Sunday, 9 August 2015

Was I Made, Or Am I Just A Different Demon?

VICTIM OR MONSTER? I gently opened the bedroom door trying desperately not to startle her. Judging by the sweetness of her smile, the world of dreams had clearly swept her away, and she looked utterly at peace. I was overcome by the sheer beauty of the sleeping goddess, her incredibly long auburn hair flowing over the brilliant white pillow onto the bed The warmth of her body beckoned me; I longed to seek comfort from the howling wind vibrating the window; a constant reminder that winter had not yet passed. The heat from the sun seemed a far distant memory as I shivered, standing naked on the ice cold floor, convinced as I gazed down at her sleeping image that she could provide all I needed to survive. I slipped beneath the billowy white duvet, wrapping my arms around her slender body; I could feel her heart beat as I pressed my chest against hers. Would my intrusion frighten her? Leaning forward, I placed a delicate kiss on her cheek. Her eyes opened, the smile broadening on her lovely face as she welcomed me into her arms and I felt safe. We kissed passionately as she drew me ever deeper into her warm embrace, igniting a fire within me when I realised that I was in love, captured and bound by a spiritual connection which had until this moment eluded me. Without thinking I whispered the words, “I love you.” And then she was gone, and I knew that I would never see her again. Where am I going? What will it be? What is my fate? What’s waiting for me? Is there a purpose? To the pain of the past? What is the reason? How long will it last. Am I a man? Or still just a shell. Will I be loved? Or remain in my hell. Where is my peace? Where is my home? What is a life? That’s destined to roam. There seems to be an overwhelming desire within me to destroy my relationships, the romantic ones are no exception. And I honestly don’t know whether any of my shortcomings are a direct result of my childhood experiences, or if I’m just an obnoxious bastard. I find it impossible to believe anyone can love me. And when I am fortunate enough to find someone, as soon as they begin to get even remotely close, my insecurities take over and I become an unbearable monster to live with, often resorting to verbal, and on a few occasions, physical abuse. From the time I met the mother of my son, to the end of my “short lived” marriage in February of 2009, and all the relationships between the two, the demons residing within in the darkest corners of my mind have always managed to somehow rob me of the love I hunger for. Having witnessed first-hand the love my parents shared, my desire to be in a healthy supportive relationship has always been one of my priorities. But I just don't seem to get it right. I know how women should be treated; my father set an amazing example. I don't remember him raising his voice, much less speaking harshly to my mum. And she adored him, her eyes lighting up with excitement whenever he stepped through the door. At night, while watching television, my dad would sit on the floor next to Mum's chair massaging her feet. It never looked to be a chore; he seemed perfectly content just touching her. I'm not naïve enough to believe the relationship my parents had was perfect, but it was calm, supportive, and filled laughter. Even my antics as a teenager failed to create enough friction to break their bond. It was them against me, which is something I resented at the time, but looking back on it now, I am envious . . . truly envious. And I often find myself wallowing in “self-pity”, true love seems completely unattainable. My demons won't hear of it. Despite my armour, I do manage to find myself in relationships, and they always start out great, but as my feelings grow, I become convinced I'm going to be hurt. It's never a conscious thing; it's almost as if I've been programmed to self destruct. The venom that spills from my mouth is poisonous. I once told my “ex wife” to rot in hell with her dead mother. This is not something I would ever say under normal circumstances, but there's no telling what will set me off once I start feeling threatened. On this particular night, I just blew up, my aggression rising to such an intense level my wife was forced to leave the house, fearing for her safety. She stayed with a work colleague for the evening, only agreeing to return the following day, once I'd promised to leave. Feeling absolutely horrid about what I had done, and acknowledging my need for professional help, I made an appointment to see a counsellor. And being the loving person she is, my wife allowed me to move back into our home. This woman had married me, put up with terrible abuse at my hands, and yet it was still not enough for me to realise she loved me. And it was only a matter of weeks before my next outburst. Finally, in February of 2009, following a heavy drinking session, I hit her. And quite rightly, she decided it was time to go our separate ways. And wanting what was best for her, I reluctantly agreed. We were married less than two years. This is the scenario which has plagued me throughout my adult life. I seem to be incapable of accepting love, to do so feels almost as threatening as being physically attacked. My feelings for a woman seem to unleash the beast within, and no matter how hard I try, I can't seem to control my actions. I’ve drifted through a lonely life; my participation in ill-fated relationships has always been somewhat artificial, in the sense of my inability to return the love that's offered. It truly frightens me to think there's a good chance that I will be growing old alone. Perhaps the numerous scars my assailants left on my heart have rendered me emotionally impotent, and if so . . . then they will have effectively stolen my life, not just my childhood, but my entire fucking life. That being said, there are many people in this world who abuse others and try to excuse their behaviour by blaming the hardships they have endured. And there have been times I have resorted to this copout myself. But I honestly don’t know if my childhood has any bearing on how my personal life has turned out, or if I’m just one of those blokes born to be a bully. Looking in the mirror is sometimes very difficult, and I truly hate myself for the hurt I’ve caused. It pains me to think there’s a whole bunch of women in the world who can only associate bad times when my name is mentioned, each of them having one thought in common; “I wish I’d never met him.” Victim or monster? I just do not know.

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