Why I Can’t Talk About The Older Man I Dated At 18
It’s OK if you’re not ready to talk about it too
“I know, I look older,” I said.
“You look 18 to me,” he said.
It was the first alarm bell I ignored. I quickly fell into the role of the doting lover, and became an expert in seeking excuses. I’d even find light-hearted reasons for the bruises on the private parts of my body and convince myself he didn’t mean it, that this was all still a version of the messy, complicated, painful love that always ended in two lovers finally coming together in a passionate kiss in the rain, just like in movies. I stroked my bruises and told myself that one day he would love me the way I wanted him to — I just had to try harder.
He was 43 years old. I was 18.
I feel a deep sadness when I see myself at 18, staring up at him with puppy dog eyes, not realizing that he was telling me he had a girlfriend, that I had fallen for an expertly re-worded version of the following: “My wife doesn’t understand me” and “I’m leaving her for you, I promise!”
I remember how much he loved himself, how he bragged about his big ego and believed that to have too much self-confidence was better than none at all: things I now know are the trademarks of a narcissist. As I write my story, I feel…
