The Butthead Series: Part 3

What do you want from me? That’s a question I would ask myself about Butthead all the time. He was not an easy guy to read, and I consider myself an expert at reading people. Saying he was cryptic is an insult to the word itself, so I can’t even say that. It’s not that he was shy or quiet, but that he rarely expressed himself other than sexually. He would be affectionate and adoring, but it tended to be more physical than anything. I should’ve known at that point that I was merely a pawn in a game of chess, but I couldn’t see it.

Seeing him became a grand event. His visits were few and far between. We still talked everyday, but he wasn’t as responsive as before. Every time things would dwindle and I was hanging on by a thread, he would rage through like a storm and knock me off my feet. Not physical abuse, but definitely emotional and psychological. He wasn’t upfront or blunt with his abuse. No, he was far too clever for that. He had the ability to make me seem like the crazy one for even thinking that he had negative thoughts about me. Let’s be honest, I know I’m a tad crazy. But he would pull shit like going out with friends, going to events, and then telling me he had no extra time for me. Then I would say hey that’s unfair and makes me feel bad, and then he would flip it around on me and say I was being too needy and that I shouldn’t pressure him. Keep in mind that I was down to seeing him maybe once a week.

He knew that my biggest trigger was being ignored. When he wanted to punish me or make me feel inadequate, he would ignore me for days. This was a man that took advantage of every weakness he knew about, and he excelled at it. He made it his own personal mission to make me miserable, and I don’t even blame him for it. I was and continue to be a nightmare to deal with, so I understand his frustrations. However, that didn’t give him the right to treat me so poorly. Like I was an object instead of human. Like I was less than nothing, instead of a person with value. He had me convinced that I was better off dead, but I was too scared to do it.

Even though he made me feel like shit 90% of the time, I was still obsessed with the 10% that was good. I focused solely on what made me feel good, and I ignored the glaring flaws in this joke of a relationship. I couldn’t get over the way he would look at me, like I was the most beautiful girl in the world. Or that when he would hug me, I just melted. He even smelled amazing, and the scent would lull me into a false sense of security. I felt safe with what little I had of him. Little did I know that I actually had nothing all along.

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