To the narcissist I once loved
Sad, stunned, clueless, in deep pain, and with so many questions you left me out of nowhere – this time you left for good.
I was only able to admit this to myself many months later. Months of survival, working as an escort girl, clinging to the tiniest spark of hope & waiting. Waiting for you because I just couldn’t understand and accept it. Couldn’t admit that humanly I was so wrong.
For a while, I had the belief that I couldn’t live without you. I now know that if you had stayed, I might not have survived
In the beginning, there was hate
We were friends for a long time before I started working with this Escort Agency. I assumed I knew you. Today I know that it wasn’t empathy you showed towards victims of injustice. it was hate Because hate is something you are capable of feeling. You can deal with hate, it is such a constant companion in your life. hatred of people. hatred of the perpetrators. Is that why you feel so much hate for yourself? Because perhaps you have recognized under your different, diverse facades that you are a perpetrator yourself?
For too long I have blamed your sudden withdrawals, lack of compassion for me, and inability to communicate to depression. But does that absolve you of your responsibility?
I used your depression to protect myself. Closing your eyes to who you are
I think I used your depression to protect myself. Closing your eyes to who you are. Defaming the blunt reality that whenever I dared to expose my needs and limitations, your retreat and silence set in, even if only for a brief moment. After accepting reality, I was concerned for a long time with the question of whether you brought about this power imbalance consciously or unconsciously. I now know that it doesn’t play a role in my healing process. The pain of your act remains the same.
Love needs respect
I unconsciously tried everything to meet your needs, long deprived of my own. Already in my childhood, I developed the belief, I have to do something to be loved, I’m a burden, I need a partner to feel “whole”. Do you still respect me? More importantly – do I still have respect for myself?
Was I an adventure for you, a thrill, because you knew how close I was to the abyss?
Even after the breakup, you still used me as a source. Wasting my time, playing with hopes, being near and far to me at the same time, always making your presence known as soon as you sensed that I might move away. But you already had a new source the whole time. Wasn’t that enough for you? Was I an adventure for you, a thrill, because you knew how close I was to the abyss? It’s only today that I understand what a gift you gave me when you left. Maybe it was that crash that made me take responsibility for myself. I take responsibility for my inner self, for my needs, for my limits, for my peace.
Better an end to pain
Now it’s been a long time since you grabbed your hatred & nonexistent feelings and left. That day began a journey for me. I’m not there yet, but I’ve made steps that fill me with pride. I had to learn to accept help. I’m learning to deal with my depression, my needs, my limitations.
And I don’t do it for others – I do it for myself. And you know what? It feels damn good!
Even if you can never understand or even accept your role as a perpetrator. I wish you that with help you will someday be able to get to know feelings other than hate and anger. Because even if my emotions often make life difficult for me, I am glad that I can perceive and live out this whole variety of feelings. I think it must be exhausting carrying hate as deep as you do.
One of many
You are nothing special. You’re just one of many who don’t recognize, who doesn’t take responsibility. Lovebombing – Gosthing – Gaslighting – Damn it. You call yourself a feminist while casually destroying lives with your disgusting patterns of power and manipulation. You are not a feminist – you are no more than a small piece of the puzzle of patriarchy.
Thank you for leaving my life.
Love and Creativity: How My Relationship Became My Main Source of Inspiration
Love has always had to serve as a creative hotbed. It has been sung about, described floridly in countless books, and regularly flows into every presentation that is offered. What is the secret ingredient of art? Of course love! Unlike love itself, dealing with relationships also serves mental hygiene. So I regularly write down my frustration, my desire, my question marks, or views from the soul, just as some couples whisper in podcasts or show their vulnerable side in partnership guides.
While I happily bang the keys and wrap my relationship in my texts, my boyfriend secretly reads along and shakes his head from time to time
And we all have something in common: stepping over the threshold from personal to problematic. Because while I’m happily banging on the keys and packing my relationship into my texts, my boyfriend secretly reads along and shakes his head from time to time.
He might see readers crawling into our bedroom beds, squeezing under our covers, and following not just lovemaking, but especially our dramas. So I also understand him when he repeatedly compares me to Thomas Mann – not because of my genius, but because I tend to turn all family histories into one story.
Caught between pride and betrayal, he doesn’t forbid me to influence our relationship but sometimes feels uncomfortable
Caught between pride and betrayal, he doesn’t forbid me to influence our relationship but sometimes feels uncomfortable. He didn’t like the suggestion that he could ignore my texts and thus avoid secret or conscious reading, nor did I like the complete abandonment of my desire to create.
My boyfriend is not a prince charming and I am not a princess. Of course, as the man by my side, I portray him as a hero 90 percent of the time. He’s loving, so funny, a great father, lover – and did I mention how funny he is? So a real dream man, except…yes, except for the usual relationship patterns that just creep in everyday life. So I have most of the laughs on my side since it’s me who reveals her insecurity here and in a mixture of delusion and reflection dissects every human weakness, no matter how human, but of course, his role is not rigid.
He’s not always the darling, the self-sacrificing, and the warm-hearted. He’s not even supposed to be, because just like me, he’s only human.
I love it when we fight and then there’s just enough respect left for each other that he smacks the covers over my face three times because he wants to show off he’s the funniest partner I’ve ever had (and he’s right, unfortunately ). And I love it when he tells me that for the first time in our relationship he felt jealous when I wrote about finding his best friend attractive. Because we enter new levels of intimacy and this honesty usually feels better than any number. Love in art – not always only profit
Of course, I can’t and don’t want to expect him to approve of all my texts. He exaggerates it and has no idea how much upward potential there could be in the convolutions of my brain if I always had free rein.
Of course, I can’t and don’t want to expect him to approve of all my texts
Instead, I stylize our relationship into an acceptable paradigm stuffed with morals and laced with the softness of a loving friend: You’re great and I thank you. In the end, we both feel better that way. Him, because he can step out onto the street with his head held high (anyway, I’m writing anonymously), and I, because the attempt to cause as little damage as possible was fruitful.
By the way, my mum also reads along regularly. In the meantime, she has come to terms with being part of my articles and only likes them if she likes the role assigned to her. It’s a bit like reading horoscopes. We only believe in the positive messages, everything else is nonsense!
I miss you so much, but it shouldn’t be – the heart of cement
I park my little blue Mazda in front of your window. My favorite parking lot, long before I knew you. Today I park there because I can see your head, at least the top third, through the window. You’re sitting at your desk, the light is on. I look in the rearview mirror and adjust my hat. It’s November 5th, shortly after 1 p.m., the days are already shockingly short and dark and today, matching the mood, it never really got light. I rummage around in the back seat, extra slowly, for my groceries. Of course, I want you to see me. When I look at your window again, your head is gone.
I unlock the door to the stairwell. My stairwell
Yours too. Ours – no more. And then I stand where it all began, the heavy shopping bag cuts into my palm, but I no longer feel the pain. I stand rooted to the spot in front of a bottle of beer. This much too sweet, smooth gluten-free beer that I only drink because – honestly, I have no idea why it tastes like shit. But I’m drifting.
Where everything began
I’m standing in front of this bottle of beer on the mottled gray concrete floor in front of your ground floor door, where it all began, on November 25th almost a year ago. Seconds, minutes pass? I don’t know but stare. Then your door opens and you look at me and I look at you. “Are you fucking serious?” I ask you and you laugh and my heart sinks into my pants, into my shirt sleeves, it creeps down my legs into my socks and freezes to cement.
I want to get away from being close to you because I can’t bear being so close to you but not being able to be with you.
You’re going away tomorrow, you say, to Portugal for a month. If you come back I think I’ll be gone for a month. I want to get away from being close to you because I can’t bear being so close to you but not being able to be with you. The fact that you are now forestalling me with the escape makes the cement heart in my socks burst and I lose my footing.
It’s the first conversation we’ve had since you decided it’s not “that” with us. That you’re missing something, although everything, you said, was perfect. What’s wrong with you, I asked, your answer is still pending. And I, I still don’t believe that you’re not in love with me. Maybe I’m naive and probably just too fond of you, but I see the pain in your eyes every time we meet.
I see a look that tells me, every damn time, “Missing you.”
I see a look that tells me, every damn time: “You’re missing.” And because of those looks and probably also because of my naivety and the damned crush on you, there was until now, until this moment before the bottle of beer on the mottled gray concrete floor in front of your door, in your and also in my stairwell, there is still a glimmer of hope that everything will still be the way it used to be. But it won’t.
Farewell until next year
We say goodbye. I try not to let it show. We laugh about the beer you tried to give me before it was no longer drinkable. The expiry date says May 2022. I’m getting sick and hot and cold at the same time. I falter, the cracks in the cement become craters. I hug you, but you stand there and don’t move. I lose my footing, feel stupid. I grab the door frame just in time, bend down and reach for the bottle of overly sweet gluten-free beer. The mottled gray floor shimmers and shimmers.
You close the door, carefully, but the floor shakes and the remaining crumbs of cement heart in my socks begin to vibrate.
See you next year, I say. Bye, you say – and look at me again with that look that speaks a thousand words without finding the right ones. You close the door, carefully, but the floor shakes and the remaining crumbs of cement heart in my socks begin to vibrate.
The shopping bag eats deeper and deeper into my palm. I go up the stairs to the 3rd floor. The key turns in the lock. I’m sitting in my living room where you won’t sit with me anymore. It’s too hot, the sound of the heater blurring with the tinnitus in my ear. And as I sit there with the beer in my left hand and the shopping bag in my right hand, I still can’t believe it all.