A few years ago, I went through a pretty nasty breakup. It started out civil. A clean split. No hard feelings. We had grown apart. I just didn’t see the world the way he did anymore. Slowly, life resumed normality and I went about it alone. It was okay, at first. Liberating, even.
Then the calls started, and the emails. “Hey, are you okay? Where’ve you been?” I guess his friends just wanted to let me know he still loved me. It was sort of nice of them. After all, it wasn’t just him I’d dumped. It was them too, the people I had shared the last years with who, I suppose, had loved me as well.
Occasionally, I’d bump into them. They’d hug me too hard and tell me wide-eyed how much he missed me and that he’d made so many sacrifices just to be with me. Of course, I had made him mad and stuff, but he was totally cool with it now. He’d take me back any day. It’d be just like old times.
“Here’s my number, we’ll have coffee.”
I was tempted. Those months were lonely. Cripplingly. My memories of them blur into avoiding people in hallways and eating lunch alone. I hadn’t just lost the people; I’d lost a worldview, a routine. A warm and wonderful security blanket had been yanked from beneath my feet and I wanted it back.
Had I made a terrible decision?
We did have some great times, with this wise, enigmatic guy. He was dedicated, kind, cryptic and mysterious. A real romantic. Everybody loved him. He was always there with a comforting word and reassurance. He gave me free stuff. We went to concerts and parties, full of bright and sober teens so eager to know all about me. For the first time, I really felt a part of something.
Only years later in the clarity of retrospect did I realise how stupid I had been. At first, it was nice not to feel wholly responsible for myself, to be answered for. But soon it was more. Soon, my body wasn’t mine and even the life around me and the thoughts in my head were somehow his. There was something wrong with me. I needed him. I owed him everything. I worshipped him.
That arrogant fuck.
And, god, did he lie. He told me wonderful, fantastical things, so obviously untrue. I watched him ignore unimaginable suffering and effortlessly control his adoring fans at whim. He was conservative, dogmatic, violent and dangerously persuasive. He ignored my questions and let me feel guilty, self-loathing and perpetually afraid of upsetting him. I let him take my money and use my worst fears against me. I let all the trademarks of an abusive relationship fly right under my radar. I let it all happen.
I was furious, but more than that, I wanted to help. I wanted to warn his next victims—the young and naive converts he will tempt down the same road. Maybe he’ll fool them for longer. Maybe he’ll hurt them more. I wanted them to know just how much of a dick he is. I wanted them to know that they were worth more.
I wanted them to know that dumping God will be the best decision they ever make.