Look at me now

Look at you now.

I’ve been saying that to myself over and over for the past month. Look at how far you’ve come. Last week marked one year since you saw him last. One year since he left you in a busy hotel entrance in Vegas. The rideshare zone was crowded with people, and we were out of time.

All I remember from our last moment together is a blur of fleeting colors and faces and a sinking feeling in my gut that would make itself at home there for the months to come. I remember thinking one thing to myself at that moment, as I sat alone in my hotel room: How did you get here? To such a hurt place? And why are you choosing to stay on this roller coaster with him when you could see your derailment looming ahead?

You used to sing love songs into your hairbrush, dancing for your mirror pretending to be anywhere but where you were. Stuck. You immersed yourself in the comfort of the promises their lyrics made. Music was and always has been your safe space. It’s the soft blanket you wrap yourself in when you need to hide from life’s unfairness. It’s the solitude you seek to drown out life’s confusion when things get a little too loud.

Some songs became lullabies while others were engraved in your heart like a blueprint to the ever-elusive unconditional love that only exists in fairytales. You drowned yourself in “She Will Be Loved” and fantasized about Adam Levine sweeping you off your feet and saving you from the chaos of your own reality.

The music helped ease the pain of your reality, but it could never protect you from it. It wasn’t there when the boys on the playground made fun of your thick eyebrows. When your mom started calling you a hooker in the fourth grade before you even knew what it meant. It wasn’t there when Mr. James stared just a little too long at your cleavage as you gave your history presentation and you realized you could be giving a speech about how good ice cream is on waffles when you’re high and STILL no one would hear a word you said. Because you’ve never been recognized as more than a fat ass with legs.

It wasn’t there to protect you when Mr. Watson assaulted you in front of a room full of your peers and called it an “educational demonstration.” As you lay naked on a massage table, with nothing more than a thin sheet to protect you from his intrusive hands exploring your “glutes,” he called them as he forcefully grabbed as much flesh as his greedy fingers could grasp. Like a kid stealing candy from a jar. And again, you were an object on display for a room full of people.

What about when you went to that party and blacked out, waking up to the excruciating pain of someone forcing their manhood into your temple, like your unconscious body was a red balloon in a storm drain, taunting him to take it for himself? There certainly wasn’t any music playing when you laid there, powerless, underneath an entitled stranger. With each stroke, your body grew colder. You wept. You didn’t fight back. You didn’t try to protect yourself or stop anything from happening. You just laid there and cried. You just took it.

It only lasted a few minutes, but it felt like hours. That you’ll never forget. You accepted what was happening even though you knew you did nothing to deserve it. But men have been taking from you your whole life. Where was the hero you were promised in all of those love songs? You’d spent your whole life holding out for a hero, but you didn’t believe in him after that day.

Once the illusion was shattered you had no idea how to act around men. You didn’t trust them. You didn’t feel safe. But now you felt this void like you would be incomplete without them. Because that’s how they’ve always made you feel. That summer would be the first of many that you would spend in codependent cycles, searching for the love that kept missing you. Then you went to Romania.

Romania was a retreat. You spent a month in a sheepherder’s field, in the hills just above a hungry village. You slept in a tent, only showering once a week at times. You wore the same fatigues as everyone else, and it felt safe. The men there weren’t allowed to touch you. People perceived you for the work you did, not the way you dressed or how you looked. You got to discover a piece of yourself that would give you the wanderlust to keep exploring until you find the woman you’re searching for. You found your hero underneath the mud, gypsies, and stray dogs wandering that destitute valley. I just wish you knew it then…

Then it was time to come home. You packed your bags and prepared to start over, again. You’ve only been out of high school one year and already lived three lives. Remember how excited you were, to finally be a “normal” kid? To go to class, party with your friends, only for a new codependent cycle to take over.

It was a weeknight. You were exhausted from practice and workouts but your hunger for connection prevailed when your friend invited you to that house party. The last house party you went to didn’t end so well, so you were hesitant to accept. When you walked in the door, men were scattered around the common areas of the home. Not us being the first females there. Cringe.

You had a twisted tea. One twisted tea. And you woke up in a strange place, far from campus, in a town you didn’t know your way around. You weren’t wearing underwear. You weren’t wearing anything other than your team t-shirt, now that I think about it. He was still lying in the bed next to you. Who roofies a girl and takes her back to his own house? Fuck. Of course, your phone is on two percent. You send a frantic text to your friends asking where they were. Both of them woke up in their beds, safe and sound. You woke up in a strange place with a strange man, and oh, so many questions.

Your shoes were nowhere to be found. No car keys. No wallet. At least you found your shorts. Still no underwear, though. Your fight or flight activated and you did the only thing you could do to escape that situation. You took his car. You went through the Mcdonald's drive-through, barefoot, in tears, and begged that poor girl for directions back to campus. You had to fish your keys out from underneath a drunken football player when you let yourself back into the house from the night before. The entire house was in disarray and so were you. But you still made it to your eight AM class. Kudos, bitch.

You went into hiding after that, understandably so. You watched the first five seasons of Grey’s Anatomy in less than three weeks and made the Dean’s List. But you were still searching for your hero. Those love songs still mock you for having hope. Then, out of nowhere, you found him in the one place you weren’t looking. You weren’t interested in Z when you first met. You thought he was goofy and immature, and not for you. One night changed all of that.

You went to power hour with a group of friends, and he was in that group. He watched you flirt as other men fawned over you in front of him all night. And you thought nothing of it, which is why it seemed harmless for him to drive you home that night. Finally, in that car ride home, it happened. You finally lost your cool. You drunkenly ranted the entire drive home about how men just take and take and take and you just wanted something real. And he listened. It was probably one of the most honest moments we shared.

You sat in your parked car in the lot and talked all night. It was getting light out when he finally walked you to your room and gave you a kiss goodnight. And you still didn’t think anything would come of it. Until you realized he made you feel safe. Sure, he might not try that hard or make you feel special, but at least he’s not hurting you, right? Wrong. People always asked you why you stayed, but you swore he saved your life.

That parked car conversation turned into a relationship in less than two weeks and lasted just shy of five years. Now, look at you.

You broke up ten months ago, even though it should’ve never lasted that long, to begin with. He spent at least four of those five years cheating, that you know of. You packed your bags and did what you do best; you got ready to start over again. Although the trouble that found you this time wouldn’t be so easy to ignore.

Look at you now.

Look at the mess you found yourself in this time. The next few months were full of trial and error; some wins, many losses, and lots of alcohol. You were manic, which is why you had no problem placing yourself in harm’s way. But I think it was that same mania that saved you. You were deliriously happy for no logical reason. You were avoiding everything, especially yourself.

You can still hear the arrogance in his voice as those words run in a loop through your mind. “Your life has been so much better since you met me, you just didn’t know how or why,” and “Don’t you remember how much I taught you about yourself? I did all of this for you.”

How the hell did you get here?

You used to wrap yourself in love songs, like a warm hug on a bad day. You used to love the idea of love, of finding someone who felt like home. So when you finally found someone that was talking the talk and walking the walk, you had to give it everything you had. Because this was your chance. You asked for this, remember? A man to come in and make your house feel like a home. Someone to love you and finally see you for you. You thought he was all of those things.

Against your better judgment, you fell for him. By the time he was done with you, you did not exist anymore. Just the tremoring shell of a girl, broken. But you asked for this, right? You asked for it.

Just like you asked for Mr. Watson to prey on you for months on end. For both those men to welcome themselves into your body with no invitation. And you asked for every boy masquerading as a man that’s passed through your heart’s walls since. For him to abuse you and convince you that you’re stupid and weak.

You asked for it.

You asked for it.

You asked for it.

Except I didn’t ask for any of this. I didn’t deserve any of this. I loved the good parts of him. The good days of him. But the good never outweighed the bad and I couldn’t love the dark side of him. I’m thankful he never had access to the person I am now. Even though he’d likely credit himself.

I’m thankful he never got to experience me at my highest, most authentic, and evolved self. He doesn’t deserve to experience the person typing these pages. She is far too bright and far too good for the likes of him. It took you a long time, but you finally found your hero.

She was that girl in the mirror, with tears streaming down her face, reminding you who you are when he worked so hard to make you forget. She’s the one writing the words that you’re reading. She didn’t deserve what happened and she did not ask for it. She’s healing and she’s safe in the arms of her own hero now. And I’m not sharing her with anyone, yet.