Was I born a masochist or did society make me this way?

Tag: affair


A part of me wanted to gamble. I considered betting on myself, on whatever love or fragmented remains of it were left for me. Plenty of marriages survived on nostalgia and fear of being lonely, perhaps I could join their ranks.

Part of me imagined ripping her to shreds. It took whatever strength I had left to not humiliate myself further by contacting her. I fancied a confrontation, dreamed of it, practised all the witty insults I could throw at her that might cause even a semblance of the pain and anguish she had carelessly drowned me in. But none of it really mattered, when even the mere suggestion of it sent him rushing to her side, jumping to her defence.

There was nothing to save, we had truly run out of love for one another. Or rather, he had run out of love for me, and it was as if he’d pulled a plug out of the drain and I was quickly losing the rest. It hurt less than I expected, which hurt more in a way. I always believed if you could stop loving someone then you never really loved them at all. But ten years is a long time to be fooled by infatuation. If I’m being honest, only 4 of them were any good. We soldiered on when the warmth melted away. We did the mature, responsible thing, and “worked on our marriage”. Ironically the happiest times when we both felt most content was when he loved another woman. He had to betray me to be good to me, now ain’t that sweet.




I get lost inside people. I spend so much time trying to understand them, I forget who I am in the process. I’d do anything to get inside your head, to be someone else for a moment, to imagine how you’re feeling, if only because the narcissist in me wants to know how I make you feel. I want to know if being with me can change you, as being with you has changed me.

I need something more than time or effort or feeling. I need chemistry that can’t be manufactured by words or actions. Some inexplicable connection, something intangible that grabs you by the throat and makes your heart pound against your chest so fast that you forget how to breathe. The first kiss feels like a punch. I leave marks on his chest so his other lovers would know that I was here.

His palm strikes my cheek and I’m awake for the first time in weeks. I feel the weight of his body closing in on me, and I kiss him like I was afraid to say “I missed you.” I wear my bruises with twisted pride and he admires his handiwork with childlike glee. We are bad for each other, we know how to bring out the worst in each other. I can see cruelty in his eyes, no hint of remorse. I adore the cold, calculated sadist. I crave the satisfaction of making him lose control. I smile innocently at his rage, I become his worst addiction.

I understand obsession, I have a perverted desire for the absurd. He’ll never love me the way that I need to be loved, so I’ll never grow tired of chasing his approval. I’d rather be heartbroken than submit to a mediocre love affair. I’d rather be hurt than feel nothing at all. I kiss him like he’s my favourite mistake.


A generation of lunatics and sociopaths, raised by toxic parents who were either too young or too selfish to hug without leaving bruises. When marriages begin to mean less than the piece of paper that divides your assets, but you stand up shamelessly in front of loved ones and promise ’till death do us part’.

People used to believe in love, she said. They used to know how to love, and they did it better than the movies. They used to write letters, real paper with real words, poems that didn’t feel silly. They would bring you flowers that reminded you the world was beautiful, and the roses would cut because they’re not supposed to be wrapped up in ribbons and plastic.

There was a time when dressing up for a date didn’t feel like a chore and making a man fall in love didn’t involve four tequila shots and clothes scattered on his bedroom floor. There was a time when people kissed because they loved each other, not because they were lonely. But we’re smarter than that, so we say goodbye in the morning and we never call. He ticks off another conquest and she drinks till she forgets that he’s married.


I don’t want to be yours. I don’t want to wake up in the morning to your sour breath and smile when you say my name. I don’t want to get out of bed before you and rush to the kitchen to put on the coffee and cook you breakfast. I don’t want to suffer through the morning sickness, the weight gain, the screams and the curses of childbirth only to give life to children who don’t get to keep my name.

I don’t want to remember the anniversaries, cringe at the idea of finding you another present, and pretend to like roses. I dread the stale bread crumbs on the counter tops, the china patterns, the photo albums and the photograph that will inevitably hang on top of the fireplace. I don’t want to look at the perfectly preserved wedding dress and remember that we were happy once. Or even worse, looking at our wedding photo and noticing our smiles were unconvincing to begin with.

I would rather not see the tan line on my ring finger when I take it off and throw it at you during one of our typical Friday night arguments, when the kids pretend they’re sleeping and we pretend we’re trying to keep our voices down. I don’t want the same body crawling on top of me day after day, year after year, as it slowly succumbs to the endless cruelty of age and time. I don’t have the strength to love the decaying matter I chose to bind my life to, to watch it decompose before my own eyes, retaining evidence of how we lost our youth, till even the memories are blurred and I believe we always looked this old and ugly.

I don’t want our lives to fall into a peaceful rhythm, the nights ending with us lying on the couch, me holding a glass of wine and you clutching a bottle of beer, neither of us sober enough to care that our lives are being wasted. With our feet resting on the coffee table and the telly on slightly too loud, as you hog the remote and flick through the channels aimlessly, because we’re tired of looking at each other.

I don’t want our children to be confused about the words “I love you” because we say it to each other every day but it’s been years since we sounded like we meant it. I don’t want to wait till the day you come home looking more dishevelled than usual, and notice the patch of lipstick stain on the right side of your collar. When you come close to kiss me out of habit all I can smell is the stench of a stranger’s perfume, and all I can wonder is how much it cost you.