“How often are you doing coke?”
“Not often. Only like, once or twice a week.”
So casual. Nonchalant.
I act like it doesn’t phase me.
Inside, half of me wants to shake him and scream “What Are You Doing!?!” And half of me wants to ask if he wants to do some with me right now.
I do neither, just continue smoking my cigarette. I’m a cool girl, after all.
“So, are you still getting counseling at that beaten woman place?”, he asks me.
“Yes. … Did you ever get into any kind of counseling to stop beating me?”
“Nah, I knew you were mad at me so I didn’t think there was a point.”
Four months ago I asked him to leave because he was beating me and coercing me into using drugs again. I really thought we would get into counseling and he’d be back within a couple weeks. That never happened.
About once a month he shows up desperate to see me, to work it out. He says he’s been miserable without me. I’m the only one for him, he’s so sorry. Everything I’ve been waiting to hear. Each time I hold out longer and longer. Each time I give in and eventually end up letting him come over or meeting him somewhere.
He’s definitely skinnier now and though he’s always so fucking beautiful, his skin is thinner and sunk in around his eyes.
I know he’s not going to change. Each time I see him, I know in the first ten minutes of talking that he is not serious. But usually, I have sex with him anyways if only because I need the comfort and I can’t get myself to do it with someone else yet.
I don’t however, do drugs with him. Much as I’d like to. Not worth the risk and definitely not worth it for him. It’s like, it took him picking drugs over me for me to hate drugs more than I love them. I’m jealous of the drugs, can you believe that? I’m jealous he is doing drugs and I’m jealous the drugs won over me. Fucking drugs.
Kind of funny how someone changes you. Me, the girl who loves sex, has had various partners, was once a cam girl, who’s family works in the strip club industry, whos current line of work assists the strip club industry, who has guys hitting her up on the daily (it’s like, they sense when you’re single and vulnerable and come creeping from all sides), can’t even think about having sex with a new person right now.
Me, the cigarette smoking, meth addict, coke addict, stoner girl who says yes like a reflex, does anything to get high, surrounded by substance abuse in every part of my life, lost custody of her children due to drugs, is disgusted by the thought of using after he chose it over me.
Me. The strong woman, sister, friend, mother, daughter, aunt, worker, salesperson, leo, warrior, who quit meth cold turkey, gave birth naturally with no epidural, and also had a c-section, had a miscarriage, works two jobs, and has an autistic child, is so broken down and traumatized that I can’t stop loving my abuser and obsessively clinging to the memory of what we had and my dreams of the future.
From what the counselors I have seen say, and the books say, and all the internet research says, how I feel is expected. Trauma bonding, narcissist (God I hate that word), stockholm syndrome, battered woman syndrome, sado-masochist, victim, ptsd, idiot, fight flight freeze, yea I get it. Whatever label you want to put on it, you’re probably right.
I wish he could come back again but I wish he would never come back at the same time. I know he’s bad, he’s dangerous, he corrupts. But I know I love him and in my heart, I’m his, even if I’m not. I know I can’t be with him, but that doesn’t mean my heart isn’t his.
Do the angels ever miss Lucifer? Do they cry knowing he chose to go bad, instead of being with them and God? Do they yearn to look at his beautiful face like I do?