October 8, 2013
M. W. you are the fucking scum of the Earth. I hate you so much that it causes me physical agony to have such hate inside me. My heart and brain still feel tortured by your misdeeds. I want you to die because it seems that this will be the only way I can find peace. I could never kill a cow or some other innocent animal, but YOU who make it a point of deceiving and using everything that I held most dear to my heart as BAIT deserve to rot in hell. Sometimes I think I could bring myself to send you there.
I can see myself standing over your body smashing in your face as you beg ME for mercy…for compassion…for empathy. Oh how I would laugh! I would laugh right in your stupid face as I spat in it.
***
So I guess you could say that I’m suffering from a relapse. When things are so far out of one’s consciousness they are easy to ignore, but once they become focal, the vice-like grip of addiction closes its fist around my throat. I’ve had two recent run-ins with M. The first one, I was anticipating his attendance, as his band was playing…and I did get through that mostly unscathed (even though I am SURE I witnessed him trying to make me jealous by following around a heroin-chic (read: anorexic) young woman with dark circles under her eyes and wearing referee pants). The second run-in occurred where I least expected it: the opening of the graduation photography exhibition in the campus museum. He did not appear to be in attendance with anyone and he did not appear to be there to support anyone in particular. I saw his long, blonde hair out of the corner of my eye and froze on the spot. My knees shaking, I was reduced to a sobbing mess in the middle of the gallery. Moments prior I had been so proud of myself knowing in my heart that there was NO WAY I’d have an agoraphobic freak-out and start having a panic attack in the museum. But no…I am indeed having yet another PTSD episode in front of my professors and classmates who have been hearing me read my artist statement all semester long, about being in an abusive relationship with a narcissist. In fact, I’m pretty sure the professor whose class I took an incomplete in, because I developed Bells’ Palsy midway during the semester (as a result of all the stress I was under after starving myself and crying myself sick all summer over M.), saw me crying in the corner. Luckily, my super supportive partner was there by my side (which is a thing M never was, I keep reminding myself) and he knows that the quickest way out of a panic attack for me is to go somewhere quiet. My knees, however, were not feeling supportive enough to let me leave via the conveniently located staircase which would allow me to slip out undetected. No, I am standing there having a meltdown where M. can see just how much of an impression he is making on me. Coupled with seeing my photographs, which clearly portray him as a psychopath, I’m sure he knows exactly how his presence affects me. Yet, I can’t help buy feel he will just continue to find new ways to inflict himself on me.
My art, which I am extremely proud of, is hanging in a prestigious photography museum and my special day is tainted by the arrival of the last person I would hope to see. I have created a series of images where I re-enact scenes from my relationship with him, with the knowledge that he is a Narcissist. There is no way he won’t see exactly what they are about upon first glance. I mean, the guy is a Narcissist after all. Since the art show, I have started smoking cigarettes again. I smoked one at the show as a way to calm myself, and now find myself wanting one whenever I see my boyfriend light up. I’m fighting the urge to buy a pack because I know once they are in my hands, I will be as hardcore a smoker as I ever was. There is something about Paxil that seems to make it very easy to fall back into old addictions.
However, the largest addiction still looming is my addiction to M. Running into him has triggered a myriad of PTSD symptoms including, but not limited to: obsessive thinking, cognitive dissonance, depression, anxiety, paranoia, all of which are exacerbated by the undeniable fact that there is still some hurt, fucked up part of myself that wants all of this to be drama I created in my mind. I want M. to be a decent human being, capable of love, and I want him to sincerely apologize for the way he treated A and I. I want to know that his latest “girlfriend” is not wasting the best years of her life with a heartless monster that will just tear her down to a shred of her former self. As she is a healer, I can only imagine how much going through something like what I’ve been battling for the past few years would negatively affect her career.
