That Far Up My Ass

There’s a thing I do where I give awful people the benefit of the doubt and try to see things from their perspective. Let’s assume they’re reasonable and that they mean well, no matter the damage they’ve caused.

So here’s a breakdown of what Brian might have been thinking if he were fundamentally good, plus why it’s bullshit and some advice about how to do better next time. Not with me, of course.

During my last acid trip someone said that this particular end was seeded in the beginning. Its true, I was dating Dakota when Brian and I met and though technically B and I only slept together once while D and I were a couple and I told D about it less than three days later and broke it off, D did keep coming around for a while and I let him. This made for an awkward situation where no one quite knew who had what role and everything felt kinda illicit. I also slept with another friend of ours in a drunken stupor, way out in the open, so this further complicated things. For Brian to believe I was inclined toward infidelity was inevitable, regardless of how devoted I was to him.

His lack of respect for me comes about from those early days too, where collaborating to drive me crazy was the hot new game. One can not itemize a human being in such a way and simultaneously afford them their full humanity.

Then I got stupid drunk at his hotel, he still has the recordings apparently, and screamed like a lunatic because he kept telling me to get out. Obviously a black out drunk, naked chick isn’t confident about her prospects on the other side of the front door, and probably can’t communicate well her misgivings. But Brian isn’t exactly sensitive to what’s going on in other people’s minds. So this got added to the evidence for the feebleness of my brain. No wonder he called me an idiot for the first time two days later.

And when he called me an idiot, I left. I didn’t come back for a while. So when I did finally pop up and wrap him up in my spell, it makes sense that he worried I wouldn’t come back if I left again. It makes sense that he violently tried to stop me. Brian, bless his heart, has done enough shitty things to everyone he knows that they’ve all abandoned him. He has a hard time accepting responsibility for his own position in life, perhaps he has difficulty understanding it, so he sees more malice in their shunning of him than exists, and feels himself to have no control. He believes that he is the victim and fears further victimization, though without exception the blame belongs the other way around. You have control, Brian, but you must control yourself.

Counter to his immediate devaluation of my faculties was his immediate casting of me as a sexualized maternal figure. Brian had been following me online since before I became a full blown escort, when I was on sugar baby websites and in the body rub section of Adult Search. He’s collected photos I forgot existed. We apparently spoke once on Facebook and he shared some of the details of his then current relationship and felt as though we were somehow matched in misery.  My existence made him feel understood.

The conditions under which we met, with me rescuing him from homelessness and reviving that masculine energy which he’d lost in his dehumanized position made him deify me to a certain degree. He painted me as his savior, albeit one of questionable sanity.

This did me no favors, however. His Madonna was supposed to never cause him pain, she was to care for him as a child and adore him without condition. She was to be of perfect beauty, intellect, and moral character. So the tension of my assumed duality made him frequently despise me, and anytime I failed to live up to his maternal standard, I was demonized. How dare I fail him so? Molehills were made into mountains.

Because it was my responsibility, in his mind, to care for him as I did, to foot the bill every time, to bring him only pleasure, to put up with the emotional abuse, he had no concept whatsoever of the ways in which his behavior caused me harm. When I kicked him out those hundred times for repeatedly violating my boundaries, he followed his typical pattern of imagined victimhood. “I haven’t done anything wrong,” was his mantra every single time, no matter how much wrong he had done.

The same applies to the slapping, and no matter whether he put hands on me first, he felt as though my justified response to abuse was itself the abuse. On the night he was arrested, he attacked me out of nowhere while I was dressing in the closet after we finished having sex. I did nothing to provoke him at all, and yet after he had pounced across the room to wrap his hands around my neck, what came out of his mouth was, “This time I’m gonna defend myself.”

I’ve mentioned in a previous post that I slept with a couple of people since Brian and I started dating in our on and off again way. That post explains the extenuating circumstances under which this occurred, and a reasonable person would understand that no reason for continued suspicion existed, nor would they find grounds for retaliation. It would hurt anyone, sure, but Brian took each event particularly hard, being predisposed as he already was to fears of my abandonment. Coupled with his perception of me as the aggressor in all things, which would have made my defenses appear to be motivated by hate, he would have felt as though I had nothing invested in the relationship. His tendency to cushion himself from betrayal with preemptive betrayals would have seemed like a critical survival strategy following so many of these slights. And if I had no remorse, why should he?

I have one dysfunction that would have been particularly agitating to someone like Brian, who needs constant reassurance, and one more that would have disrupted his need for constant attention. The first is that I have a monumentally difficult time expressing vulnerable emotions. I could not validate him, could not verbally reassure him of my love. When his need for reassurance became especially dire, I would become ever more distant and even slightly angry. How dare he insist that I open myself up like that? I am also afraid of being hurt and I refuse to aid in my own undoing.

To neutralize this, to find some sort of compromise, I explained my misgivings to him. I told him straight up that I just can’t be vulnerable, that to feel my love he would have to look at my behavior. We’ve discussed multiple reasons above why that did not work, namely that he felt entitled to my self sacrifice and attacked by my defenses.

I wrote blogs about it, trying another way, explaining the core of my dysfunction. I explained the fear behind my refusal to speak, hoping he would understand and try real hard not to need me to. But Brian has a hard time understanding other people’s minds.

The second conflicting trait of mine is my need for abundant alone time. I am an introvert, all the way to my core. If I’m awake for 16 hours every day, I want to spend 14 of them in silence. This obviously agitated his constant want of attention. He would have felt not merely neglected, but downright rejected.

His view of me as the aggressor in all things would have made his extracurricular activities feel completely justified. The jokes he likely made at my expense, the extremely close quarters under which he probably fucked these women, right under my nose to rub my nose in it, and the sick sort of pleasure he derived from the whole thing, would have felt like revenge, like sticking it to the man, like pissing on the grave of a dictator.

When his ankle bracelet came off and his probation ended and he took up initiating physical violence again, and he was emboldened by an external choir that seemed to support his perspective, it is only natural that this too would have felt completely justified. Mommy is a great big weenie, guys.

So Brian, I think the solution here is implied by the problem. At every junction I’ve described the specific pathology that precipitates each particular mis-belief which underlies each major assault against me. Fow now, I’m bored with writing this post. I’ll try to come up with a sort of treatment plan for you, but not this time after all.

For now, “I’m trying to see things from your perspective, but I can’t get my head that far up my ass.” -My Dad

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