The Men in my Life
*
What I mistook for love
I clung to a second delusion: the belief that someone could love me—that I deserved love.
My father showed up in practical ways, but never with the kind of love that truly mattered.
He took me to museums, chaperoned field trips, and watched TV shows with me.
I saw these gestures as drops of water in a desert—brief moments of relief in an otherwise barren emotional landscape.
Early on, I learned that love didn’t come freely.
To receive it, you had to ask for it or demand it. But I never did.
My mother’s love was even more challenging to earn. She rationed it carefully, offering affection only when I met her needs. Her love felt transactional—something I had to earn, not something freely given. Keeping her approval required constant effort, and her warmth always felt fragile.
My siblings behaved similarly. Like my mother, they only noticed me when they needed something from me. I poured my emotional energy into them, giving time and attention without reciprocation. Whenever I tried to take something for myself, I found nothing left.
Perhaps we wouldn’t have grown so resentful if our relationships had been more balanced. However, Martha’s household left no room for emotional honesty. We concentrated on survival, getting by on remnants of affection and pretending it was sufficient.
Even the friends I made mirrored this imbalance.
Like me, they felt lost and hungry for connection.
Desperate for love, I gave away pieces of myself, hoping it would make them stay.
I learned to shrink myself, to hide my needs, believing that if I became small enough, someone would finally notice me.
I just wanted to be seen. See me. See me.
I longed for someone to tell me I mattered—to reassure me that I was worth loving. I craved the simple affirmation: “It’s okay. You’re okay.”
Unconditional love—the kind I read about in books and saw in movies—became my ideal. I clung to the belief that someone could love me exactly as I was. Parents are supposed to be the first to offer that kind of love. Yet, I never experienced it.
Instead, I spent years chasing love from men while suppressing my feelings for women. I was told I’d grow out of being attracted to girls, so I focused on men who barely noticed me. I kept hoping someone would fill the emptiness inside me, but each time, I was met with disappointment.
As a teenager, I gravitated toward boys who reminded me of my father—those who offered fleeting, inconsistent attention. I mistook casual glances and brief touches for love, convincing myself someone would care for me if I held on tightly enough.
It began during my first year at Catholic high school, where everyone called me “Weird Brianna.” One day, Justin placed his hand on my knee during a bus ride, and I convinced myself it meant something profound. When he held my hand later, I believed he cared for me the way I needed.
Nevertheless, I was wrong.
I wanted him to tell me I was beautiful, hold my hand in the hallway, and ask about my day. None of that happened. He was already dating another girl. Then, everyone around us decided I wasn’t worthy of his affection, even if he wanted to give it.
By sophomore year, I switched to public school. I grew breasts.
“Weird Brianna” vanished. In her place appeared someone new: “Manic Pixie Dream Girl Bree.”
I grew out my hair, studied Teen Cosmo makeup tutorials, and reinvented myself. I traded my albums of nineties grunge and punk music from my siblings for pop-punk and emo. I learned how to talk to boys and play the role of the perfect girl.
“I’m quirky.”
“I’m fun but not too fun.”
“I’m smart but not too bright.”
“I play video games. I promise.”
I played this character to attract boys—and it worked. However, I didn’t know what kind of attention I wanted. I only knew I needed to feel wanted.
I let every boy who showed interest leave a mark on me. I accepted their possessiveness, mistaking it for love. I laughed off their inappropriate touches, thinking it was the price I had to pay to keep them around.
With my new body came attention I’d never experienced, and I found it intoxicating.
I convinced myself I was lucky to get any attention at all.
Even when strange men hollered at me from their cars, I rationalized it. At least I had enough sense to duck into a convenience store when a man in a black van followed me. Otherwise, I might have ended up as the corpse of a True Crime podcast.
I accepted everything from boys—the late-night calls, the jealousy, the accusations, the constant demands for reassurance. I apologized for things I didn’t do. I cut off friends who became “problems” in my relationships.
I told myself their attention mattered more than my needs.
The cracks in my facade widened when one of these boys committed a crime.
It was one week before Thanksgiving when a girl’s scream ripped through the school cafeteria. Brittney, a girl from my English class, was being guided out by a teacher as she started to collapse. My eyes drifted to my boyfriend, who high-fived another boy.
“That was hilarious, man,” the other guy said, as my boyfriend, Curtis, laughed back, “Did you hear her scream? She’s such a bitch, I’ve been wanting to get her for weeks.”
I later found out that she had her throat damaged from Bengay slicing through her throat.
Curtis, the idiot he was, bragged about it, and in less than an hour, security tackled him outside of the school.
The entire incident ended up on the nine p.m. news, leading to my mother insisting that I break up with him.
I did.
However, I quickly learned that with emotionally weak boys, rejection is met with consequences.
The first week of December, I was walking to class when he stormed up behind me and dragged me down the hallway, away from my friends.
“I told you I loved you,” he spat in my face, unable to comprehend that his actions led to this.
He didn’t even let me respond when he started slamming me into a locker, my head reverberating with each strike.
“I’m sorry,” I cried, “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I should have talked to you first.”
By the time he released me, security was rushing to escort him out, and an adult had noticed the back of my head was bleeding.
In the end, he left multiple notes at my house saying he never intended to hurt me.
Still, I considered myself lucky. The school expelled Curtis. I could finally move on since he was physically out of sight and mind.
I told myself I’d focus on art, writing, school, theater, and robotics. Boys only led to concussions, anyway.
It worked for a while. Then, time caught up to me. I had a deadline—I needed someone to help me escape by graduation.Two years to go.
Then Zach appeared—blue mohawk, dimples, and an easy smile. He checked on me after the breakup with the criminal. Zach saw me.
He left mixed CDs of ballads of one-sided romances in my locker and notes in my backpack. To keep me safe, he walked me home.
We kissed one night under the blacklights at Cosmic Bowling.
He rested his head against my neck as I sat on his lap, as he exclaimed to everyone that I was “his girl.”
When his hands rested on my lap, I thought, This is what love feels like. This moment is safety.
We spent months sitting in my backyard, smoking stolen cigarettes and discussing music and movies. I believed Zach understood me, and I wanted to be part of his future.
But I wouldn’t be.
One night, after a concert, I got sick. While I lay in bed vomiting alone, Zach went to a party. When I called, one of our friends answered: “He’s busy. Can I take a message?”
Zach wanted freedom. I wanted to love. Ultimately, his search for freedom ended in my best friend’s bed.
I told myself I wasn’t enough for him.
Rather than face the pain, I distracted myself. I started shoplifting—first small items, then larger ones. By the third store, I felt invincible. I didn’t notice the mirrors on the ceiling.
Hours later, my bleached pigtails and mascara-streaked face stared back at me from the mall security office. My mugshot hung on their wall for years.
My mother left me waiting in silence for three more hours. She said it was due to rush-hour traffic while also suggesting that I deserved to be scared.
Well, I finally had her attention. It didn’t make me happy, and it didn’t bring Zach back. Instead, I earned six weeks of grounding. No friends. No internet. I received a sliver of time to update my fanfics.
Then came another boy—tall, intelligent, and religious. He liked me for who I was and said I had potential. I loved that about him. I pushed myself onto him, trying to prove I was worthy of his future.
He had no trauma, no broken pieces for me to fix. However, it became clear when he turned the mirror to me—I was in tatters. He didn’t need someone damaged.
He went to a religious retreat with his dad right after Homecoming. The following weekend, he dumped me at a Renaissance festival.Because nothing says heartbreak like a corset and a smoked turkey leg.
To add to the confusion, his actions conflicted with his words.
That morning, he told me he loved me and gave me a wax-dipped rose.
Then, as we approached the gate, we got into his sister’s car, and as we sat in the backseat, watching the streetlights turn on, he calmly said, “I think we should break up.”
I turned and looked at him, his sister awkwardly looking forward.
“Wait, why?”
He sighed, “Because you make me not want to be the Christian I am supposed to be.”
That was the only explanation he would give me.
We talked on the phone nightly, and he ended every call by saying, “I love you,” as if the ye olde dismissal had never happened.
I thought the relationship was repaired, especially when he invited me to the movies one night and then made plans to go trick-or-treating.
We spent that Halloween parading around our neighborhoods as a couple, but when I kissed him at the end of the night, he stated that he just wanted to be friends.
To this day, I have no idea what was going on. All I could hold onto was the idea that I did not behave in a Christian manner, and that was what he disliked about me.
I tried returning to church. I had hoped I could fix myself and transform into someone he’d want. I wasn’t broken—I was just lost.
Then Robert walked into my life.
He smiled at me like I was the only girl in the world. He saw me. Finally, someone loved me.
Robert didn’t drink, smoke, or do drugs. He struggled in school due to reading difficulties, but none of that mattered. He treated me with kindness and compassion.
Our relationship was a whirlwind—fights in parking lots, sneaking around, pregnancy scares, stolen kisses, and promises of forever.
He taught me to drive, helped me secure my first real job, and supported me as I transitioned into adulthood.
“So explain to me this,” he mused one night, at a wobbly table in a McDonald’s, “How is Madelyne Pyror not a villain?”
I smirked, delighted at his attempt to indulge me on my X-Men knowledge, without any mockery or disgust that I would know more than he.
“She’s a clone. Mister Sinister made her a proxy for eugenics. She has no volition to know that she shouldn’t be with Cyclops, and her anger and rage at Jean are valid.”
He shrugged, then offered me three crunchy French fries, knowing they were my favorite. I shoved them into my mouth as he replied, “I’ll accept your answer, but I expect to hear far better explanations in future lectures.”
We laughed, and the outside world seemed to fade away again. We were two individuals who found one another, despite our upbringings, and ensured a future for both of us.
His actions and love gave me autonomy for the first time.
We saved every cent to move into a $400-a-month basement apartment decorated with thrift store finds and a bright purple duvet.
A few months later, he proposed. It didn’t match my dream of being a chic, independent woman in New York—but I said yes. He gave me something I’d never had: a place where I could be Brianna.
I let go of my old dreams and embraced a new delusion: that I was a good person.