The last time I saw Fish Boi was 6-5, at about 3 am. He came busting into my room after I messaged him about how I needed him to do something with his recently deceased roommate’s dog. 

Honestly, I’ve been doing a lot better at staying away from him than I have at any other time before. I’m even doing better than the time he beat me in the face. That should have been the last time. 

Actually, the first time he told me he didn’t want a relationship with me should have been the last time. Or any of the times he invalidated me. Or shamed me. Or twisted his bullshit around and made it seem like it was something I did. That I was wrong or crazy for feeling the way I did. Or when I realized he was narcissistic and abusive. Or when I realized that the love I felt for him was actually a trauma bond and that anyone that hurts me in the ways he did wasn’t worthy of my love, let alone my time of day. 

Or any of the times he clearly and blatantly showed me he didn’t care how I felt. Or when he didn’t want to understand me. Or all the times he stonewalled, refusing to talk about it, or worse yet when he blew up because acknowledgment would have challenged his fractured ego. Or when he threw up defense mechanisms so he wouldn’t have to acknowledge how he was hurting me, so he could continue to live in his denial, never changing, never healing, and never burdened with the duty of treating me right. 

I’m also proud that I haven’t spiraled out of control. I’ve been consumed with my passion and my purpose instead of drugs and debauchery. I’ve been working on my websites. I’ve been reading. I’ve been writing. I’ve been healing. 

I still cry for him though. Well, I’m not really crying for HIM. I’m crying for the idea of who I thought he was, what I thought he felt, and how I thought we could be. 

I have a much better idea now of the demon I was dancing with. He lied to me, and about me, so that he could string me along and use me for whatever he could get out of me. He knew that I was a good girl with an honest heart. He knew how to gain my trust and he knew exactly how to play me. 

I will never trust him again. With anything. Not after the deception I’ve experienced. Not after the crocodile tears I’ve witnessed. Not with the knowledge of how he continues to lie, cheat, manipulate, and abuse his BM while feeding her the idea that he’s still so in love and wants to work it out. Not when he swears on his dead brother that his lies are true. Not as long as he so clearly clings to his delusional deceptions. Not when he’s so violently avoidant of facing reality, let alone behaving any differently.

Yet, I still cry. 

Why? 

I guess his indifference felt like acceptance. When so many men in my past were so demanding of me to conform to their ideals, he could care less. I never mattered enough to him for him to demand we do things his way. I was able to do what I wanted without having to worry about losing him. 

I guess his attention and all the time he spent living with me felt like a commitment to me. For nearly 8 months he spent 90% of his time with me. He was sleeping in my bed every night. Fucking me once every day, if not 5 or 10 times, or more. Helping out around the house. Being that man I could talk to. Listening to everything I was figuring out about trauma and healing. Working with me at the family business. It didn’t matter how many times he denied it and rejected me. We walked, talked, looked, and felt like a relationship. Everyone that saw us together even agreed, it seemed as if we were a couple and that we were in love. 

I guess it could also have been his praises and expressions of affection. He frequently said I was beautiful and sexy. He touched me, kissed me, and held me as if he adored me. He fed me just enough to keep me wanting and believing there could be more. Then he rejected me, knowing that I would feel flawed. He knew it would result in my trying harder while accepting less and doubting myself. 

He told me I was a good girl, his favorite girl, the bestest girl. He used to make me say that I was a good girl. I remember the last time he asked me “Who’s a good girl?” I refused to say “me”. I didn’t believe it anymore. I no longer believe that he believed it. None of it made any sense to me. 

I know it had a lot to do with the dancing of our demons. He was dominant and sadistic. I was submissive and masochistic. He earned my trust immediately the very first time we allowed our demons to dance together. He had given me a safe word and he respected it completely and without question whenever I used it. That right there is what convinced me. It’s what trapped me. 

It’s the thing that kept me clinging to hope far longer than I ever have before, or ever will again. He saw a part of me that had never been seen before. He didn’t just witness it, he was the one that drew it out of me. He made me feel safe with something that was too terrifying for me to explore. 

You must understand that before Fatty V I would have NEVER identified as submissive. I was a Domme. Period. And all Doms that dared approach me were told to “fuck off”, but not quite so politely. Fatty V opened my mind to it, but Fish Boi helped me embrace it and explore it. 

I still cry because I miss my Daddy. I know now that he never wanted me, but at one time he owned me. I was truly his. He was feeding me lies the entire time, yet they were the sweetest lies I’ve ever tasted. I was convinced it was only a matter of time until we were together.

Am I truly done this time? Do I have enough strength to keep myself from abandoning reality and getting sucked back into the pain of wishful thinking?