Welcome back to the next installment of The Ugly Truth. Jesus Christ, it sounds like some kind of dumb sitcom or soap opera. Whichever you favor more I guess.
Ugh, well here’s where I left off from Part 1: My two friends, Eve and Dick, had feelings for each other. Things didn’t work out. I ended up falling for Dick. We got together. Eve started pretending I didn’t exist. I tried to make the relationship “worth it”. Red flags popped up everywhere and I just didn’t see them.
Alrighty, here we go.
So Dick and I were dating. I felt like things were going well. But what I don’t realize? He was changing me. Making me into someone I didn’t know. They felt like small things to begin with but honestly, my whole personality was altered.
First he just got upset when I cussed and swore, even if it was in a playful way. Because of that he guilted me into stopping. I thought, “No big deal. I’m just being a good girlfriend.” Red flag number one. It might not seem like a big deal but in that moment I gave up part of my freedom to express myself. Yes, swearing is crude, but it’s my decision and mine alone.
Later on (and on multiple occasions), when we started getting more intimate, he confessed that “those” kinds of thoughts and impulses were somewhat uncomfortable for him. And I understood, I was totally cool with that. If he didn’t want to do those things then I wouldn’t push him. But that didn’t mean we didn’t get into those kinds of situations, which also would have been fine. However, he pushed the blame on me. Once again making me feel guilty and this time for his actions. I thought it was my fault for “encouraging” him. Red flag two. I later realized that I am in no way very responsible for his actions. I was willing to stop but the fact he never vocalized any wish to stop made it my fault for his lack of self-control. My impulses and desires became taboo and were ignored in favor of his feelings.
Now here’s where I get really pissed, especially looking back.
Any time we ended up going out in a group, he made me feel guilty for wanting to talk and interact with someone other than him. It didn’t matter if I was talking to a guy or a girl. He became increasingly possessive and jealous. It got so bad that I’d cry and apologize for “ignoring him” when in reality I had nothing to apologize for. I had every right to talk to my friends. Red flag three. I became his “property”. I couldn’t talk to anyone else, whether or not he was around. I gave up my freedom of company.
At one point I broke up with him, clinging to the hope that maybe we could still be friends. But whether we were a couple or not, he had me chained down and completely codependent. And somehow he reeled me back in, his beloved, obedient girlfriend.
It was around flag two that my depression really and truly kicked in.
WARNING! The upcoming content can be triggering to some people! If you are sensitive to topics like depression, self-harm, or death then please don’t read any further. You have been warned.
I had always thought about death. The idea had never really bothered me. I knew it was something that would come, no matter how much I or anyone else denied it.
But now I had begun to think of my own death. And how to accomplish it myself.
It was around this time I had begun to self-harm. Cuts and burns littered my body but only in places I thought no one would see.
And so I told him. Dick, supposedly my best friend. I poured my heart out to him, confessing to hurting myself. This is what he said to me:
How can you make it sound so beautiful?
He shouted at me. I confessed this darkest part of my soul and he yelled at me. As if it was my fault I felt this way. Like I wanted to feel so completely and utterly hopeless and lost. It was at this moment, something inside me just broke.
Not too long after that, I cut him off completely. I stopped talking to him. Ignored all his texts and calls, of which there were many. All within minutes, even seconds, of each other. So I blocked him in every way possible. Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Skype, FaceTime. Everything.
Then one day, he showed up at my home.
He confronted me, angry, as if he was the one who had been wronged. As he was the one who had been hurt and broken and abused.
Oh wait, that was me.
I turned away from him and before I could get inside he shoved the photo album I had made him for his birthday into my hands. Even from behind my front door, I could hear him throwing a fit and the smash of shattering glass. Later when I went out, I found the remains of picture frame and among the glass was a picture of us.
We haven’t talked since that day.
And while I came away from the encounter somewhat lighter than before, this was only part of what was dragging me down.
But for now, I’ll leave this story here.
Until next time,