When I met Zackary he lived in a room, in a house. The house was filled with garbage and junk. His roommates were racist and misogynistic. They didn't even try to hide it. Dave, the one I knew as a regular from the bar I worked at had a thing for younger girls. I was one of those girls he wanted, but it would never happen -for him-. The place was very unwelcoming and smelled of mildew, dust, and dirty booze; like what you'd see at the end of the night while closing down the place. The dishes hadn't been washed in weeks; you could tell just by sight. When you walked in, you'd want to walk right back out; passing the art hanging over the hole he'd put in the wall one drug-fueled night. I didn't walk out though. I can blame the alcohol and cocaine, or I can tell you that I'm not really sure why I didn't walk out. I think I didn't want to judge him. You know, he did what he could to have a roof over his head. He survived. I could relate, and so I didn't walk out. The floor of his room was covered in trash and crunchy clothes. His bed overflowed with dirty blankets and more clothing, some belonging to women. If you dared to dig any deeper you'd find old frozen dinner boxes open; 99% eaten, the rest rotting. No woman with self-respect would have had sex with him in that bed. I did though. I joined the club! I'm serious, he gave me a pin and I fucking wore it on my bag. Fuck, it's still there. Fuck.
I remember him asking me what my thoughts were on him having sex with me while I was asleep. The question seemed so.... fucked up. Just don't have sex with someone when they're sleeping, right? I told him, "What the fuck. No way." I threw in a nervous giggle like I was handing him a golden ticket. I needed him to make it a joke. It wasn't a joke.
Zackary loved to stick his penis in me as I lay half-asleep. Another one of his "get around the answer no" moves. If he rubbed his dick against my back and I started to wake up and make a noise well then, I was fair game. I wasn't asleep, right? I hated these mornings. I just tried to get through them, because I didn't want him to leave me. But the thing is, there was something inside of me that just couldn't feel okay. I started to avoid coming home. I would sit at the bar after clocking out, and I would drink. I started blacking out more and more. I was literally going insane. It was my slow suicide.
I started to move away when he'd try to touch me. I would get upset about the morning sex and lose my temper about the lack of respect after he said he wouldn't do it anymore, but he kept doing it anyway. I drank and drank and drank. I hated my own body, but I couldn't leave him. I needed him.
The night I lost my mind and crashed into the rock that would bring me to my rock bottom, was the night that everything had become too much. The roommates were doing cocaine every night, Zackary kept saying he would stop but then he'd buy another bag and I would have to white knuckle it over and over again, I'd usually cave. Then he would berate me for it while he himself was not quitting. He was still making me have sex when I didn't want to. I was alone. I hated him, but I loved him. I hated the life that I was living. I had no idea why I couldn't fucking leave him. But I tried; the angry, crazy, injured inner child exploded outwards.
Then I blamed myself. He blamed me. My friends tried to tell me that maybe he wasn't the right person for me. I told them they just didn't know him; like really know him. I told them I was the problem. It was me.
He disappeared while I hit the rooms; attending meetings as if they were my oxygen. I thought that maybe just maybe if I got sober then he could see I was good enough for him. That we could make this work. That I wasn't crazy.
While I was getting sober, Zackary was getting fucked up. He was willing someone to come and fight him. He wanted violence. You don't always get to know what Zackary does when he disappears. So that's all I've got. He drank and wanted to fight someone while I was pouring out my soul, detoxing and sharing all of the sick parts of myself with strangers.
He stood me up the first day we agreed to meet. I cried. I called my Sponsor. I talked to some friends. I must be honest in all things. That's what I kept telling myself. I admitted that I had fucked up and that he hated me and that I couldn't bear the thought of never being with him again.
I don't know why he stood me up. I can't really know, although it came to mind a few times while I sat in meetings. Did he not show up as a final twist of the blade? A lesson, that he could leave me at any time because I was in the doghouse. I carried this shame of being a bad girlfriend with me until about August of 2021. That's when things got rough. After I decided to keep track of my outbursts, I started seeing a pattern. And after that I started reading about Narcissism and how childhood abuse can affect your romantic relationships as you grow up. I started reading about my own issues surrounding anger and my triggers. I got on anti-depressants. I started solo therapy. As I started working on myself, I began to fucking see things as if my eyes were no longer my own. It was fucked. Everything was fucked!
The idea of him touching me made me want to kill myself, even on the anti-depressants. He would try to choke me or throw me around. I would curl within myself. When he'd pull his belt off and put it around my throat I'd submit. One night while he was whipping his belt at me; trying to make contact with my body, I found myself doing the nervous laugh again. I didn't trust him. He wanted to hurt me. That's when I thought of his ex-girlfriend. The girl he was dating before me. The girl he was dating when he tried to make out with me. The girl who left him and moved out in less than a day. The girl who had said he'd sexually assaulted her.
I fucking hate myself. I wear shit like "Believe Women" while going off about The Patriarchy. Yet, I slept with the enemy. I fell in love with the enemy. No, not even before knowing this. I fell in love with him after knowing this. Our relationship was filled with signs of his disdain for women. His 'Cunt' belt buckle. The tattoo on his leg that said "Fuck bitches. Get Rupees." I mean, he didn't really hide it. He was "a nice guy" when compared to the real trash hanging out in bars, right? I mean, how many women did he fucking harm? I can count 3 off the top of my head. So yeah, I fucking hate myself. My therapist won't be able to explain this away. I loved a bad, bad man.
