CW: sexual content, infidelity, love/sex addiction, emotional abuse, gaslighting, physical domestic violence, chronic illness, medical neglect, suicidal ideation, suicide attempt, hospitalization, substance abuse, manipulation, self-harm behavior, discussion of harmful behavior toward others

They’re remaking Wuthering Heights. 

Oh!

The director wants to film her teenage girl interpretation of the book.

Oh…

Heathcliff is white. 

Oh no…

Yes, the harrowing, complex tale of love, racism, classism, generational trauma… reduced to a whitewashed BDSM romance. Brought to you by a bougie white lady. 

Guess that hits close to home, huh?

Why would it?

Because you used to be that girl—romanticizing ruin.

Used to be? That girl still lives inside me. Hungry.

Didn’t expect to hear that.

Why?

Because… you’re older. You know better.

What’s that got to do with anything?

You really don’t remember?

Remember what?

How you wanted a Heathcliff of your own. How you tried to turn stories into life.

We’re all stupid when we’re young.

Of course, but I expected you to grow out of it. 

I did grow out of it!

Fine, we’re doing this. Let’s take a trip down memory lane. It started, like all addictions, with a story. Remember how you found it?

Yeah… it was in my mom’s collection. Stacks of tattered paperbacks, all with women fainting on the covers. She was a romance girlie too—always pining for her lost, tragic love.

The love of her life. The one her father tore her away from. He wanted a respectable man for her—equal in class, polished, proper. The one she got hit her instead of holding her. Cheated, drank, spat on her dreams. So she retreated into the bottle and those books, each man between their pages morphing into the one she lost.

I remember. I was her confidante. She’d whisper his name between sips, her breath sour with wine. Some nights she’d cry so loud I thought the walls would split.

You were so young. Not even ten yet. What did she teach you about life?

That life’s a big pile of shit without someone to love and be loved by.

And?

Men are pieces of shit who will abuse you, rape you, and use you for sex. 

And?

It’s still better to have a man than no man. 

Then she handed you her most worn copy, pages soft as fabric. ‘You’ll understand when you’re older,’ she said, like it was a gift. You trusted her, she used to read you bedtime stories every night. You loved her for that.

I didn’t believe her about the rape and the abuse—I just tucked it somewhere deep, like a fact I never wanted to touch.

No, you were a child. You craved fantasies and love, so you devoured those books. You’d reread the love scenes until the pages tore. Over and over and over.

Yeah… but come on, who doesn’t want a love story that burns?

True. But you were obsessed. The words stopped feeding you after a while. You wanted to feel it—skin, breath, heartbeat. You were thirteen. Remember your first boyfriend?

Vividly. 

Tell me.

I can still see him—that crooked smile, the smell of his skin. My knees still go weak remembering how hard he kissed.

How’d it end?

We dated two weeks. I played stupid games, he dumped me. 

And after he rejected you?

I… I just wanted him to see me again. 

You made sure he did. Everywhere he went, you were there. For months. Then you hooked up with his best friend—a guy you didn’t even like. Revenge.

That’s not why I did it! I just… My hunger overpowered me. I hated him for taking away my pleasure.

So you took something away from him.

I was thirteen! I didn’t know better.

You knew. Remember what you did to the next one?

Don’t —

You told him ‘If you won’t fuck me, I’ll fuck all your friends.’ You meant it.

He touched me, pulled back. Kissed me, walked away. Three weeks of that. I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat, all I wanted was release. He dumped me instead.

And you made good on your threat. 

That rejection burned in my throat. The anger choked me. I had to do something. I didn’t mean—

You meant it.

I was young.

And you didn’t stop.

Maybe I didn’t want to.

What did you want?

To be wanted. To be in control. Just like everyone.

Not everyone hurts people for it.

That’s unfair. We were all cruel in high school.

Maybe. But you enjoyed it.

You don’t know that.

Oh, but I do. You don’t love—you consume. You study them like prey. He mentions his ex never listened? You become all ears. Says he loves spontaneity? You show up at midnight naked. They think you’re perfect, that you see them. And you do—just not the way they hope. But once you have them? It’s over. You’re already bored, long before they notice.

That’s bullshit. I had long relationships.

And you cheated. On every one of them.

I tried not to. I told them I needed more—passion, attention, something. They never listened. What was I supposed to do?

Break up. Move on. Find what you want. But you can’t, can you? You have no idea what you want.

I just want a loving partnership. Someone to share my life with… my chest aches just saying this.

Ha! Then why’d you throw it away when you finally found him?

I didn’t throw it away. We were together for six years. It just didn’t work out. He wanted marriage, I wanted freedom. I was only 22.

By then you’d already cheated—more than once. There was the affair with an engaged man.

I will never regret that. The other encounters, maybe.

You never regret good sex. I see you heaving under the blankets, playing with yourself, thinking about it, reliving it. You crave danger. The taboo. That’s what drives you mad. 

That’s not true!

Need I remind you of your other affair? Your partner’s best friend. Also in a relationship. The four of you used to hang out constantly. And you weren’t even into him. But the touching under the table, disappearing to the bathroom—that’s what excited you. The secret of it. Them right there in the next room, trusting you both.

I hate you right now. 

Do you see a pattern?

Yes, I fucking see a pattern!

Did you love any of these people?

I cared for them. But…

But what?

They were never enough. I wanted it all—the chase, the craving, the thrill of danger. It was the only thing that made life bearable. 

So you kept chasing. One after another. Until… 

Until I found him. 

Ah yes, your Heathcliff.

I loved him—truly, wholeheartedly, madly. My skin still burns thinking of his touch. I watch him sleep beside me, feel the warmth radiating from his lean body. I ache to taste him—the salt of his skin, still damp from our passion. Hard. Thorough. Unrelenting. A dream made flesh.

You remember.

Yes… Making love felt like drowning in sunlight. Brilliant, blinding. I wanted to dissolve into him completely. It changed me. I wanted to be better. I learned his favourite movies, cooked breakfast, stopped flirting with strangers. For a while, I believed that was love.

And then…

He was just like me, chasing fantasies. When I got sick, he found something easier. Weed didn’t ask for anything.

You started noticing the shift.

At first it was small things. He’d forget to text back. Skip plans. Stay out all night.  When he came home, his eyes were glassy, his clothes smelling of smoke and perfume. I’d ask what was wrong, and he’d say “Nothing” while looking past me.

You tried harder.

I stayed quiet through the pain, told myself I didn’t need help, that needing him would only push him away. But the weaker I got, the colder he became.

Nothing worked.

I’d beat on his door, begging him to come to bed, to just hold me. My body ached, fevered, shivering. When he finally touched me, he felt hollow, like he wasn’t really there. Most nights, I cried myself to sleep. He called me his “white noise machine.” The sicker I became, the crueler he got.

You couldn’t believe this was happening…

I’d finally found love, and it slipped away—molecule by molecule, like smoke I couldn’t catch. My mind looped endlessly: how can I get him back? How can I make him love me again? How do I fix this? Then he put his hands on me. And I felt something inside me shatter—quietly, completely.

And you finally cracked.

He found me, the pill bottle empty, the vodka almost gone. Then came the hospital—white walls, IV drips, doctors asking questions I couldn’t answer, dreamless chemical sleep.

Yet you came back for more…

I had to go back, try and save it. The apartment still smelled like him—smoke, sweat, something sweet—but it no longer felt like home. I moved quietly, afraid to break the fragile peace between us. I thought if I could just be gentle enough, patient enough, he’d remember what we were. I was terrified that if I left, I’d never love like that again. It wasn’t about him anymore. It was the love inside me, clinging to life.

But you did give up eventually.

I did. Something inside me went still. It wasn’t just the violence—it was everything. The part of me that still believed in him finally died. Then came the emptiness.

And it terrified you. 

More than anything. So I ran straight into the next arms I could find. 

You didn’t even stop to heal. 

How could I? The silence was unbearable. I needed someone—anyone—to make me feel alive again.

So you filled it the only way you knew how—cheating, rebounds, another so-called big love.

Screw that asshole. He’d twist everything I said until I doubted my own memory. Made me apologize for things I never did. I felt crazy, small, worthless. Fucking his best friend felt like revenge. Like taking something back. I remember his hungry, primal kisses devouring me. Hearing him whisper, ‘I want to have you in your ex’s bed’ sends a pulse through me—heat spreading, tightening, burning.

… Do you see you shouldn’t have been dating at all?

Yes, I fucking see it! But I couldn’t let go. There’s no drug like this—like passion, like being wanted. 

You know what it is now, don’t you? An addiction. Not love.

I do…

Yet here you are, back to your romance novels, your dating apps, searching for another all-consuming passion.

It’s not like that anymore. 

How so?

I’m looking for sex. I practice ethical non-monogamy. I’m upfront about what I want. I’m nowhere near ready for a relationship. I’d detach immediately if it even started.

How can you possibly know that?

Because I’ve done it—over and over. The moment a fantasy of love takes hold, I leave.

What happens if you find one you like and the sex is good?

I’ll go away…

No, you won’t. You’re playing with fire. Yes, you learned what love is. Yes, you stopped cheating. But you know why you flirt and run, don’t you? You’ll keep devouring. You only like beginnings.

I don’t want to be alone for the rest of my life…

You don’t have to be. But you need to face this. You feel it, don’t you? The ache that won’t go away. It eats you alive, and when it’s too much, you feed it with someone else’s heart.

There is no fixing this! 

There is. But you have to face the trauma—the abuse you suffered. Stop running.

I don’t want to be a victim. 

Why not? 

Because victims are powerless. I can’t be powerless again. 

Again?

Photo by Anastasia Vishnevetskaya on Unsplash