Ho's Gotta Save Herself First

Well fuck.  The pull to be Captain Save a Ho after my weekend with Manhattan Millionaire has caught me by surprise.  "I can fix him!  I can make him happy!"  Has been looping in my brain.  I've been resisting the urge to be the Neosporin on his broken brain but this feeling has been compelling.

Thursday in therapy I launched into the recounting of my weekend with Manhattan Millionaire with all of the righteous indignation I could muster, "Didn't he see that I was incredibly empathetic to his irrational fear and was willing to do anything to make him feel better?  Doesn't that count for something??"  My therapist patiently listened before he chimed in, "Are you ready Kat?"  (Uh oh.  This is going to be a big fat oh shit bomb.)  "MM's bullying triggered your PTSD.  You weren't taking care of him, you reverted back to survival mode to protect yourself to make his abuse stop."  Woah.  He was right.

I've been crying since Thursday due to this revelation (and probably the hormones from the morning after pill still raging through my system.)  All of this hard work I've been doing and I still don't recognize abuse.  My therapist pointed out, "Many women would have told him to fuck himself, get help for his phobia, bag your shit!, packed up and never spoken to him again.  Instead, you made myself sick and put yourself at risk for serious health issues then spent the rest of the weekend catering to him."  FUCK FUCK FUCK.

Yesterday I told Manhattan Millionaire to pound sand permanently.  I'm setting sail for calmer waters.