I have been conditioned to have infinite capacity for hope. I was raised Protestant and had a predisposition to an inflated sense of purpose, so signs that might have otherwise gone unnoticed (or were perhaps for someone else) were sent by god to me.
These were signs like the number 22, for example, which matched the number on the house that we liked (they were asking well over a quarter of a million dollars and I made less than 40,000). There was the sign (from my recollection a song that was popular when I was in high school) that I should send the message to my high school crush (this one is still one of the most embarrassing messages of my life).
I saw colors as signs. Songs as signs. My own feelings as signs. These signs were (I know understand) my futile attempts to create meaning from the meaningless and to tame a chaotic world.
What I find most fascinating, however, is my worrying inability to see the signs in what is the single most toxic relationship of my life.
Yes, is.
Dear reader — I am in the relationship still.
It began like most affairs — in filtered light and at weak points. I wanted to be needed. I had just graduated with an astonishing amount of debt and no sense of purpose. This relationship gave me purpose. This isn’t to suggest that I am in any way unique; I am not and this is not. This is just how it began. And how it goes.
It was new and seemingly gorgeous. I felt powerful and hopeful.
In this relationship I quickly became aware of power dynamics. It must have been obvious to everyone else but me. I was worthless. Nothing. No one.
I had no say. No power.
I was to eat what I was given. Say what I was told to say. Pretend to be someone other people wanted to see.
I had no autonomy. No sense of self.
Yet…I didn’t leave.
Instead I thought I could make it work by moving and finding similar circumstances. I was abused verbally. I was gaslit. Asked to lie. To cheat.
If I refused — and I did, and do — I was punished. Isolated. Reprimanded. Worse.
