INSPIRED BY TRUE EVENTS. CHARACTERS AND EVENTS MAY HAVE BEEN ALTERED FOR STORY LINE PURPOSES.
**Trigger Warning: Descriptions and detailed scenes tied to Intimate Partner Violence.
THE WRONG MR. RIGHT
|Ugh. People with their long-term monogamous relationships make me sick. Taking pictures in front of a Christmas tree, kissing under the mistletoe. It all makes me sick. Does anyone even know the meaning of Christmas? Does anyone even know the meaning of love? Love ultimately leads to separation of some sort. So, what’s the point in being in a relationship, anyway?|
When you love someone, you should be willing to put that person’s life ahead of yours.
Even if it was only for that moment, I loved so hard. For what? So I can get my heart torn out and stomped on? Then you expect me to love you again? You took everything from me. You took so much, I had nothing left to give myself.
You threw me on the bed because “you didn’t want to hurt me.” You called me names so I could understand the anger I “caused” you. Why? I did nothing to hurt you, at all.
It was all a tantrum. A show. Pretend. And that’s all you are. A pretend lover. You never actually opened up to me. It was only anger. You were never truly yourself. Just an act.
You’re always going to be fake to me. Christmas is mostly about consumerism now and I hate that. That is also fake. Like you. So have fun this Christmas, living a fake ass life with fake ass traditions.
Fuck you, Mr. Right. Seriously, go fuck yourself.
April 3, 2012
After several months of trying to get back into dating and looking like an idiot, I’m done. I can’t believe I posted my phone number on my neighbor’s door and told him he was cute. I can’t believe I slept with this freshman White-Boy who came after like 3 seconds (poor thing couldn’t handle all this). I also can’t believe I slept with my childhood BFF (it was great, too). And I really can’t believe I just texted my piece-of-shit ex-boyfriend.
He wasn’t always a piece of shit to me. We were really good friends in the beginning. He was my favorite person to be around when I was a freshman in community college. But after a year or so, he started getting controlling and possessive, so I got the fuck out of that relationship.
But when my Dad died, Mr. Right was there for me with a strong shoulder to lean on. He’d take care of me after I was done taking care of everyone else. But just as I would quiet my sadness, Mr. Right would ask questions like, “So, did you fuck anyone else?” and then add things like, “A break don’t mean shit. You were unfaithful if you fucked around like that.” And I would come back with things like, “Well then, technically, I was unfaithful.” That same strong shoulder I loved to lean on would then jerk me around.
Sometimes it was a shove. Sometimes it was broken objects. Like cellphones, windows, doors. He would lose control, blame it on me, take it out on me, weep like a child, and then beg for forgiveness. It was a vicious cycle. Round and round. Get mad at stupid shit, blame it on me, take it out on me, feel like a piece of shit and cry, and then beg for another chance. Pathetic, honestly. At the time, however, I was crying, too. I was scared he’d take things too far.
After my Mom divorced my Dad, she married this tall, light-skinned hijo de su puta madre from Michoacan, Mexico. Universe, forgive me for speaking of the deceased in that way, but I’ll never forgive him for what he did to my Mom.
He was emotionally abusive and controlling. When she asked for a divorce, he showed up to the apartment with a plan for a murder-suicide. He only got away with one thing on that list. And now my Mom lives with the haunting memory of brains splattered across white walls and beige carpet. She still shutters when she hears a loud BANG!
I didn’t want my Mom to live with losing her daughter to intimate partner violence, too. But some part of me thought this was “it” for me. This is the most love I’ll get out of a relationship. This is the kind of love I deserve. I’d never seen someone with so much hate and anger in their eyes. But it didn’t matter how many times I tried to leave, he just wouldn’t leave me alone.
But now I’m here in Humboldt, 700 miles away from my family and friends – basically, all I’ve ever known. And even though I blocked his ass on Facebook and changed my phone number, I still yearn to reach out. I’m lonely and he’s loyal.
I don’t know if he’s changed. All I know is that he’s a person I trust and am comfortable around. Freud has thing weird theory about people falling in love with partners that remind them of their parents. I don’t buy it. Mr. Right is nothing like my Dad, but at least I know he’s a ride-or-die kinda motherfucker. That’s all I need right now.
Weirdly, I’m not afraid of him anymore. If I feel uncomfortable, I’m not afraid to speak up anymore. If he gets loud, I’m not afraid to laugh and point out the silliness in all this anger. If he dares put another hand on me, I’m not afraid to stab this foo in his gut. And if it all goes to shit, I’m not afraid to die trying to defend myself.
He doesn’t own my power anymore – I do.
April 10, 2012
I cannot believe this. I just spent the most magical weekend of my whole ass life with Mr. Right.
Yeah, yeah, yeah – I know. We decided it was a good idea for him to drive to Humboldt to see me. Don’t ask me how it got to this point. All I know is booty-calls are sometimes hella complex.
He drove up from L.A. bearing gifts; my bike from back home, an ounce of bomb-ass LA bud, a Ziploc bag half full of gold caps, a bit of hash and this new thing called DMT. I already had access to all this product in Humboldt (I mean, come on – it’s Humboldt) but getting it for free as an apology gift is more my steez; I think it’s the Aquarius Ascending in me.
As if Mexican Drug-Dealers didn’t already have a bad rep, Mr. Right had to go and fulfill the violent stereotype. He was hypermasculine in the ways that pressured him to bully other boys into joining his entourage. He didn’t have real “friends.” He had scared boys who never said a damn thing when Mr. Right would raise a hand to me in front of them.
He also owned a gun and taught me how to use a shot-gun and an SR22. About two years ago, he pointed a shotgun at me. There was no fight, no horseplay, no obvious trigger for him to do that, so I panicked. I belted out and started crying for help. Then he started laughing hysterically. Said he was playing a prank on me. No, I didn’t think it was a red flag. Yes, I started laughing, too.
In Dr. Howe’s Family Relations in Contemporary Society lecture, I’m learning that when your young brain sees violence in your home growing up, you’re more likely to be the victim of intimate partner violence, or be the perpetrator of violence in the relationship. Sometimes, you’ll be both. Hearing the way Mr. Right’s mom berates him sometimes makes me cringe. She’s usually drunk out of her mind when she goes off, but she digs her nails deep into ill-healed wounds.
Mr. Right is aware of his trauma and has is actively trying to heal his trauma. At least that’s what he said on Facebook. Those things are usually pretty accurate, right?
We drove out to the beach on Saturday to explore this new Northern territory together. I rolled the window down and let the crisp off-shore breeze forcefully sweep hair into my face. I popped in a Summer 2010 mixed CD with songs by Sublime (not with Rome), Rebelution and Bob Marley. Hearing about world peace and smoking trees, while enjoying the sunshine sends jolts of serotonin throughout my body. I live for moments like this.
At the beach, we tucked ourselves in between the giant forest rocks and trees and pitched a small tent. Beaches here get super windy and cold, so we chose a spot where we could watch the sunset without being pounded by the wind. It didn’t take too long for us to realize how much we missed each other’s company.
I never thought I’d have sex on the beach, but he and I were pretty adventurous with each other. There was that one time in the woods…and on the highway…and on a roof. I guess I’m not surprised we did this, too.
Between the time I left LA and now, I’ve had a lot of time to explore my body and sexuality. I finally know how a real orgasm feels and I know how to make myself get there – alone. Plus, vibrators have become a necessity and a luxury. I’m not relying on anyone else for pleasure anymore, honey; This gal has got it down!
People often neglect this fact, but having an orgasm on THC is an extremely pleasurable experience. Your body is relaxed. Your mind is at ease. Your body is flowing with nature and if you’re not feeling paranoid, sleepy, or munching out, then you can immerse yourself in a sensational encounter. We smoked a fat ass joint. Because that’s what we did when we were together. We smoked; We laughed. We lived in the moment. This guy always came through for me. If I had a problem of any sort, he was there to support me through it and help me feel better. We rode hard for each other. And there he was, 700 miles from home, stripped of all toxic masculine cultural expectations and pressures, inhaling dank ass LA bud and exhaling shame and fear.
I asked him to visit me again. Yup. Even after everything he’s done to me. Maybe I need closure? He was supposed to leave this morning, but he ended up leaving sometime in the afternoon. When it was time for him to go, he started sobbing. And boom – just like that, there it was: instant regret.
“I just don’t want to go back down to LA. There’s nothing for me out there! I’m not safe out there!”
Mr. Right is sitting with his head in his hands with tears and mucus running down his face. I crouch down to meet his eyes. But, I can’t sit here and coddle him. I’m going to be late for work.
“You have a life down there and I have a life up here. Your Dad needs you in LA. You’ll be okay,” I say firmly, but calmly.
He wipes his tears but lets his mucus fall onto his lips. He’s an ugly crier. “But you don’t understand what it’s like for a guy like me in the ‘hood. Constantly having to look over your shoulder…ready for the next foo to come at you. Ready for shit to pop off.” He takes his sobbing to the next level and yell-spits, “YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT IT’S LIKE FOR ME!”
I don’t have time for this. I don’t know what it’s like but I don’t feel sorry for him. He’s a white Mexican cis-het-man with anger issues and trauma. He needs a therapist, not a girlfriend.
“You need to get your shit together and go home.” I let out a sigh and looked him sternly in the eyes. “I’m going to work and by the time I come back, I hope you’re gone.” I soften my look cause I don’t want him to react violently but not before reminding him that this weekend was lovely, but it’s come to an end. Before I left, I sat with him for a second and put my hand on his leg. I finally whispered, “Let me know when you get home,” and walked out of my dorm.
My job was only a 2-minute walk from my dorm, but I took an alternate route so Mr. Right couldn’t follow me. I wouldn’t put it passed him to show up and make a scene. I’m usually not one to air out my dirty laundry at work, but I had to tell my boss why I was late. She’s a gem. She knows what it’s like to have been kicked around by a loser. She kept me at work as long as she could and asked my coworker to walk me back to my dorm as a safety precaution.
Mr. Right left before I got back from work. Thank the Universe. What a relief. But what Pandora’s box did I just open? Before his meltdown, I told him we should do it again this summer. I thought things would be different.
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