me!" One day, hanging up the phone after chatting with a dear friend, he became enraged. Apparently, I was speaking too kindly to this person - he felt that my particular tone of voice and terms of endearment were to be reserved for him and him alone, and was envious that I had spoken to another person with such affection. I discovered a new recording artist and became entranced by her voice, her persona, her strawberry blonde hair. Upon witnessing my adoration, he informed me that my ability to seemingly fall in love with this woman was unnerving - I was flighty and unpredictable in the worst kind of way. He was threatened by a stranger cradling a guitar. The insecurity and manipulation devolved quickly into name-calling ("slut" was his favorite), people-bashing (close friends labelled "drunks" who were "wasting their potential" or "didn't have my best interests at heart") and outright accusations ("I know you were with so-and-so last night"). If I didn't text good morning I was inconsiderate and if I didn't text goodnight it was because I didn't care about him and if I didn't respond fast enough I was ignoring him or just up to no good.

Holy fuck, dude. This wasn't about me.

It wasn't about my network of friends, who have my back always, though he was often bothered by me tending to those relationships on a regular basis and made sure to insert his tiny, backhanded comments whenever possible. Obvious attempts at further alienating me from people who truly love me. I realized only too late that he himself did not have such a spectacular support system, that his place in his tiny personal community was largely one based on a kind of thinly-veiled respect - one born of fear, not love. He knew to use my empathy and shortcomings against me and often found ways to keep me near, suggest that my time would be better spent with him for various reasons. He may have been an idiot but he wasn't stupid and he knew where I was vulnerable because I had trusted him enough to reveal where I felt lacking or off-track in my own life.

This didn't go on as long as it could have but it certainly went on longer than it should have. I attempted numerous times to get us back on the same page; I didn't want to believe that this person had deceived me with false kindnesses. I remembered when I had felt safe just being myself and being truthful and raw and open, and I longed to get that back. I finally had to admit that the safety net had been an illusion all along, and that every move this person had made was a direct attempt to manipulate and trap me. I tried to break it off more than once, rationally and without ill-will. I used all the anger management language I could, careful not to blame or condescend, regretfully noting that we weren't right for each other and we should part now in hopes of preserving some shred of friendship. I didn't want any bad blood. Once again, my weakness was used as a weapon. If I left, I was just running away because things weren't going "my way". I just wanted to break up so I could sleep around, because that's "what I do". He needed me. He couldn't be alone. If I left, I was just proving every nasty thing he said about me was true. All of these games worked for a month or two. And then it went too far.

He began bringing his anger into our shared work space. Screaming and belittling me in front of other employees, even customers. One afternoon, disgusted with myself and with his behavior, I told him quite simply that I was leaving. I refused to be treated this way any longer. I was called "ungrateful" and "disrespectful". When I pointed out that, actually, his behavior was disrespectful as well as unprofessional, he threw dishes at me and screamed "get the fuck out!" I was almost relieved by his words, harsh as they were. As I began to gather my things and head for the door, he bodily blocked me from leaving before approaching me in a most violent manner. His eyes were black like a shark's. His clenched fist was tightly wound around a set of car keys. I was terrified. I told him he was scaring me and asked him to please let me leave before things got worse but he only moved in closer, screaming poisoned words and towering over me while raising his fist in the air, coming at me with hate in his heart. I remember thinking to myself that I was in serious trouble, that this is how these things happen. This is how women end up as statistics. He backed me across the room, almost to the wall - until his dog came and put herself between us, quite obviously trying to protect me. This clearly infuriated him but it also took the wind out of his sails. I was able to get myself out of the building and, eventually, out of his life.

It can, and does, happen to anyone. Of all sexes, backgrounds, ethnicities. The strong ones. The smart ones. The ones who "know better". The ones who love themselves unapologetically. I cannot stress this enough: IT IS NOT YOUR FAULT. It is tempting to think that you've brought it on yourself somehow. You deserve it. You should have done this or said that. Maybe you can see the wounded child in them, like I did. Maybe you see the wounded child in yourself and think that if you can just make this relationship work, it will heal you somehow. I am sad to say that is not the case. It's easy to believe that, just like in the movies, if you love them harder or longer or if you bend and twist yourself around enough that you'll have the fairy tale ending. That is not reality. The hard truth is that too often we find ourselves in love with someone who isn't good for us; they won't offer the space for growth and evolution. There won't be any room for new adventures or soul-searching. Eventually there will come a time when you will tell yourself that this is it for you, your lot in life, the best you can do...and you will believe it. They will have won. And the cycle will continue to spiral.

I can't tell anyone how to escape their situation. It's scary and difficult - especially if you have to factor in children, shared living spaces in a shit housing market, lack of family or friends to support you; the idea that you have nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. It can be deeply embarassing to admit to anyone that you have found yourself in such a position, which furthers the inability to reach out for help. I still have not revealed many circumstances where I was tormented, ridiculed, pushed around, even assaulted by a partner who claimed to love me - because I was so ashamed of myself for "letting it happen." This is something I am working on every day. I understand there are many dimensions to removing yourself from a situation that is inherently dangerous, be it physically or mentally. And abuse comes in many disguises. So I would like to offer this small suggestion, which is where I started from.

Put your hand over your heart. Take a deep breath. Then take two more. Now tell yourself these seven words, in your head or bravely out loud wherever you are: I FORGIVE YOU AND I LOVE YOU.

That's it. Practice saying it again and again. Doesn't matter where or when. While you're driving. While you're cooking. While you're waiting in line for your morning coffee. In the shower. On the bus. During your lunch break. Laying in bed at night. You get the point. This practice doesn't require big, immediate changes or suddenly upending your life. It only requires a willingness to consider yourself, to imagine that you can have a different life...a willingness to begin.