July 9, 2021

Hurt People Hurt People: When we Love Someone who doesn’t Love Themselves.

Another night that started out with such anticipation and excitement.

I looked at you across the room, so much love in the briefest of eye contact. My soul felt it had found its equal soul. My body finding a home it never knew it was looking for in your arms.

It was a moment when time stood still, and I couldn’t predict that, within a few hours, I would be left reeling in despair. Tear-stained cheeks and my mind awash with confusion and uncertainty. That sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.

And so began the cycle: intense love, fleeting joy, and two souls that craved each other. Followed by desolate pain. A storm so bleak, I could not see anything. I stood there being pelted, fearing what was to come next and praying for a reprieve. Anything to take this f*cking unbearable hurt away from me.

You see, hurt people really do hurt people, and broken people will try and break you in their desperate need to alleviate their own pain.

The trap is the cycle of good—even great—moments. I needed only to look into your eyes, feel your touch, hear your voice soothe me with, “I’m sorry. I love you,” to forget how much hurt you inflicted on me only the day before.

We spent an insurmountable amount of time laughing together. A relationship where humour was important and neither of us afraid to take the piss. When the humour started to degrade me, I put on a brave face and laughed. When the things that first attracted you to me became ammunition for put downs, I pretended it didn’t matter. I never admitted that my inside was a knot—a mess of confusion and anxiety.

You were a hurt person, trying to minimise your hurt by lashing out at me. You were a broken person and through your wounds, your mess, and your f*cking projections, you were inadvertently starting to break me.

I became your bloody punching bag (metaphorically speaking). I felt every verbal blow, every heartbreaking silence, every projected accusation. I would be left in a putrid pool of blame where I started believing I had done something wrong.

I would sit there in these moments of overwhelm and concentrate on my breathing. I would focus on your suit jacket hanging on my door (ah, you always looked so good in a suit). I would remind myself that only recently we were snuggling in bed, my head on your chest, and we were excitedly making plans.

Talking about Bali and the island you wanted to take me to, where we would swim naked with no inhibitions. Where we would frolic without a care and be completely free with love and intimacy with each other. Where we would share sunsets and moments we would forever carry with us.

I would hear the ping of my phone. I always prioritised your calls and messages. Some days they would make me smile endlessly. Some days they would bring relief that you were in a good mood. And some days, I would be left staring at my phone…my heart a little more injured.

Your words at times were so cruel. Your accusations so untrue and unfair. I would try and pacify you, but you would dismiss me, unable to accept your wrongdoing.

What you never saw was my heart breaking, shattering into little pieces. You didn’t hear the gasps as the sobs caught in my throat. You had no clue of the bile rising. Every part of my body in fight or flight. Every cell screaming.

Those words bruising every part of me. Even now that time has passed and I have been on an incredible journey of healing, the memory of these words still cut me to the core.

Your hurt was coming from wounds deep within. Wounds caused long before you met me. You seemed unaware of your wounds—only aware of easing your pain by striking out. You used me as a vessel to release some of your built up angst.

I became that vessel because I loved you, and I wanted to help you heal. I now realise that was never my job, and I could never heal your wounds, especially when you don’t even know what they are, or can be honest enough with yourself to see your patterns.

Love. Pain. Love. Pain. I was on a mountain, arms outstretched, breathing in every ounce of your love. I was also face down in the dirt, weighed down by the heaviness of your pain. I was on the treadmill of you, and I couldn’t get off, nor at the time did I want to.

You were like four seasons in one day. The magic of the sun, enveloping me in warmth and happiness. The shortened days with more darkness, and the cold shivering through my body. And everything in between.

You were my greatest love, but you were also a wrecking ball. You came in with a vibrant excitement and passion. You lavished me with focus and attention. Your words, oh your words, were captivating. You were beautiful, and your essence seeped through my veins. I wanted to drink you in—all of you. It was dizzying. It was mesmerising. You heightened every one of my senses.

But like any wrecking ball, the sparkling beauty can quickly seem tarnished as it is swinging, haphazardly and carelessly, almost dangerously. I was bound to be knocked to my knees at some point. And when that happened, it was an excruciating fall. But as quickly as I would fall, you would scoop me up and we would soon be riding that wave of love again in the bubble we had created around ourselves.

Until the next time.

Our energy, chemistry, and attraction transcended anything we had ever experienced. It was beyond our understanding, and we spoke about this often. We were like magnets, and our bodies fit like a glove. My soft curves slid so easily into your strong arms. There was an electricity between us; it was unexplainable. It was undeniable. Our sex was tantric: we were spiritually woven together and our connection, physically, emotionally, and spiritually, made for a beautiful yet lethal combination at times.

Everything you loved about me, everything you were attracted to and so fervently desired, became your biggest pain point. You wanted me, and you wanted me in every way and all to yourself, which was perfectly fine with me, as I was fully committed to you, but that was not enough.

Your need to control was seeping into our relationship, and I allowed it. I convinced myself that I just needed to prove to you that you had nothing to fear.

Again, your nasty words and hurtful behaviour left my delicate emotions swaying in your tsunami of projected insecurities. One step closer to breaking me. That wrecking ball pounding me from every angle.

Your hurt, wounds, brokenness didn’t allow you to see the truth of what was standing in front of you. You projected the lack of trust for yourself onto me, and it became this decaying undercurrent of distrust in me, and the most f*cked up part of this was that you allowed your mind to overshadow your soul because your soul trusted me like you had never trusted before.

How do I know this? Because you knew that I was a safe space to unleash your pain. You knew that I would not judge, and you knew that my loyalty to you was never in question. I had your back. I always had your back. I cared and loved you so damn much that I took it all on. I became your Band-Aid.

We all know Band-Aids are but a temporary fix. You used me as one, but sadly I could only ever provide short-term aid, before all that was unhealed started bleeding again.

I had your messy, traumatised heart, and I held it like it was the most precious bloody thing in the world. I loved every part of you, including your darkness. It didn’t matter because I now realise you did not love yourself; my love was never going to be enough.

Hurt people hurt others, and broken people break others. But this doesn’t heal you: it temporarily soothes those angry and sad beasts within you. The lost, distressed, disappointed, overwhelmed, and stricken little inner child—but you will never heal by causing another pain.

You did not heal by smashing my heart into thousands of pieces. You did not heal by seeing the devastation and sadness in my blue eyes every time you spoke your harsh words—those same blue eyes you loved so much. You did not heal by watching the weight fall off me as the anxiety swelled within and became unbearable. Your broken bits did not mend by breaking me.

You were the broken one, and I was the one who now needed to heal.

The aftermath was an inconsolable place—a pit of despair. But it was sitting in that chaos and ugliness with a weak body—emotions in disarray and a splintered spirit—that I started to peel away the layers of myself. I started to heal.

As the pit turned from the muddy, murky desolation to a clearer, more soothing calmness, I was hit with an epiphany. This was never about me. This was about you, and with this revelation came an understanding: as f*cking awful as your words were and as unacceptable as your behaviour was at times, it wasn’t deliberate.

It wasn’t right, and that’s on you to sort out. But it wasn’t about me—it was never about me. This was a defining moment in my healing.

You absolutely hurt me like nobody else has in a way I could have never imagined. You hurt me because you were hurting. You nearly broke me because you were broken. Your gaping wounds bled all over me, and at some point, you need to go within and find out who cut you and do the work to heal yourself; otherwise, you will spend a lifetime hurting and breaking others.

Hurt people hurt people.

I’ve put myself back together, so I never need to break someone to mend my broken bits.



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