Friday, February 6, 2015


I fell in love with his mind. He was so articulate and intelligent. He could discourse for hours on end on abstruse subjects, imbuing them with elegant loquacity. His sense of language was capacious and neophyte that i was, i succumbed in complicity. I was young, in thrall of words, impressible, impressed by erudition and esoterica. And that's when the spell began.

Though the nascent spell, precipitated by importunity contained seeds of its own disillusion. I certainly don't delude myself with explanations of ingenuousness. Where i evinced fallibility was when i wilfully repressed intimations of disquiet. Or perhaps even that process  was  involuntary. Even where i  seemed to act by choice i relinquished choice. Something larger than me decided to make its own inexorable choices and i was but a helpless conduit and pivot. This large force was my history, my foundational beginnings which left an imprint of which i remained unaware because it predated me. But its insidious machinations continued to exert an immutable  hold.

Years of therapy have led to this insight as also an interested immersion in the literature of psychoanalysis. While i was with him i experienced deep anxiety. It was both existential and neurotic. I was willing to hold on to the vestiges or remnants of my self regardless of the further indentations he wrought into them. He became a facsimile but a requisite one. On the other side, unbeknownst to me, lay an abyss. It beckoned enticingly. This was also a period in my life when i was self harming regularly. As far as he was concerned he was unequivocally himself. His demonstration of erudition was meretricious because it didn't translate into self awareness. His expostulations were forms of outmanouevring my misgivings. He desired to keep me in a pliable state of quiescence and i colluded because of my own insecurities.

When with him i inhabited a wintry, leafless landscape of painful associations. He, connoisseur of masochism, was incapable of making me happy. And my own misery, self induced yet beyond the self, compounded the attrition of our precarious togetherness. Accretions of self doubt and repugnance confounded me because i was unaccustomed to such virulence. Part of my vituperation was self directed and the other was a protest, albeit wordless, against him who exacerbated the tumult of my predicament.

He never struck me or abused me. However sex was painful and traumatic because the withdrawal of my inner being negated the putative acquiescence of my body. It seems anomalous, on reflection that i didn't listen to my body. But a neurotic apprehending of my foundational chaos was insufficient in obviating my neurotic delight in seeking a prolongation of my condition. The two impulses were immanent, coexisting. I desired flight while seeking to be pinioned. I was both the captive and the captor .

But he wasn't going to be patient with a protracted incompatibility only ineffectually concealed by a tenuous bond. A slight misdemeanour  on my part, totally unintended, resulted in a fusillade of invectives from him, delivered in cold, hard tones of anger and contempt. External conditions rendered our breach irreversible. And i've spent the interlude of five years since alternating between a crippling depression and a valedictory yearning to reestablish an irrecoverable propinquity, however makeshift.

But i do intend to get him back one day. 

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