Want. That was my addiction. Because to be wanted was such a rarity to me as a child, as an adolescent. The years I desperately needed it.
What I remember most about my adolescence are the screams, the tears, my blood streaked arms & the faint scars.
I also remember the comments. How my mother would be so proud, how I looked just like her.
When they looked at me, I know they saw her instead. For some, I will forever be her replacement and forever be their reminder that we were all left here on Earth without her. Constant push and pull.
So to be wanted. It's addiction.
Never mind why I was wanted. That's probably why I'm so angry now, so hurt.
I was wanted. I was wanted to fill the fantasies of others. I was just another body, sometimes just an orifice.
I've played so many roles: The wife, the disobedient daughter, the mistress. I was the exotic, the Asian, the non- (enter race here). I was the writer, the lyricist, the assistant. At the very worst I was the meal ticket, the carnival exhibit. I was no longer human.
But I've never quite played myself.
And maybe that's where all my anger stems from.
They all used my addiction to their advantage. They took my vulnerabilities, and worked their manipulations. Because they all knew that all I needed was to be wanted.
I was an easy target.
Most of them were smart enough to have me convinced that I'd never find anyone better, never mind the bruises and marks they left behind on my body. Never mind that they took what I struggled to keep, that they ignored my pleas, that they did with me as they pleased.
I was wanted. It doesn't matter that I was pushed, pulled, and played. That I was manipulated and raped. I was wanted. In those moments, that's all that mattered.
It's only in retrospect that I can process the whole range of emotions.
It's only now that I allow the rage to run through my veins.