moth to flame

a moth to a flame

“She was drawn to damaged souls like a moth to a flame.” Anna McPartlin

My body is sore, I wake each day with a never-ending twisting of muscles in my stomach, I am weak, my heart heavy, it’s only emotion I tell myself. I stare at the ceiling and wonder how emotion can cause such physical anguish-how did I let him do this to me again. I reflect on his most recent assault, calculated and deadly, aimed to hurt and maim. With precision he focused on the target, set the trap, lured me in, and fired. Fully conscious I stepped off the cliff.

I must confess it does not take much, my strength grows daily but with the receipt of an email my mind is engulfed with thoughts of him. I am pathetic, I know this.  He whores out our life together with his *virtual* friend, selling it, cheap and tawdry, the same story he always tells-different woman, different time, different place-the same story he told me. Like a vulture she stalks my Facebook page-I know this because he tells me-it matters not-he tells me all.

My need for him is great, equal to the pain I feel.  Again and again I return, for me, my mind screaming, no return, go back, run, run, yet my body propels forward.  He is a bitter cocktail of love, vitriol, and physical pleasure. I ask myself why? Each time we meet the emotional assault is magnified. His stories become grander, small grains of truth wrapped in delusional lies, his rants spew over as he contacts my family, friends and children.

Others, those who love me, have told me of his manipulation, his abuse, I am blind until now. This time, this final time, he entices to humiliate, empowered by the budding of a new romance with his *virtual* friend and the sex holiday (his words) they have planned.  She naively pours honey on his wounds. This time, his stories are magnified, his hatred of me unbridled, I am like a moth to a flame, this will kill me. He tells me he must hurt me to get rid of me yet claims to love me, can’t live with me-yet must have contact-he is a contradiction. I fight back in my own way, try to meet someone else, someone that can make me feel deeply but without the pain. This time though he has revealed the full horror of his inner man. I am appalled at the level of his sickness, appalled at his emotional control over me.

“Just like a moth drawn to a flame you lured me in I couldn’t sense the pain.  Your bitter heart cold to the touch. Now I’m gonna reap what I sow, I’m left seeing red on my own.” Shawn Mendes

He is a small person, a failure in his own life, not leaving his room for much, cloistered, reminiscent of Howard Hughes except his shit, not stored in jars on a shelf, is doled out through emails and text messages. He alternates between falling off the wagon and a painful lucidity. They will find him one day, not much more emaciated than he already is, cold, stiff, lying on filthy sheets, preserved through the subdegree temperatures he keeps his room.  He surrounds himself with the detritus of our lives, once shared, sleeping on double stacked mattresses, surplus air conditioning units stored in the kitchen, various household articles stuffed in closets..the madness deepens. He is incapable of moving out of his past, he dips back to find a new woman, never moving forward.  I tell myself I am forward motion, keep going, keep moving. He gets angry when I flee, his messages like a storm flood my phone, I don’t read them.

“Got a feeling that I’m going under. But I know that I’ll make it out alive. If I quit calling you my lover.” Shawn Mendes

My friends, those he resents, tell me to live brightly, a glorious life, but the flame draws me, the heat and warmth feels so good to be near, how I forget the burn. He is a small man with a big story in my life. Today I determine not to fall. Today I will surround myself with the sweetness of those that love me, the hug of those that care, that nurture me, the hope of a lover.  I will let the tears flow and feel the pain, knowing I have survived worse, knowing that I give and feel deeply, knowing that I will again.  He says I am addicted to him, hah, I think, as are you to me.  He cast his net too far this time, this wide net, set to destroy, has set me free, I thank him.

Sophia Kapusnik Lewis


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