Confessional Writing

I once dated a guy who told me he would never be a father figure to my child, made it clear he was going to medical school and didn't see me in the picture and regularly told me he was broke before bumming money off his father to travel with his guy friends.

He was materialistic and obnoxiously obsessed with brand names.

I now realize how much crap I actually put up with in that relationship and it infuriates me.

I genuinely hope that I never have contact with this person ever again in my entire life.

Back in the day I would get fed up and break up with him. Temporarily.

After a short time he would seem unattainable and tempting.

I would start thinking I was really in love and that our fights occurred because we were both passionate and strong willed.

I now hate my younger self for not walking away the moment he said he had no interest in my daughter. Instead I would always try to find a babysitter so he wasn't inconvenienced by her presence.

I fed off what I saw as a "tragic romance."

There is nothing romantic about a self-centered behavior and the only tragedy is that I put up with it.

I read an article on Salon today where a woman writes about having an affair with a married woman in front of her husband (and sometimes with his participation).

The married woman says a lot of meaningless romantic drivel with no actions to back it up and the author makes it clear that the woman was too comfortable with her life and money to ever leave her husband.

The author seems to feed off the misery and hopelessness of the relationship.

At first, I found her story obnoxious because I hate navel gazing/humblebrag essays meant to show others how special and amazing the writer and their experiences are.

These people write cringe inducing "dear diary" confessionals and become convinced they must share them with the world.

It's so involved being them.

They are the first ever to taste the forbidden fruit.

Everything in their life is rare, intense and uncommon.

You wouldn't understand but you should still read about it.

This writing requires the author to admire themself a lot and suffer under the delusion that others should admire them too.

The story isn't there to provoke deep thought or educate, it's there because the author loves to talk about themself.

What comes across with this writer is that she was in a destructive relationship with a woman who used her and cast her aside.

I can relate.

I really hope this gal gets to a point where she cuts contact with the emotionally draining individuals she mentioned in the story.

It will be good for her and good for Salon's readership as they will be spared from future confessional pieces about f-ing some guy's coked up hot mess of a wife and loving the disaster of it all.