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Description
I've gone through a lot of hell the past few months—worse than when I lost my home, and my parents divorced, and when I was pretty much living in the bottom line of poverty all at once. I won't tell the full story, but I will tell what I learned, so maybe this can reach someone in some way.

I lost someone that I loved, the one I was supposed to marry. And not from death, but I watched who he once was deteriorate, and I could no longer help him. And, the worst part, I lost all of myself to him, and I was deteriorating too. It's a horrible feeling, when I used to be so happy with a life I thought was almost perfect, and then all of that just... vanishes slowly.

I fell in love with a psychopath. And no, I don't mean a psychopath as how most people would see. I mean a textbook version—numb emotions, manipulation, narcissism, lack of consideration for consequences, not necessarily murderous… in most cases. I was just unlucky.

I knew he had a problem, and being the “psychologist” I am, I did research to find out what. At first, I was desperately trying to find out what it was, denying the obvious answer. I stayed up all night with psychology books, hoping, praying, going crazy. Schizophrenia, medicine. BPD, counseling. Psychopathy, no cure. And once it hit me, I broke down, but I decided that no matter what others said, I would always stay with him. Because I swore I saw something others did not. I saw remorse, insecurities, genuine love. I was convinced that I could bring these things out in him, that I could be the first in history to find a cure.

However, I am very prideful and overconfident. And I never wanted to accept that my experiment would fail.

Before you question me, yes, someone who suffers from the condition can feel those emotions such as love and guilt, but only to a certain extent, and they learn to express these emotions by watching those around them, practically becoming who they are closest to. Essentially, he was a reflection of me. That's why it worked. And God, it was beautiful. To have somebody you were so connected to, who would protect you at any cost, who you could always count on to be there for you, who would chose you above all else in the world…

But when we were separated, it all began to wear off. He became who they were, all they were, and it was traumatizing for me to say the least. I was terrified of him dying there. I would dream of it ever night. Being deployed. In a war zone. His foolish confidence taking over. Shot. Dead. I knew it was going to happen, I just didn’t know it would be a totally different death.

However, I did not accept it. I tried every day to being him back. I did everything, even things that I am shameful of now. I wish I could undo it. Because at that point, the feelings weren't real. It was all a habit. The promises we made to marry were just that--a promise we wouldn't let go of in the fantasy that we would be happy together like we used to be. He saw this. I did not.

One day, he finally let me go. I'd never screamed so much, or been so out of control. Everything I had worked so hard for, lived for, would have sacrificed everything from my family to my very being for was... gone.

That's when I ended up in Patrick B. Harris—a psych ward. I'd already tried suicide once. It was... an out of body experience. I hardly knew what I was doing. I just wanted it to stop. I didn't want to die, I just wanted it all to stop. I was just there in the tub, slashing myself like a maniac, watching the blood turn the water red. It was a sickening excitement, like I was nearing freedom. And I was laughing—at myself, at everything I had lost, as God…

But then, just when I was about to truly end it, something even stranger happened. I began hallucinating, dreaming in broad daylight. I was in a dress. There was someone standing in front of me under an altar of white flowers. I couldn’t see his face, or anything about how he looked. And I knew that if I made it to him, I would be happy. But it ended.

When I woke up, I was totally conscious, ashamed of how low I had let myself sink into that insanity. I drained the water, cleaned the wounds, wiped the blood off, and went on. Because I knew I still had something to live for. Whoever that was, whatever was happening, I had to get to that point.

Still, I was continuously sinking back into that same insanity. I woke up every morning feeling a concrete slab on my chest. God, I didn’t want to do it again. I didn’t want to die. I didn’t want my family and friends to suffer that. I didn’t want to throw away everything I’d done and everything I could do.

So, I let myself be admitted to the hospital. At first, I felt it was a major mistake. Riding in a cop car like some sort of criminal, being locked in a small room with dangerous people, separated from everybody I loved. I was terrified. This was worse. I was so alone.

And that’s when McKenzie walked in. I remember it was when I was having my first meal. (Fucking corn soup.) She looked different—younger, a more vibrant look to her face, pretty in a way. She scanned the table with a smirk, announcing “I’m back fuckers!” Nobody reacted except me. She then laughed and said, “Ya’ll are like ‘who the hell is she, walking in here like she owns this bitch?’”

I immediately liked McKenzie. As soon as she sat down to eat, I talked to her. It was comforting to meet another high-functioning person with such a care-free attitude. She became my big sister—giving me advice, sitting and talking with me when I felt scared, laughing.

And when I was let out into the main room with the non-dangerous people, that’s when it got fun. I met more people like me. There was a younger girl my age, an older lady, a girl with red hair, and a girl with buzz-cut hair. And then there was Heather, who I will never forget for as long as I shall live.

She was a recovering drug addict. And although her problems were just as hard on her as everyone else, she was still like comforter to all of us. She had the best stories, and made being there feel like a big sleep-over. At lunch, when we didn’t want our food, we would give it to her in secret. One day, when I began crying, she was the one who took me to a private place and talked to me. She didn’t really think of herself as much, none of them did, but I saw something great in all of them.

I saw people who suffered from something devastating—whether it be depression, bipolar, drugs, schizophrenia—they were fighting it.

One I remember in particular was Cannon. She was my roommate. She seemed to be extremely bipolar, as well as a drug addict. She told me her story once, the way drugs had ruined her, and she lost everything else in her life to them. She said she had begged to be put in there so she could recover. She talked about herself like she was the scum of the earth. I told her that most people wouldn’t be as brave as to make a decision like that.

Music therapy was the best of it. Pentatonix and Lindsey Sterling was also a favorite of ours to listen to while we colored and talked. One day, Kaitlynn, the music therapist, brought in the karaoke machine. It was amazing to say the least. Singing Imagine Dragons, Katy Perry, Taylor Swift. Heather’s firkin cover of “I feel like making love.”

There was one performer that I won’t forget soon. I forgot her name, but she always called me Brandy. At first, I assumed she mistook me for somebody, but then I began to realize she was delusional, and placing the identities of people she knew on the people there. There was her cheating husband, his mistress Linda, her cousin Richard, and her best friend Brandy. Thank God I was Brandy. She was somewhat violent towards the others, but she loved me. I always got things from her—from puzzles to books to food. One day, she came into my room crying, talking about a situation that I didn’t quite understand, saying she was sorry. I told her that I forgave her. She said thank you, still crying, and left. Later, I began to understand what was going on. She loved Maurice, but he was using her. He kept her in there, visiting occasionally, while living in her house. But she loved him so much. On karaoke night, she sang “Kiss from a rose on the grey.” It was very monotone to say the least, but thinking of all that, emotional. At least to me.

The day that I was discharged came almost too soon. I would no longer be woken up at 6 for breakfast, or color during music therapy, have to be constantly on the watch for potential dangers of being close to the unstable people around me, or spend countless hours doing puzzles. I never got to say a proper goodbye to Heather, McKenzie, and the others. And I never got back the flip-flops I had lent to McKenzie. And I’ll probably never see any of them again.

But that’s all okay. They’re now a part of who I am. And I’m convinced that I wouldn’t be alive without them.

Back in the real world, I still held on to him. I still called him daily, strived to see any kind of emotion, even offered things I didn’t truly want to offer just to get him to smile. I even planned to move across the country, with only my car and essentials, just to be with him. However, one day, I began to realize… it was time to let go.

So I said goodbye, still with many regrets. But it was a start.

I was still angry at God. Still disgusted with myself for who I’d become—empty without his presence, somehow cold and sarcastic, more narcissistic than I’d like to be. There was a time that if someone was standing on the tracks in front of an oncoming train, I’d push them out of the way, even if it meant that I would be hit. But at that point, I’d probably just watch it, smirk, and say “dumbass.” Gore videos were a favorite of mine, as well as any kind of dark horror. I felt like I, myself, had learned his psychopathic traits in the same way he had learned my goodness.

It was only a month ago that I finally put everything that reminded me of him away, and finally fell on my knees before God and asked for forgiveness for hating him so much. And I came to forgive the military, which I had developed an unhealthy hatred for, as well as him.

The first thing I realized was that letting me go proved that he would always be, in his core, good. I knew he still loved me. I knew he wanted me to be by his side forever. But he hated me being unhappy. He hated seeming me like that. He’d never cried before, but… I saw a tear in his eye as he released me. And it was the right thing to do.

The second thing was that the military doesn’t essentially save the citizens they mean to protect. They save the soldiers, too. Because of them, many anti-socials like him that would have ended up in prison, or dead, or as killers, could be good. And even though I no longer look at them the same way, and still get sick to my stomach when I see someone in uniform, I no longer hold any resentment.

My scars haven’t fully healed. I still have nightmares of some of the… worse things that happened. Even when we were at our happiest, he wasn’t always under control. You always think about what you would do to defend your life, or somebody else’s, in a dangerous situation, but when it actually happens, you just… go blank. That knocked down a few dignity points for me.

All in all, these are the lessons I’ve learned:

Never judge someone for who you think they are. There is so much more that you will never see if you simply look at the labels, or their flaws, or their past. In fact, you can learn more from these people than the sane ones.

Never bow down to anything or anyone. Never become something other than yourself, and epically don’t become somebody else. This can be hard to remember, especially in the midst of passion, but always remain who you are regardless.

Sometimes, you’re aren’t meant to follow the plan you think you are. And you can’t change this. And trying to change it will tear you apart. You have to accept what you were meant to do, and don’t be as stubborn as to fight God.

I will never be who I was before, but I will be someone stronger. I’ve lost my purity, but not my naivety, and I never will. Who I am is not who I want to be, but I someday I’ll go back to being someone I am proud of.

Description
I've gone through a lot of hell the past few months—worse than when I lost my home, and my parents divorced, and when I was pretty much living in the bottom line of poverty all at once. I won't tell the full story, but I will tell what I learned, so maybe this can reach someone in some way.

I lost someone that I loved, the one I was supposed to marry. And not from death, but I watched who he once was deteriorate, and I could no longer help him. And, the worst part, I lost all of myself to him, and I was deteriorating too. It's a horrible feeling, when I used to be so happy with a life I thought was almost perfect, and then all of that just... vanishes slowly.

I fell in love with a psychopath. And no, I don't mean a psychopath as how most people would see. I mean a textbook version—numb emotions, manipulation, narcissism, lack of consideration for consequences, not necessarily murderous… in most cases. I was just unlucky.

I knew he had a problem, and being the “psychologist” I am, I did research to find out what. At first, I was desperately trying to find out what it was, denying the obvious answer. I stayed up all night with psychology books, hoping, praying, going crazy. Schizophrenia, medicine. BPD, counseling. Psychopathy, no cure. And once it hit me, I broke down, but I decided that no matter what others said, I would always stay with him. Because I swore I saw something others did not. I saw remorse, insecurities, genuine love. I was convinced that I could bring these things out in him, that I could be the first in history to find a cure.

However, I am very prideful and overconfident. And I never wanted to accept that my experiment would fail.

Before you question me, yes, someone who suffers from the condition can feel those emotions such as love and guilt, but only to a certain extent, and they learn to express these emotions by watching those around them, practically becoming who they are closest to. Essentially, he was a reflection of me. That's why it worked. And God, it was beautiful. To have somebody you were so connected to, who would protect you at any cost, who you could always count on to be there for you, who would chose you above all else in the world…

But when we were separated, it all began to wear off. He became who they were, all they were, and it was traumatizing for me to say the least. I was terrified of him dying there. I would dream of it ever night. Being deployed. In a war zone. His foolish confidence taking over. Shot. Dead. I knew it was going to happen, I just didn’t know it would be a totally different death.

However, I did not accept it. I tried every day to being him back. I did everything, even things that I am shameful of now. I wish I could undo it. Because at that point, the feelings weren't real. It was all a habit. The promises we made to marry were just that--a promise we wouldn't let go of in the fantasy that we would be happy together like we used to be. He saw this. I did not.

One day, he finally let me go. I'd never screamed so much, or been so out of control. Everything I had worked so hard for, lived for, would have sacrificed everything from my family to my very being for was... gone.

That's when I ended up in Patrick B. Harris—a psych ward. I'd already tried suicide once. It was... an out of body experience. I hardly knew what I was doing. I just wanted it to stop. I didn't want to die, I just wanted it all to stop. I was just there in the tub, slashing myself like a maniac, watching the blood turn the water red. It was a sickening excitement, like I was nearing freedom. And I was laughing—at myself, at everything I had lost, as God…

But then, just when I was about to truly end it, something even stranger happened. I began hallucinating, dreaming in broad daylight. I was in a dress. There was someone standing in front of me under an altar of white flowers. I couldn’t see his face, or anything about how he looked. And I knew that if I made it to him, I would be happy. But it ended.

When I woke up, I was totally conscious, ashamed of how low I had let myself sink into that insanity. I drained the water, cleaned the wounds, wiped the blood off, and went on. Because I knew I still had something to live for. Whoever that was, whatever was happening, I had to get to that point.

Still, I was continuously sinking back into that same insanity. I woke up every morning feeling a concrete slab on my chest. God, I didn’t want to do it again. I didn’t want to die. I didn’t want my family and friends to suffer that. I didn’t want to throw away everything I’d done and everything I could do.

So, I let myself be admitted to the hospital. At first, I felt it was a major mistake. Riding in a cop car like some sort of criminal, being locked in a small room with dangerous people, separated from everybody I loved. I was terrified. This was worse. I was so alone.

And that’s when McKenzie walked in. I remember it was when I was having my first meal. (Fucking corn soup.) She looked different—younger, a more vibrant look to her face, pretty in a way. She scanned the table with a smirk, announcing “I’m back fuckers!” Nobody reacted except me. She then laughed and said, “Ya’ll are like ‘who the hell is she, walking in here like she owns this bitch?’”

I immediately liked McKenzie. As soon as she sat down to eat, I talked to her. It was comforting to meet another high-functioning person with such a care-free attitude. She became my big sister—giving me advice, sitting and talking with me when I felt scared, laughing.

And when I was let out into the main room with the non-dangerous people, that’s when it got fun. I met more people like me. There was a younger girl my age, an older lady, a girl with red hair, and a girl with buzz-cut hair. And then there was Heather, who I will never forget for as long as I shall live.

She was a recovering drug addict. And although her problems were just as hard on her as everyone else, she was still like comforter to all of us. She had the best stories, and made being there feel like a big sleep-over. At lunch, when we didn’t want our food, we would give it to her in secret. One day, when I began crying, she was the one who took me to a private place and talked to me. She didn’t really think of herself as much, none of them did, but I saw something great in all of them.

I saw people who suffered from something devastating—whether it be depression, bipolar, drugs, schizophrenia—they were fighting it.

One I remember in particular was Cannon. She was my roommate. She seemed to be extremely bipolar, as well as a drug addict. She told me her story once, the way drugs had ruined her, and she lost everything else in her life to them. She said she had begged to be put in there so she could recover. She talked about herself like she was the scum of the earth. I told her that most people wouldn’t be as brave as to make a decision like that.

Music therapy was the best of it. Pentatonix and Lindsey Sterling was also a favorite of ours to listen to while we colored and talked. One day, Kaitlynn, the music therapist, brought in the karaoke machine. It was amazing to say the least. Singing Imagine Dragons, Katy Perry, Taylor Swift. Heather’s firkin cover of “I feel like making love.”

There was one performer that I won’t forget soon. I forgot her name, but she always called me Brandy. At first, I assumed she mistook me for somebody, but then I began to realize she was delusional, and placing the identities of people she knew on the people there. There was her cheating husband, his mistress Linda, her cousin Richard, and her best friend Brandy. Thank God I was Brandy. She was somewhat violent towards the others, but she loved me. I always got things from her—from puzzles to books to food. One day, she came into my room crying, talking about a situation that I didn’t quite understand, saying she was sorry. I told her that I forgave her. She said thank you, still crying, and left. Later, I began to understand what was going on. She loved Maurice, but he was using her. He kept her in there, visiting occasionally, while living in her house. But she loved him so much. On karaoke night, she sang “Kiss from a rose on the grey.” It was very monotone to say the least, but thinking of all that, emotional. At least to me.

The day that I was discharged came almost too soon. I would no longer be woken up at 6 for breakfast, or color during music therapy, have to be constantly on the watch for potential dangers of being close to the unstable people around me, or spend countless hours doing puzzles. I never got to say a proper goodbye to Heather, McKenzie, and the others. And I never got back the flip-flops I had lent to McKenzie. And I’ll probably never see any of them again.

But that’s all okay. They’re now a part of who I am. And I’m convinced that I wouldn’t be alive without them.

Back in the real world, I still held on to him. I still called him daily, strived to see any kind of emotion, even offered things I didn’t truly want to offer just to get him to smile. I even planned to move across the country, with only my car and essentials, just to be with him. However, one day, I began to realize… it was time to let go.

So I said goodbye, still with many regrets. But it was a start.

I was still angry at God. Still disgusted with myself for who I’d become—empty without his presence, somehow cold and sarcastic, more narcissistic than I’d like to be. There was a time that if someone was standing on the tracks in front of an oncoming train, I’d push them out of the way, even if it meant that I would be hit. But at that point, I’d probably just watch it, smirk, and say “dumbass.” Gore videos were a favorite of mine, as well as any kind of dark horror. I felt like I, myself, had learned his psychopathic traits in the same way he had learned my goodness.

It was only a month ago that I finally put everything that reminded me of him away, and finally fell on my knees before God and asked for forgiveness for hating him so much. And I came to forgive the military, which I had developed an unhealthy hatred for, as well as him.

The first thing I realized was that letting me go proved that he would always be, in his core, good. I knew he still loved me. I knew he wanted me to be by his side forever. But he hated me being unhappy. He hated seeming me like that. He’d never cried before, but… I saw a tear in his eye as he released me. And it was the right thing to do.

The second thing was that the military doesn’t essentially save the citizens they mean to protect. They save the soldiers, too. Because of them, many anti-socials like him that would have ended up in prison, or dead, or as killers, could be good. And even though I no longer look at them the same way, and still get sick to my stomach when I see someone in uniform, I no longer hold any resentment.

My scars haven’t fully healed. I still have nightmares of some of the… worse things that happened. Even when we were at our happiest, he wasn’t always under control. You always think about what you would do to defend your life, or somebody else’s, in a dangerous situation, but when it actually happens, you just… go blank. That knocked down a few dignity points for me.

All in all, these are the lessons I’ve learned:

Never judge someone for who you think they are. There is so much more that you will never see if you simply look at the labels, or their flaws, or their past. In fact, you can learn more from these people than the sane ones.

Never bow down to anything or anyone. Never become something other than yourself, and epically don’t become somebody else. This can be hard to remember, especially in the midst of passion, but always remain who you are regardless.

Sometimes, you’re aren’t meant to follow the plan you think you are. And you can’t change this. And trying to change it will tear you apart. You have to accept what you were meant to do, and don’t be as stubborn as to fight God.

I will never be who I was before, but I will be someone stronger. I’ve lost my purity, but not my naivety, and I never will. Who I am is not who I want to be, but I someday I’ll go back to being someone I am proud of.