I don’t know what men expect when they meet a woman. I really don’t know but I think one thing they are afraid of is physically hurting the woman rather than cheating. Mine is a different case. I loved being abused physically. See, I know this sounds unreal but let me break it down for you.
I have dated three men before and I had never had a “real” connection with any of them until this fourth time. I discovered that accidentally. It was the first time we were making out. It was his place and as expected, he was bit clumsy. Many women love it gentle but I am in the realm where I define masculinity in a very weird way. So when he pinned me on the chair so hard, I did not feel uncomfortable, it was funny how excited I felt. Was short lived because I felt a sharp pain on my back. We stopped and on turning, I was bleeding thanks to a broken nail cutter. His first instinct was to get me all cleaned up and nursed but the blood turned me on in a way I have never experienced. I am a religious 90 day rule observer but this time, it only lasted 32 days. It was magical. I embraced how careful he seemed after the accident.
A week later, we had a fight because I did not want him to go out one night. He hit me, I know its bad but I always say I pushed him to the wall. He hit me and I think the shock on his face was the best thing I had ever seen. I had a broken lip. But he stayed and we made up and again, I realized I was connecting. The following day, he was a smart man to ask why I was not mad and why he thinks I enjoy being hurt. We talked and decided to explore if indeed I enjoyed being hurt. I bought chains, whips and needles. I had blades and knives on stand by. All was well. I enjoyed the near death chocks. I always wanted to be sad so that I could see him desperate and vulnerable to make me happy . The worst bit however is that with time, it got more intense that at times I would walk from our bed to cut myself so that he could make love to me. I turned him into a monster. A sad and desperate one who passed my initiation. He withdrew from the social life and spent most of his time nursing my wounds. I can’t tell who became another’s slave. I lost all my friends and almost never spoke to my family.
One day, I fell ill. I needed a proper hospital. We had to get a private doc because I was a wreck with fresh, healing and healed wounds. I needed help. Good news I got. We were expecting a baby. I was okay but he was so scared. For the first time in almost a year, he told me that he needed to broker a business deal late in the evening. At home, I felt nothing. Cooked diner and readied myself for a night of “celebration”.
He came home around 9pm, but not alone, with his friend and sister. I did not see it coming but I cared less anyway. There was enough food so we ate and drowned a few glasses of wine. In mind, I am trying to thing of the trashiest of things why he had company. I was happy that for the first time, he had taken the initiative of new things.
While tipsy, I started being at ease and he talked. He opened his heart and never hid what we had gone through. I was not shaken. I still thought that it was a way to make the others comfortable . I only started being alert when he said he could not hurt his child anymore and he wanted it safe so bad. He was leaving, at least until I healed.
I finally became human and begged him to stay . I wanted him because I wanted his torture. I wanted him to harm me more. I wanted him to feel that he owned my body and everything I could offer. The net thing I remember is waking up in hospital with no one but the doctor. Moments later my brother showed up. He did not ask why. He hugged me and said it will be okay. I did not know which hospital it was . All I wanted was the father of my baby to take me home. I stayed in hospital for a month and a half, with daily counseling . The only relative I saw was my brother and his sister. On discharge, I spent two more months in a rehab then his sister took me in until I delivered.
During my pregnancy, I don’t how if I actually embraced healing. My moment came when I saw my baby girl. I don’t know what happened but I realized that happiness is not pain. That caring is not an apology. I knew that I wanted my baby and all that she came with, including her dad. He took us home. He had gotten us a home. My family and his welcomed us. It was a new beginning .
I don’t know why I bottled up the abuse I had gone through in high school. I protected the rapist because I did not want to be ashamed. I consented to the succeeding episodes because I though the pain I suffered all through made the monster care. I thought all men should treat me that way. I wanted my husband to be one of them.
My girl is five and half, she has an eight month brother. They have been the best almost six years of my life. The scars are a contact reminder that I am a survivor.