That is not the beginning of my wonderful story. No, let’s go back to the beginning. As any therapist or psychiatrist would, mine “helped me discover” that it all began with my father and his inability to be affectionate. Once I reached the age of comprehension and analysis, my father’s backstory of his behavior rang a bell inside my head. My dad was an only child. Evolving into an adult at three years old after his father left my grandmother. It seemed after my absent grandfather’s departure, she hardened her heart and turned into a father more than a mother. She worked two to three jobs to raise him, spending most of his life with my “grandfather” Elias. My dad didn't really know much about fatherly love. He didn’t have his biological father, Papa Elias had his own family to care for, and his mother was hardly around to show any form of affection. Though he did have his cousins (whom we all call aunts and uncles), none of it was enough to replace what he could’ve had. My father turned into this stoic man who showed more of anger and sternness than ever telling his daughters “I love you”.

Don’t get me wrong, I love my father. We share the passion of reading and acting. We enjoy listening to old Spanish music and classic rock, even occasionally watching old videos he finds on Youtube. All my drawing skills came from that one day he taught me how to draw a little cockroach. However, my father was and is not an easy man to live with. My father believed in corporal punishment. It was to teach us a lesson.

“He does it because he loves you. He wants you to learn from your mistakes,” my mother would mention while I was in tears from the sting of the belt he'd use on me and my sister. It was always one or two whacks to the bottom (or our legs when we’d run away) but naturally, it hurt like a b*tch. Times were different when I was a child and were considered normal in my culture, so I thought nothing of it. But when you receive more reprimand, it leaves one wondering what love is supposed to be. Now, I don’t want to leave you with a bad impression my father. I mean, he did manage to become affectionate... just ten years later.

The first time I’ve ever heard my father say ‘I love you’ happened when I was still a kid, and my sister was five years ahead of me. I don’t recall the details but I do know it was an intense argument that drove my mother to kick him out of the house. We stood, watching the incident unfold across from our room, a part of me wanting to interfere while the other objected, and reeled me back in. It was eleven at night, drawing close to midnight when my dad pulled us into a tight embrace. And with tears in his eyes (a gesture that I believed was impossible for him to do), he looked at us through the pure darkness of our living room, and finally said the words we waited for so long.

“You always end up marrying someone like your father.”

I’m sure you’ve heard of that before, right? This refers more to the men I’ve been with. As time went on, they turned out to be far worse than anything my father had done. Joseph was the worst of all. A man in his late twenties, half African-American and half Dominican. He was 5’11”, towered over me and initially made me feel safe. Joseph was a charmer, a protector, and I thought he would be my knight in shining armor. However, my fairytale turned into a nightmare. Now, with a clearer state of mind, I now know that in that relationship, I was verbally and physically abused. Nor did I ever really love him. I ask myself from time to time, why didn’t I see it? At first, it was minor “suggestions”, things that were just to better myself.

“When I was dating this girl, she'd… I’m surprised you don't do that,” he’d comment, always with a look of judgement as he’d take in the details of the areas that were imperfect. That's when I began to ‘improve’ myself, and my mental illness worsened. I'd lied to my family as they saw my misery painted on my face.

“I'm doing this for myself,” I would tell myself. In truth, I needed to be good enough for him. I stopped eating and I lost weight. That was all that mattered to me.

“You can't survive just on love.” My mom told me in frustration before she forced me to eat by shoving a plate of beef and rice in front of me. It didn't stop there. Joseph would mention how he liked other women's beauty; their makeup, their hair, the color of their nails. I still question every day if it was my fault, maybe I took it the wrong way—I don't know.

It drove me to be more feminine. “Dress in more tight clothing,” he said. So I bought form fitting outfits, even if I spent all my money. I didn't have enough to eat but I looked good enough for him to show me off. One time, in the park near our place of employment, he mentioned, “I thought of getting you this book with these workouts that'll give you a bubble butt. That would be so sexy. But you're okay like this.” My thoughts began to mutate, distorting into this twisted disgusting, and diseased blob that polluted my mind. I turned into a lesser woman, a subhuman. Yet, he was flawless, immaculate. It was as if he could do no wrong in my eyes.

Everything about him turned dark and outsiders revealed the truth behind his facade. First, came the lies. He prided himself being on the football team of his high school; he told me how he was the most popular guy in school, and that he was the best they had. His parents were looking through pictures of his family, stumbling across their son’s photographs. Just out of curiosity, I asked them about how he looked in his football uniform and if they had a picture of it.

They looked at me confused, “Football uniform?”

“Yeah, Joseph told me he was in the football team in his high school. I want to see him how he looked in it. He said he got really muscular because of him playing.”

They told me something that excused the lack of photographs, then disappearing to the kitchen where he was fixing himself something to eat. We walked around his neighborhood soon after, a brief silence fell between us before he revealed his secret.

“I have something to tell you. You know how you asked my mom about what I looked like in my football gear, right?” I nodded in response, smiling like a painted porcelain doll.

“In truth, I wasn’t on the team. I never joined, my grades weren’t good enough. I just said that to impress you. Next time, ask me.”

I faked a smile, rubbing his right arm affectionately while I assured him that it didn’t matter. But it did. Of course, it did. More and more, the truth was surfacing and the once charming man who pursued me turned into a shadowed creature.

To be continued...