premeditated manipulation
on being primed for abuse
My wife, in all of her infinite patience and compassion, and despite her own wounds from M, is one of the primary people I continue to process with as I dig myself out of the hole I ended up in as a result of my time on the farm. Recently, during a peaceful car ride home, I turned to her.
“You know, I really wasn’t insecure in myself when I met M. I knew who I was, I liked who I was, and I knew what I was capable of. How did it get so bad?”
Even without obvious insecurities to jab at, M still got under my skin. They still broke me down until I didn’t believe there was any good in me.
When I look back at some of our earliest conversations - back when M still feigned an interest in me, and still performed gentleness in rare moments - it is obvious now that they primed me for abuse from the very beginning. Maybe that is a silly thing to say, because of course they did? Or not? I honestly can’t imagine what level of operational consciousness is possible for a person who makes a habit of lies and manipulation like M does. For a long time, I have held onto the belief that M must not even be aware of how often they lie. I guess if I think of it as a compulsion, it is more forgivable. I guess that if I think it is as simple as, “they are a hurt person who hurts people,” it is easier to maintain my survival-based belief that humans are, at their core, good.
When I think of the writing I am doing now, and question my own goodness - I question whether sharing my story is ethical, and I question whether or not it may harm M for me to do so, despite all of the more incriminating information I have chosen to omit - I remember that all I have to do is tell the truth.
On the first of my two extended stays on the farm, before moving my life there, M and were driving the back way home. The small town that the farm lies within has a tiny center, and from one direction, you enter it by way of coming up a steep, winding hill. I think I can count on one hand how many times we ever drove that way into town.
It would have been exactly this time of year. I had arrived in time for M’s birthday party at the start of November - a party that ended up being quite controversial, as M had set up a fundraiser for the farm, and then spent the funds on a dance pole in time for there to be performances at their birthday. This was not a purchase that went unnoticed by their social circle, but they quickly explained it away as, “it’s going to benefit the community for future events, etc. etc.” That pole sat beneath the collapsed yurt for weeks before I finally reassembled it in a different space, at their request. After the yurt collapse, any outside expectation of community events at the farm also collapsed, and any strong feelings about the purchase of the pole dissipated along with those expectations.
As we drove up the backroad, still wet from recent fall rain, the turning trees still held onto enough foliage that the steep road was dark in the middle of the afternoon. M drove, their face forward the entire time, which despite being the safest default, was not typical for them.
They were recounting their previous relationship, which they did often at the start of ours. Their ex is someone who I have come to hold a lot of compassion for, despite never having met or spoken. In M’s version of the story this time, they were terrified that their ex would return to the farm; that M couldn’t do anything should they choose to do so, as their names were both on the deed.
M shared their apprehensions about inviting someone else to be a part of life on the farm, as a result of their last relationship. They said that they wanted to be partnered with someone who shared an interest in the farm and was willing to invest into it both physically and financially, but they needed to know that no matter what happened, that person would walk away from the farm without asking for their investment back.
“I can’t imagine how difficult that must feel,” I told them.
By the end of the conversation, I had assured them that, if I ever were to support the farm financially, I would not hold it against them.
As I understand them now, I can imagine how it felt for them to hear that. I was a sitting duck.
M’s premeditated manipulation is glaringly obvious in hindsight. The level of clarity in the plan they seemed to have laid out, makes understanding the original sin between us perpetually torturous for me, even now.
When I agreed to never hold financial support against them, I didn’t know what would be asked of me, or how I would be treated. When I agreed to never hold financial support against them, I also included the caveat “unless I we were working as business partners.” I didn’t know then how quickly I would be acting as a business partner (and asking repeatedly to be considered one, officially), and treated as an indentured servant.
That wasn’t the only exchange between us that they twisted and held over my head, of course. Often, when I would express my unhappiness, or if I was resistant to acquiesce any of their many requests (read: demands), they would assert, with a bat of their eyelashes, things such as:
You’d do anything for me, though.
You’re obsessed with me.
You love it here.
Buy me a barn and I’ll marry you.
All I have to do is tell the truth.