Personal account of abusive relationship with individual named Richard

night, if I tried to see him he didn't have time. It didn't help that he reacted very badly when I went after him aggressively -- too aggressively, I knew, but couldn't help it -- and told him honestly how vulnerable I was. He backed off fast, leaving me more confused than ever. (Though not too confused to think: How stereotypical.) It went beyond being a woman spurned, though. Especially since I believed, intellectually, that he didn't owe it to me not to be busy. He wasn't required to sort me out. And -- since it seemed to be what I was after -- he wasn't obligated to continue hurting me. We'd just met, after all. It was more that I was enraged by how desperately I wanted to be hurt -- and infuriated that someone, anyone, could have such power over me. I had always thrown myself into infatuations; like most people, I'd been known to get angry at the object of my affections. But this was different. Not only was I infatuated, I was aching for something I couldn't reconcile. Even if Richard had been the perfect counselor I had no right to expect, I might have hated him. As it was, I felt toyed with, and found as many other reasons to dislike him as I could. As long as I could focus on wrath, I didn't have to think about my other feelings. It kept me from falling apart. He was away for most of the summer. I went to a few trusted friends for reassurance and validation; giving few details, I allowed my anger to calcify. But Richard ended up surprising me. On a visit to Chicago, he called me every night for a week. The bruises he left took weeks to fade, some of them bleeding and leaving scars. I raged as I covered the worst of them -- but felt also a low-burning fulfillment. One close friend, Andrew, caught sight of a bruise on my leg and cast me a worried look. "That looks pretty bad," he observed, and I could only say, "Yes." By then, I'd well and truly internalized the belief that Richard didn't want to deal with emotional vulnerability, and my furious resentment remained. This feeling was not helped by society in general; men hate emotions, right? Still, the more time I spent with him, the more I had to admit that he made an effort to be sensitive. Most of our failures to understand each other came from how different our relationship paradigms were, not to mention my unevenly-repressed identity crisis. I know I tried to warn Richard that I wasn't doing well at expressing myself and that what I thought, or felt, or believed I was might change on short notice; but I doubt I got even that concept across. He identified fairly publicly as a BDSMer, and made it clear that he considered me superficial and cowardly because I was unsure about doing so myself. He was also polyamorous, a lifestyle that I had some experience with -- but though I respected others’ choices to engage in it, I'd decided against polyamory for myself. It felt strange to draw the parallel, but it was somewhat like dealing with a difficult boyfriend. Still, I didn't trust him, and our relationship didn't particularly involve sex. Just pain. Towards the end of one night, wan light filtering through my curtains, Richard inquired HOUSE_OVERSIGHT_018453