Last week for Clutch Magazine (while I was adjusting to living in the Big Bad City of NYC), I penned another story on Evelyn Lozada and her newly estranged, soon to be divorced hubby, Chad Johnson. Recently Johnson decided to deal with his break up by getting a tattoo of his future ex-wife's face on his leg. To put it mildly, this sounds incredibly ill-advised. For this post I touched on the romanticising of violence and pain out of love, when it's the one you love doling out that violence and pain.
Here's a snippet:
But there was a time, when I was young and didn’t know any better, his love seemed thrilling. After all, he must really love me if he said that if I ever cheated on him he’d try to murder as many people as he could, then try to go out “suicide by cop.” How twisted did my young mind have to be to accept this? I didn’t come from a violent home. My parents have been married since forever and rarely get upset with each other. But I was inexperienced. I listened to others who told me I should be happy that a guy wanted me because isn’t it bad to be single? And even if the relationship was bad – “Well, if you really love someone you can’t just give up on them, otherwise it’s like you never loved them at all.”
Now that I’m older, I know why my friends said these things to me. They had parents who were drunks. Parents who beat them. Parents who didn’t support them. Parents who called them out of their name. They had fathers who cheated on their mothers. Fathers who beat their mothers. Mothers who beat their fathers. Mothers and fathers who abandoned them. And in all that violence and disrespect, they claimed love. That’s why it was so easy to accept all sorts of violations, like sorority hazing that ended in bruises and alcohol poisoning and friendships that were cruel and full of jealousy and manipulation – the violence was supposed to help you grow stronger, be closer, and love each other more.