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Attachment to Broken Men: The Golden Boy

Attachment to Broken Men is a series I started where I dive into the men from my past, and I analyze how they have affected and shaped who I am today. This will be the third instalment but not the last. Overall, The Golden Boy is different. At the time that I am writing this, we are still together, and instead of doing a deep dive into the entire relationship from a retrospective view, I want to look at how this develops. If we are destined to break up, I hope to look back on these posts and reflect. I hope to see if I still agree or if future me remembers these events differently. Because of this, after this post, I will begin a series called “The Golden Boy: __.” Now let’s begin with my deep dive into the first two days I spent with The Golden Boy.

Two months ago, I sat on my couch staring at my phone, contemplating self-harm, reckless sex to feel anything, and even death. Fate lead me down the reckless sex path. However, she did so with a twist. As I was swiping through dating apps, a gut feeling made me pause before I messaged anyone. Then, I found the golden boy. He was seven years older, posting pictures with his shirt off, flexing at the gym, and even has a picture with another girl’s lipstick marks on him. Everything I hate in one profile. Everything that makes me immediately want to swipe no and run. The textbook definition of a F**K Boy. Even with all the self-hate I felt for myself, I still wouldn’t say yes to this. Yet, something in me told me not to say no. Instead, I left him on my profile. A few days go by, and I joke to some friends and show them his profile. We begin debating if his abs are real or if they are for show. This was when I made my swiping choice. I swiped yes…just to see if the abs were real.

From that moment on into the evening, we were texting back and forth non-stop. Nothing about the conversation felt forced nor a chore. At one point, he asked me to hop on a video call so we can talk more effectively. I wanted to run and hide. I despise this part. I hate when I begin to feel and like someone. I wanted to run before I got hurt, and the cycle of pain continued. Instead, my hands typed, “Sure, what time?”. My fate was sealed. We got on the call and began talking for hours, 8 hours to be exact. Anyone who knows me KNOWS I cannot stay up past 10 pm. Yet, I did so with no problems that night. The next day he drove two hours to come to meet me. Once again, reckless on my part, but I felt this unbelievable comfort.

He gets to my place and has a bunch of stuff to make me a fancy dinner. No one had ever done this for me before. He works endlessly in the kitchen and makes one of the best meals I had had in a very, very long time. My rolled-up cheese in ham could never compare. Then came the bottle of Rum. “I knew it. Just like all the others”. I couldn’t help but think this to myself, over and over and over again. I made sure to drink very little. Yet, he began filling my cup up without asking. I needed to keep my senses. I have been here before. I made this mistake before. I began pouring my drink down the drain when he wasn’t looking. I began pouring some into his drink. All to lower my cups amount while staying in my right mind frame. Little did I know, this man cannot hold his alcohol but can also seem perfectly sober when not. Soon he began vomiting on my bathroom floor. Apologizes flowing out of his mouth over and over again. I make sure to take his blood pressure and pulse repeatedly and gave him fresh water after each vomit. My phone in my hand ready to dial 911. Fearing that, I had given him alcohol poisoning due to my own fears.

The next day when he was rested and healthy, I made sure to tell him the complete truth. I needed him to know my stupidity had made him sick. I sat there ready to hear him yell at me, call me names, insult me. All of which I was ready to take. I really did f**k up. Instead, I was met with understanding and compassion. He wanted to take full blame. He began apologizing that he hadn’t considered that he was a stranger bringing me heavy liquor and that he should not have kept trying to fill my glass. I still don’t think he needs to take any responsibility for that at all. He still swears that he needs to. He has accepted (his word) my blame for pouring my drink into his behind his back. Yet, he refuses to budge on NOT taking responsibility for making me feel that was something I had to do to stay safe.

I don’t think I will ever agree that he needs to take responsibility for that. I let my past and past relationships dictate how I felt about this. I let my past dictate my actions which resulted in harm. The debate over who is to blame is a never-ending one between us. My point in bringing this up is that I had met someone who didn’t expect me to take full responsibility for the situation for the first time in my life. I met someone willing to have these conversations and work through these problems by listening to my perspective. I met someone who didn’t use guilt, yelling, or other manipulative and scary tactics to “win” a conversation. He genuinely wanted to hear me out and wanted to better understand why I felt certain ways. He never once turned my fears and emotions back onto me. He accepted them. The feeling of safety began to thrive, and alongside it fear began to grow.

Fear that I will be hurt again.

Fear that my trust and sense of safety will once again be violated.

Fear that I will have to change who I am for his own pleasure.

Fear that my past will make him run.

Fear that my own FEAR will make ME run away…again.


Published by Kathrine

Emergency Room Nurse spends too much time thinking, reflecting, and over-analyzing every detail of life. Hoping to one day figure it all out.

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