Perverse Addiction

“Never can true reconcilement grow where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so deep...” - John Milton, Paradise Lost.

There's been a lot of talk about objectification as of late. To be made an object of, it comes up time and time again both in debate and media in regards to sexism. When I hear the word objectification I can't help but take it with a grain of salt, as I can only wonder if the person knows what true objectification is like. To be made an object, to be owned and have exclusive reign over. To be pressured into acting a certain way, being a certain person, having certain friends, hobbies, interests, feelings. To be spited and guilted to the extent where you are no longer sure where the line is and when you're stepping over it.

Who am I? What do I like? What are my interests, my unique characteristics? Do I have a catchphrase, do I have some sort of signature people can recognize me by? If I do have any of these things are they truly mine, or just a fabrication of someone else? Am I still me, or am I something entirely different? Am I an entirely different person, who has been moulded into a specific shape by those who would "own" me? If an English teacher were present, I would be in trouble for having so many questions in the same paragraph to say the least.

You're reading this, and it's either out of a simple curiousity/worry or it's out of spite. For those who fall in the latter category, your presence amuses me to say the least. You're willingly stepping into my personal domain in order to reinforce your ignorant views that you hold. To get a good laugh, perhaps? You should probably re-assess what you're doing with your life. To the former? Thank you, you're a friend to me. The entire point of this blog is not only to get myself out, it's to let you in. I'm not really good at discussing things or bringing them to light, which is why I have chosen an impersonal platform.

Back to objectification, I have been a victim of it. Should I so much as show the slightest amount of affection to another individual, I would be punished. Should I show interest in a topic that is not mutually exclusive, I would be punished. Should I have friends that are deemed to be "ill-fit" by him, I would be punished. Should I have a life and have things I need to take care of, I would be punished. My reward, if I didn't step out of line? Time with gaoler. A false sense of security and protection, no different than a hostage held who develops stockholm syndrome.

I left, and I walked away. Yet, even though it was long coming I still desperately yearned for that false sense of security. My emotions clouded my logic and I returned to a person who was nothing like the one I really fell for. No, they had become worse. They were more manipulative before, hateful, angry. I let them get to me, and I purposely lowered my inhibition with alcohol just so I was physically capable of making a choice that my sanity screamed against. I was desperate to have back what I once did, no matter how demeaning it was. I no longer had my independance, I had lost myself and I desperately needed him to rely upon.

My gut is seldom wrong. The fierce protests of my sanity rung true, and it was worse. They were worse, a bigger liar than they had ever been... More manipulative than I remembered, and filled with a burning anger that not even an ocean could quench. I'm not going to love it, I'm not going to live with it, I'm not going to marry it, I'm not going to have any part of it. Once again, I walked away from that perverse addiction. I left that bottle of poison behind and untapped, I wasn't going to rub it in my skin this time. I won't allow myself to come to that.

I've been spited, ridiculed, ostracized, pressured into having certain friends, pressured into having certain interests, pressured into acting a certain way, pressured into speaking a certain way, pressured into loving a certain way. For my obedience, I was granted pain. Absolute burning agony, trust that was shattered over and over until the only way to break it down further would be to grind it to dust under your boot. He cheated on me, with my best friend. He cheated on me, with another girl. How many other people has he cheated on me with? Two, I know for sure... But if you're willing to do it twice, why not three times? Why not cheat on the one you're cheating with while you're at it?

Maybe it was twenty times. I can't put a number on it, much like he can no longer put a number on the pills he compulsively pops. That's assuming he's popping them of course, that could just be another fabrication for all I know. Crossdresser, female, male, both, neither, lover, enemy, happy, angry, content, jealous. His mind was going a mile a minute, none of the facts lined up anymore and yet I allowed myself to look past that. Manipulation on a level so blatantly obvious was allowed to pass because I had allowed myself to be blinded to it.

I stood up, I wasn't going to date a perverse addiction. I had grown numb to the feelings of withdrawal, the only reminder of those dull pangs was the tightness of my jaw. Even though I've walked away, stepped off, left... The addiction still lingers, following me, stalking me. It wants to know who I'm friends with, what I'm doing, what I'm saying, who I'm with, what my job is, how much money I make, where I'm going, what I'm reading and what I'm writing. That addiction is now stalking me, reading the same words you're reading this moment... Hungry for a reason to prove me wrong, a reason to hate, a reason to spite.

And should it find a reason, unlike my stance before... I'm not going to take it lightly. I'm going to stand up against this addiction, and fight it. I'm tired of being made into a little girl who can't take care of herself, and I'm taking my independance back. I'm taking a stand, and I'm working out my problems. And if I have to I will stomp out it's existence from my life, it's trivial and perverse existence.

If this is all too cryptic for you, I broke up with Corson Fullhart. That's his actual name, his very real and inescapable name that binds him to reality. Binds him to some sort of mortal coil, an image he so desperately wants everyone to think isn't real; an ugly image that's hardly even fit for kindling. Oh, and just because I'm well aware this is being read by that certain someone...

Dear Corson, stop reading my blog and go to hell. You'll save some time.

I'm taking my independance back.