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I was sitting on my futon, huddled under the colorful afghan my mother had crocheted years before.
Snow fell outside my window, and I felt a giddy hollowness in my chest as I squirmed deeper into the warmth of my cover.
“He is a piece of shit. He is abusive. DO NOT TEXT HIM.”
The words were written in erasable ink on the white board hung on my wall. I was heart deep in a twisted relationship with a Ghanaian man I had met five months before. I was consumed by him. I had the bruises on my arms to prove it. I let him hurt me. Not intentionally. Just intense grabs, the quick shake here and there. The words. “You’re a dime, Sandeep. You’re a dime. You’re soft, which I like. I like BBWs. But you could use a little toning up.”
I was 155# of solid muscle. I was deadlifting and squatting hundreds of pounds of weights a day. I had nothing left to tone up.
But I let him say these things to me. Because I deserved to be punished. Didn’t I? For the horrible thing I had done?
You see, I was dead center in my own, personal Dark Age. I had left my ex-husband that fall. In February, I stumbled into a man who set my mind and womanhood on fire in ways I never thought were possible.
He was but one of a string of men I allowed into my life over the years following my…
