Tag Archives: relationships

Trauma Bond

moth-to-a-flameI heard the phrase “trauma bond” recently. It apparently refers to the type of bond that develops between an abused person and the abuser, and which keeps the abused person going back for more. That’s not quite my definition. For me, a “trauma bond” is the bond I seek out with certain men. When I first meet these men I don’t know them very well – sometimes I don’t know them at all – but I can tell instinctively that they share a similar kind of pain to mine. And that dangerous knowledge draws me to them like a moth to a fucking flame. I suppose in a way that first definition I mentioned above is accurate for me, too. Although I know that men with whom I share a “trauma bond” are no good, I keep going for the same type of man again and again although I know they’ll end up hurting me.

I’m not quite sure why I seek out a “trauma bond” in my relationships. But I think it’s because there is this huge void and so much pain inside of me, and, honestly, a healthy man would never be able to understand that. I can’t imagine being with somebody who hasn’t gone to the same dark places that I have. I’m not saying that I want my future partner to be floundering about in the gutter when I meet him; but I don’t see how somebody who hasn’t done so at some point could understand me. I don’t mean that to sound pretentious, like “ooooohhhh, I’m so complicated”. All I mean is that I want to be understood. That’s all. I just want somebody to understand me, and not judge me for where I’ve been and what I’ve done.

I mention this because I’ve been emailing back and forth all day with my client. I said last night that i had nipped it in the bud, and I thought I had, but….well, the best laid schemes o’ mice n men etc. I emailed him again last night, he responded this morning, and that was it. These haven’t been sleazy emails at all. In fact, it’s just been nice witty and smart “getting to know you” emails. He hasn’t been inappropriate or creepy at all. And yet…..he’s the kind of guy who gets handjobs from an erotic masseuse. This is not good.

I don’t think he’s a sleazebag, or some kind of sexist, misogynistic asshole. What I think is that I’ve met my fucking male equivalent. He told me about his childhood, and his experiences, but he didn’t need to because I already knew. The trauma bond was there.

I’m not really sure what’s going to happen now. All I know is that something will.


One Day At A Time

It is now nearly twenty-four hours since I sent my last text to RG  asking him if he wants to get together on Thursday night. He still hasn’t responded. He was never someone who replied to texts straight away, but he has always responded before this. I guess this silence of his just means “no” but he is not mature enough to call me to tell me so.

I’m about to take my dogs to the park, and I was sorely tempted to text him to ask if wants to come with me, but I have managed to restrain myself. He would probably just ignore that text as well, and then I would be in even more pain than before. I just have to face the fact that he very well might not ever contact me again, and that he doesn’t want me.

I’m trying to take it “one day at a time” as they say in AA. If I tell myself that RG will never contact me again and that I should not contact him to chase after him, I start to panic. But if I can just get through one day at a time I know the pain will start to subside. It’s already nearly twenty-four hours since I contacted him last. And if I can get through tomorrow, then it will be forty-eight hours, and the day after that it will be seventy-two hours…

I’ve been through this very same thing ten years ago – obsessed with a guy who was emotionally unavailable. There was this dance of him pulling away, and me pushing, chasing after him, which of course made him pull away all the more. When that relationship ended, I think I had a nervous breakdown. To this day, it was the absolute worst period of my life. The break-up with MM doesn’t even begin to compare although I was actually married to him.

I survived, though. I’m still alive. “Time heals” yadda yadda yadda. If I can just sit still, feel the pain, but not let it drive me to take extreme measures, I know I will be OK. The scary thing is that “OK” is not the same thing as “happy”. Ten years after that last obsessive relationship, I am still incredibly lonely and empty inside. Every so often that guy still pops up in my dreams. This makes me worry about the RG situation as well. I know I’ll get over it, but what’s the point, I wonder, if there’s not this new, happy existence on the other side?

Between the ages of around fifteen/sixteen I was bulimic. It was never serious enough for me to be hospitalized but it still fucked up my life (and if you’re wondering what the fuck this has got to do with RG, I will tell you in a second). I was obsessed with food, and thinking about it and how to lose weight took up so much of my brain space. When my bulimia reached an all time nadir, I finally realized that I couldn’t continue to devote so much of my energy to obsessing over food. As a feminist, I felt that my all-consuming focus on my body was a betrayal of all the strong women who had fought for women’s rights, and for me to fulfill my potential. So, instead of dieting, and then binge eating, I forced myself to sit down at the table three times a day, and eat a healthy, balanced meal. It was torture at first, but, quite quickly, I got better. My poor body, which had previously yo-yoed between starvation and a carbohydrate high, was balanced for the first time in years. I actually lost weight without trying.

I think I should try a similar tactic to get through this situation with RG. Even though my heart doesn’t really believe it yet, my rational mind knows that I am smart, funny, beautiful and creative. RG does not appreciate me, and he never will. What  a travesty, then, for me to waste all my energy on romantic intrigue! Why can I not channel this energy into something much more positive and creative, like my writing and singing?

The answer to this is that I can and I just fucking have to. It’s a matter of survival.

The bottle

You didn’t need your drug. You could take it or leave it.

At first you only half noticed the way the light reflected in crystalline prisms in your glass, and the warm, comforting, back-in-your-mama’s-womb feeling as the liquid worked its way down.

You didn’t need your drug.

It was just something that happened to be there. What was the harm? It made your anxiety disappear for a few hours; you could talk to girls and make them laugh; you could take one home and fuck her, not thinking about anything other than the pleasure of grinding into her. When you woke up the next morning, the sheets stained with cum and sweat, she’d be gone. Or maybe she wouldn’t, and you’d spend the next week ignoring her calls.

You didn’t need your drug. The bottle stood on the countertop, blinking back at you knowingly as your eyes caressed its smooth, perfect sides.

And then you did need your drug… And then it was too late.

Everybody has a drug. You are mine.

A healthy woman would run a mile. I keep coming back for more. I can’t stay away. I step over the piles of unwashed clothes littered across your room, and make my way to your unmade bed with its filthy, crumpled sheets. I can’t wait until your cock is inside me.

The sex is amazing,  but it always leaves me feeling sad and hopeless. You look into my eyes as we fuck, and I stare back, but all I see is emptiness. I don’t know where you are, but you’re not with me. As soon as we’re done, you grab yourself another beer and smoke a cigarette. You always pull on a pair of shorts after we’ve finished fucking. You never let me see you naked.

I tell myself this is just a sex thing. I tell myself that I’m only into you because you’re emotionally unavailable. I stay away for a whole week, while you’re fucking some other girl, and I even go out on a date with another dude who picks me up in his 1964 Ford Galaxie, and who wines and dines me in a fancy French restaurant. I’m wearing my new 26-inch waist skinny Diesel jeans, and heels, and I look hot as hell. Every single man in the place wants me. But I don’t want them. I want you.

During dessert, I slip off to the bathroom to text you, wanting to meet up afterwards. I lie to myself that it’s only a booty call, and just to save face, just so I can feel that you don’t matter, I make out with Mr. Ford Galaxie on the trunk of the car. I hate it. His kisses are sloppy, and he tells me that we’re in “different places in our life” , and that I’m “wild” and “untamable”.

I’m so horny and desperate to see you that I park my car in the wrong spot, and it gets towed. We spend all night and all morning fucking so I don’t hear the tow truck.

My house keys, wallet and phone are in the car. I’m screwed and you make some mean comment about how I should get Mr. Ford Galaxie to help. I think you’re going to throw me out into the street with no money, no car, no keys, no phone. I’m bare footed because I can’t wear my too-new shoes that have blistered my feet. I can’t see because I threw away my contacts. I want to slit my fucking wrists.

But you do help me.

You’re such a mess that you still haven’t fixed your car’s flat, so you  call a friend to drive me to the towing company. You’re exhausted from fucking me all night, but you still come with me. This might mean you care. Or it could just be your Catholic guilt.

Your friend loves me. He keeps saying “Why don’t you like this girl?! Why don’t you like this girl?”. Your uncle I met the week before loved me. The locals in our bar say we’d be a “cute couple”. You don’t say anything.

You still don’t say anything when I tell you all about Mr. Ford Galaxie…the fancy meal, the drinks, his car, his kisses. You don’t need to say anything. You know I want you.

I go to a party, pick up some dude and bring him to the bar where he’s kissing me when you walk in. I hadn’t expected you to be be there – thought you were sleeping off another hangover – but I’m pleased you see. Your expression doesn’t change at all. I want to slap your fucking poker face. I tell you I could leave with this dude, or stay with you. I want you to fight for me, but the only thing you say is “I hope it doesn’t work out”. “Is that the best you’ve got”, I ask? “Yup, that’s the best I’ve got”. I storm out, but you know I’ll be back.

All my friends tell me to stay away from you. But I can’t. Your smell makes me melt. I breathe it in, and think that I want to have your babies. I love your cockiness and the little flashes of vulnerability that appear behind it. I love your bottle-top glasses and the way that your right eye can’t focus properly. I love the way your eyelids droop. I love – and hate – the way you deflect all attempts at serious conversation with a stupid joke.

I’m half in love with you. Or maybe I just think I’m half in love with you. Either way, it still feels the same.

You are my drug. And I will crawl over burning coals on my hands and knees to get to you. I don’t care how much I humiliate and degrade myself. You are my drug.

I need you.

I am not ready to give you up.

You Do It To Yourself

Way back in 2007, I had this disastrous long distance “fling” (if you can call it that) with this Dutch guy I met in an Irish bar in town. I was drunk, and we went back to his hotel and I fucked him – again without a condom. He had just broken up with a long-term girlfriend, so he was certainly not looking for anything serious. If this wasn’t ridiculous enough, the guy lived in fucking Oman. Yes, Oman. In the Middle East. I do not live in the Middle East. I live in the US of A.

After our one-night stand, he went back to Oman, but we had hours and hours and hours of intense, soul-bearing phone conversations. For a couple of months my body was physically in the US, but my head and my heart were far away on a sandy beach on the Arabian Sea. He was involved in some capacity in the oil business, so he had shit loads of money. He was tall, handsome, blond, rich and charming – with the emotional maturity of a fifteen-year-old boy. He dazzled me by taking me skiing in the Swiss Alps for five days, and I was supposed to be going to see him in Oman.

I never did get to visit him in the Middle East. Before I could, some young Dutch girl he had fucked a few months earlier at a wedding came to visit him instead. The trip was planned before he met me, so it would have been rude of him to cancel. Plus, I had no right to ask him not to fuck her (hell, we lived in different countries…thousands of miles apart…he wasn’t my boyfriend). But, oh….those intense, deeply romantic long-distance conversations…He promised not to fuck her, but, well…all of a sudden his phone was switched off for days. No way to contact him. You can guess what he was doing. When he finally was contactable, I did my usual verbally abusive thing, and I cut off all contact with him. I googled him once. I think he’s living in Jordan now.

With the benefit of hindsight, I can of course now say to myself, “What the hell was I doing getting involved with a guy in Oman?!”, especially one who was emotionally unavailable. I went through a very dark period after I cut off all contact with him. It was clear to me that I was very, very unhealthy, and had incredibly poor boundaries. I pulled out my old books on Sex and Love Addiction, and I might even have attended some Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous meetings.

I never wanted to go through the same thing again with a man but….slowly and surely, after the initial pain had worn off, the impetus to change and get better disappeared. I didn’t have any man in my life for a while, and  I wasn’t “acting out”, so I thought I was cured.

And, then…a year later, I met MM and he actually liked me. We had sex on our first date (um, again, without a condom…are you seeing a pattern here?) but he didn’t judge me. He liked me. He actually fucking liked me. And then he loved me. And I tried to love him back, but somehow I couldn’t. I’m so commitment phobic and afraid of real, genuine intimacy that I didn’t know how. And I treated him like fucking shit, verbally abused him, ruined his self-esteem, and just generally crushed him.

And now? I was supposed to see RG last night but, curiously, he said I couldn’t stay over. I smelled a rat, as he usually couldn’t wait to have me stay over and have sex. His uncle who has mild Asperger’s was visiting, so I thought at first that he was perhaps uncomfortable with having a girl there while a family member was present. But when I asked why I couldn’t stay over, he said he had to get up early in the morning to pick up a “friend” from the airport. I was now smelling an even bigger, practically man-sized rat. I let it go, thought I was just being paranoid, but, well, the above “Dutch Man in Oman” experience taught me that  the “friend” at the airport usually has a vagina. Sure enough, I was right. RG fessed up when I confronted him with my suspicions.

How fucking stupid am I? I knew that he wasn’t available for a relationship but he seemed so nice. He was tender and sweet. I knew he would probably fuck other girls (a thought I tried to keep at the back of mind) but I told myself I didn’t care. Hell, I was just out of a relationship myself, so I imagined us having this wild and free, and terribly, terribly modern open relationship or some such bullshit. I convinced myself that he just needed to fuck around for a few months “to get it out of his system”, but I was sure that, after that, we would both fall hopelessly in love. He would soon realize that I was the one and only! Oh yes! And he would go into rehab for his massive alcohol problem! Oh yes! And we would be so happy together! Oh yes!

The reality is that he wanted to bang me on Thursday night, and then spend the next three nights fucking his “friend”. I’m not quite sure how he thought he was going to get away with that one. I mean, we’ve seen each other quite a bit since we met, and so he actually thought I wouldn’t notice that he was AWOL all weekend? I suspect that “thinking” is not something his booze-addled brain does much of. I suspect that he wanted to have his cake and eat it, too. He wanted me to be a quasi-girlfriend who came round a few nights a week for sex, but he didn’t want all the inconvenient parts that come with having a real girlfriend…like actually giving a shit about the person, going on dates with them, making them part of his life.

This was a dude I fucked every single time without a condom. This was a dude I let come in my mouth twice. And I swallow, baby. I don’t spit. I feel cheap. I feel dirty. I feel used. I feel absolutely fucking disgusted with myself.

After the “friend at the airport” revelation, I managed to hold onto my dignity and tell him that we shouldn’t see each other again. Then a guy friend of mine, who knew what had just happened and wanted to cheer me up, called me and we went out for a drink at the local bar where I had met RG a couple of months ago. I couldn’t let go. I hoped to see him there. He wasn’t there, but he texted me, asking if I wanted to talk about it. I ended up going round to his place after the the bar shut. I walked in, and the motherfucker had this big fucking smile on his drunk face which clearly said “Yup, I own that bitch”. When I expressed my disappointment about his having lied to me about Ms. Airport Girl he told me had always been honest with me, and had treated me well. He had clearly missed the memo which stated that withholding information which lets other people see the full picture more clearly is tantamount to lying. Of course, a normal healthy woman would have seen the full picture without having Ms. Airport Girl thrown in her face, but well…

I only had about three shreds of self-respect left after going round to RG’s house last night even though I knew about Ms. Airport Girl.  I couldn’t have sent out a bigger message saying “I have absolutely no self-respect”. I don’t know why I went …I guess to convince myself that I hadn’t just been played, that he did maybe have some real feelings for me after all.

I was determined not to fuck him, and I didn’t all night long, but after spending the whole night desperately trying to get some admission out of him that he cared for me on some level (hellllloooooooo?! Girl, you’d known him for two weeks. Two weeks!) I felt hopeless and desperate, so I shagged him anyway. RG was relatively sober at that point, and I noticed – as I’d noticed before – that sobriety made him completely emotionally distant. There was a brick wall between us. I tried to tell him that he had hurt me (helllllloooo again! You’d only known him for two weeks) but he did his usual act of responding to all uncomfortable situations with a joke.

I met RG the week before MM and I broke up. I was wasted in the local bar, and we had been flirting all the time. I was wearing a skirt, and eventually I moved his hand between my legs, under my knickers…and, well,you can imagine what we did. Right in the bar. It was incredibly arousing, and I actually went home and had sex with MM for the first time in ages (that’s how I justified what I’d just done. I thought “Well, it improved my sex life with my husband!”). The next morning, though, I woke up with an awful hangover and had a “What the fuck did I just do” moment. The Sex and Love Addict books got cracked open again for a couple of hours. But eventually I told myself that, well, I’m just a modern woman who should be able to get her rocks off whenever and with whomever she wants.

Through my drunken haze, I somehow realized, though, that to RG I was just some slut who lets random guys finger her in a bar. When I told him last night that I was upset, he made some disparaging comment about how I couldn’t really expect anything after the way our “relationship” had started.

I think that, deep down, I’m a beautiful person.My heart and soul are filled with so much love. I have so much love to give, and I need to receive a lot, too. And, yet, time and time again, I cast my pearls before swine. And these men…they have no fucking idea what they do to women like me. It’s all fun and games. In our text message exchange last night, after I found out about Ms. Airport Girl, RG actually thanked me for the two weeks of “fun” we had. Fun. Really? Fun?

Why do I do this to myself? For most people, this would be their rock bottom. When I was asking RG about his alcoholism last night, I told him that he didn’t seem willing to enter rehab because he obviously hadn’t reached rockbottom. He then asked me what my rockbottom was. As I lay there, naked, beside him, I thought to myself “Oh my God. It’s this. It’s fucking this. I have reached the point of no return. I have let myself be used and abused so many times, and I can’t take it anymore”.

But the sad thing is that it’s not my rockbottom. Sometimes I wonder if I have some kind of PTSD because I forget about the pain and shit that happens to me. I’ve read that people with PTSD have trouble with their memory, probably because they want to block out the trauma they experienced. When I was with MM, he actually punched me in the head once, and I forgot about it completely until he somehow mentioned it years later. How can you forget somebody punching you in the head? We would have these huge physical arguments, and afterwards all the details were hazy. I couldn’t remember and, then, I would just bury whatever I could remember and go about my day like nothing had ever happened.

Right now, I feel so fucking slutty, and so fucking disrespected. I want to get help. In fact, I’m about to leave for therapy, but how soon before I forget all this pain? How soon before I find myself fucking some asshole guy who doesn’t give a fuck about me. All these precious things inside of me, and they never notice.

Even worse, I told RG that I have a blog, and that I’d written about him. This blog is anonymous but I realized that if he’s curious enough he could very easily find it by doing a google search with some of the info I mentioned.  I did this, and this blog popped up straight away. I was horrified. I thought about making the blog private but, well, he’s already had my body; he might as well have my mind, too. Take it. Do what you want with it.

If you’re reading this, RG, I want you to know that I did this to my fucking self. I know it. I chose you when I should have known better. But please tell me one thing… How can you go through life hurting women and just taking what you can get? Do you ever stop to think that women are human beings? Do you ever feel bad, even if just for a moment? If you sobered up for just one second, maybe you would realize the harm you do. All those girls you fucked in college, the ones you told me you never called back…don’t you think you hurt them? Don’t you think that what you did chips away at a woman’s trust in men ? I’ve been that girl. I still am. And I can tell you that it does hurt. You can tell yourself that we’re just sluts who deserved what we got…but I still don’t get it. How can you set out to use a person out of pure selfishness and self-interest?

I do it to myself. Will I ever learn to stop? What will it take to make me? Will I just get to a point where I fucking kill myself because I can’t take anymore of this pain?

Rebounding by Text – The End

September 13 18:29

RG, may i ask you a question? I dont want to ask you in phone conversation.

September 13 18:35

What doll

September 18:35

Before i ask you, i want you to know that i don’t expect anything from you, as i understand the place you are in right now. You have to get some stuff out of your system…

September 13 18:38

But, well, i think your Colorado friend might be a girl and, if so, i think it would be best if we didnt see each other anymore. I need to protect myself. And you need to do whatever you need to do.

September 13 18:51

I will take that resounding silence as a yes. 🙂 Its cool. I need to be alone anyway. I really hope you take better care of yourself.

September 13 18:57

It is a girl






Rebounding by Text – Part 3

Aug 27th 09:58

I cant stop thinking about your hairy chest. It is quite delicious.

Aug 27th 16:47

Glad you like the chest hair. i want you to rest your cute on it some day

Aug 27th 18:18

My cute…what? Your sentence was noun-less. Head? Pert breasts? Vagina?

Aug 27th 18:20

Btw, not a good day @ work. I started crying in front of my area manager. My phone was dead, and i wanted a hug, so I sent an email to what i think is your email address. Im fine now, so you can ignore email.

Aug 27th 18:21

Haha i am sorry:) head was the noun i was looking for. guess i need to read my text before I hit send

Aug 27th 18:24

Sorry if you are having a bad day. call me if you need to let some steam off

Aug 27th 18:42

Aug 27th 18:44

Oops. Blank text. Thank u 4 the offer but i am fine now. Sometimes sobbing in your cubicle is just what a girl needs

Aug 27th 18:46

Whats worse a blank text or one with no nouns 🙂

August 27th 18:48

Shooting blanks I would say.

August 27th 21:19

Hey, do you wanna go see The Imposter on Thur night at the XX_XX? Its meant to be amazing.

August 27th 21:22

I would watch reruns of the golden girls with you

August 27th 21:24

Stop being so adorable and witty. You will make me like you too much.

August 27th 21:36

Thats what i want 🙂

August 27th 21:41

Stephanie (the German woman you met @ XX_XX) sent me a funny picture she took of you & I that Sunday.

August 27th 21:48

Bet i look drunk and you look cute 🙂

August 27th 21:49

You look drunk. I look OK but uber-serious.

August 27th 22:15

When is your birthday, young RG?

August 27th 22:17

the next time i get to see you or nov10

August 27th 22:18

Ah. Scorpio, the most sexual sign of the zodiac. That explains a lot.

August 27th 22:20

You are a water sign. You will put out my fire. 😦

August 27th 22:23


August 27th 22:25

Nope, Sagittarius. Nikolaustag. You should know that since you were born in Germany.

August 27th 22:58

Oh, i read your blog last night btw. The one you had as a college student. It was most illuminating.

August 27th 23:03

Do you mind? I hope not. I found it quite endearing.

August 27th 23:07

Oh, balls. Did i upset you? 😦

August 27th 23:26

Aw. im sorry if i upset you.

August 27th 23:33

Well, i liked your blog. It was funny, endearing, honest and raw. And it was super easy 2 find, so i assumed u didnt mind people reading it.

August 28th 00:58

My phone died. flattered that you looked me up

August 28th 01:19

Want to wrap arms around you

Bad Paint Job

Sometimes it’s the small everyday things that hurt the most after a break-up…things that you would never have noticed pre-break-up or maybe dismissed as unimportant.

When we moved into our new house just a few weeks before the cataclysmic breakdown of our marriage, MM painted some of the walls a deep pinkish-red colour – just the way I had always wanted it. Once he moved out, I started noticing tiny, almost imperceptible patches on the walls where the old colour was shining through. Somehow that filled me with unbearable sadness. I fell against the wall, sobbing, and the only thing I could say over and over again through my tears was…

you missed a spot

you missed a spot

you missed a spot

you. missed. a. spot.