The attraction was immediate. Right away I knew I’d love you for the rest of my life. We met for the first time when I was a child. It was a birthday party with pancakes, whipped cream and lots of guests too. That day, I didn’t get to enjoy you very much. I wasn’t alone, the party was in full swing. There were games, excitement, movement, music to divert my attention.
In the years that followed, there were a few encounters. They were rare, unpredictable and rationed. I wasn’t exclusive, but I knew that the desire for more was lurking inside me. It was contained, framed by family life, upbringing and circumstances.
As a teenager, things began to change.
Two factors changed the situation. The first was that when I was 13, my parents gave me a monthly allowance. It wasn’t much, but this small monthly sum could be spent as I wished. I could choose. It made me feel like I was growing up and knew what I was doing.
The other event was meeting my best friend. We were in eighth grade. She changed everything, because then I had an ally, someone who lived the adventure with me, who spoke the same language as me, who behaved in the same way as me. This support made it possible for the habit, dotted until then, to become more regular. The passion was confirmed. The satisfaction was there, the false happiness too, but I didn’t know that yet.
I remember our long evenings spent chatting, listening to music, the hits of the 80s, A-ha, Michael Jackson, Madona. We were remaking the world together. During this period, our relationship seemed easy, without consequences, nothing but happiness. Then came high school and boarding school… and things started to get tough. Boarding school for girls is a jungle. It’s an emotional roller coaster. It’s emotional violence on a daily basis. It’s the humiliation of bodies, the mockery of emotions, the destruction of dreams. At least that’s my experience. Not only did I no longer have my best friend as an ally – she was in another school – but loneliness was my daily routine and exclusion from the group my norm. I had few personal resources to adapt to the comedy unfolding on the dormitory stage, to cope with the violent judgments about my body, my looks, my clothes, my tastes. It’s true that I was never very conformist. I liked to read instead of watching TV. I was good at science and math, an insult to women. I had no interest in grading boys on their looks or their ability to kiss properly. So I isolated myself with music and dreamed of Canada, because the incessant noise around me, the gossip, exhausted me. I wasn’t cut out for this ultra-social world. So things got worse. Our bond became a necessity, a dependency. Finally, every time I got a bad grade, you had to be there to cheer me up, every time I argued or was disappointed, you had to comfort me, every time I was lonely, you were my companion. In aggravating circumstances, because of the way others looked at me, I had to isolate myself and be discreet. The emotional dependence became considerable. There was no longer a family environment, no adults to protect me. At boarding school, the only adults present just reminded you to be there before the high school doors closed and to turn off the lights at 10 p.m.. Expecting emotional support from them proves illusory. The consequences of this relationship were beginning to be felt, but not yet enough for me to choose to take matters into my own hands.
As an adult, some periods were easier than others, but overall things got worse. I was financially independent. I no longer had to answer to anyone. In a way, this independence made everything possible. The only limits were those I set for myself. My need was anchored. Our relationship intensified. There were no more safeguards. I managed to deal with the consequences as best I could. I could always fool myself. This was definitely impossible when my baby was born. From then on, I was up to my neck in it. I was floundering, my health and my morale were suffering…
Today, our relationship is conflictual and violent. At times, I manage to put some distance between myself and you. I think I’ve managed to get out of it. I won’t relapse. But no, I fall again, often even lower. The shame stays with me. How can you not have enough willpower to get out of these situations? How can I remain a willing, conscious victim? Why am I so dysfunctional? My environment doesn’t help, because I bump into you on every street corner, in stores, at parties, at my friends’ houses, at school and at work. Nobody understands what it’s like to be in that kind of situation. People talk about a lack of willpower, about “making your bed, lying in it”. Who understands that there’s a story behind this addiction? That my life has somehow been organized around our relationship? It’s perverse, it’s masochistic, but it’s also so good, because it’s often the only source of comfort, of sweetness. I’m aware of your toxicity for me, for the world. I’m aware of the duplicity this places me in, I who detest the consequences of our relationship, and yet I can’t (or not yet, hope remains) give up, stop, break with you, my love, my enemy, my passion, chocolate.
Rose Lorang