Close To The Skin

There is a specific kind of exhaustion that comes from being a woman with a "history" in a world of men who have only ever had a "lifestyle." It’s not just the physical toll of the CRPS—the way my nerves feel like they’ve been replaced with frayed copper wiring—it’s the mental gymnastics of trying to be "low maintenance" for someone who wouldn’t know how to maintain a pot plant, let alone a human being with depth.

Our story didn't start with a spark; it started with a series of muffled thuds. I told him, clearly and in plain English, that I’m a creature of the outdoors. I like the tug of a line in the water, the clatter of a bowling ball, the simple rhythm of a golf swing. So, naturally, on the 17th of December, he took me to an escape room. Nothing says "first date" like being trapped in a plywood box trying to solve puzzles for a man you’ve just met. It was a metaphor I should have paid more attention to: him, looking for clues, and me, just looking for the exit.

By the time he came back from his FIFO swing for New Year’s, I was already tired. But you play the game, don't you? You want to be the "cool girl." He’d been working hard in the heat, so I figured I’d let him lead. We ended up at a pub on the 31st, the air thick with the smell of stale beer and desperation. I was drinking too much—way too much. I knew it, but it was the only way to silence the electrical storms in my legs because he wouldn't go anywhere I could use my THC medication. I was drowning my liver to protect his "fun."

Then came the moment at the pub. I emerged from the toilets to see him leaned in, chatting away to two women at the next table. He saw me. He didn't flinch. He didn't move back. He just stayed there, basking in the attention. My "protection mode" kicked in—that internal alarm honed by years of abuse that tells me leave before they make you look like a fool. I walked out into the cool night air.

The rest is a blur. A literal black hole in my memory. He chased me, we argued, and then... nothing. It took me five days to piece together that we’d had sex that night. I had to apologise for my "jealousy" the next morning, feeling like a villain in a story I couldn't even remember writing.

In the week that followed, he set the new rules: we were building an "emotional connection," not a sexual one.

I agreed, despite sex being my primary love language—a coping mechanism, perhaps, from a childhood that taught me my body was my only currency, but it’s mine. I own it. I’m a sexual being. But I tried. I really tried to be the version of me that he wanted—the one that exists on a higher, more "spiritual" plane, apparently.

Then came the afternoon in the lounge room.

Sex with him is a sprint. He’s lucky to hit the fifty-second mark. I never judged him for it; I’ve seen enough of the world to know that everyone has their struggles. I was willing to work with it. But that day, as I was riding him, finally feeling a glimmer of my own pleasure through the fog of pain medication and CRPS flares, he stopped.

He didn't just slow down. He halted. Then he did it again. And a third time.

"I don’t understand," I said, the confusion thick in my throat.

The look he gave me wasn't one of concern or partnership. It was a look of pure, unadulterated judgement. When I told him I didn't want to continue—that being "cock-blocked" in the middle of an act was uncomfortable and confusing—he didn't ask how to fix it. He attacked.

"You’re so superficial," he said.

The word hit me like a physical blow.

The Weight of a Word Superficial.

Let’s look at the "superficial" reality of my life. I am currently couch-surfing because my body has betrayed me and the Australian government thinks a disability pension is a suggestion rather than a necessity. While he’s up on site earning the big FIFO bucks, I’m navigating the absolute dickery of Centrelink and NDIS, fighting for the right to exist in a body that wants to jump in front of a train just to make the pain stop.

I have lost everything—my stability, my home, my career. I am currently trying to find a safe place to land while battling a system that doesn't give a toss. I have endured more in my life than most people do.

And he, a man currently listing off the Harleys and 4WDs and "another house" he wants to buy, called me superficial because I wanted to reach an orgasm in my own time?

"If that’s how you feel," he added, "maybe you should go."

He reminded me three times that he’d dumped his last girlfriend via text while at work because she was "too sexualised." It was a warning shot. Behave, or I’ll erase you too.

I left. I didn't care that I didn't know the area or that it was a long walk in the dark with legs that felt like they were on fire. I have walked through literal hell; a suburb in the middle of the night is nothing. He followed me in his car, playing the role of the concerned gentleman, but it was just ego. It was chivalry as a weapon.

I eventually went back because he said we could "talk." But talking to him is like shouting into a canyon and expecting the echo to give you a different answer.

"I'm sorry your feelings got hurt," he said.

That’s not an apology. That’s a back-handed way of saying, “I’m sorry you’re too sensitive to handle my ‘truth.’”

The next morning, the king-sized bed felt like a desert. He was huddled on the far edge, clutching a pillow as if I were a predator. I felt a deep, visceral sense of "dirty." It wasn't about the sex; it was about the lack of it—the lack of humanity in the way he looked at me.

When he asked if I wanted to shower with him, my entire being recoiled. I waited until he was out, then I did something I’ve never done: I washed while keeping my dress on as much as possible, holding the fabric out of the stream of water like a shield. I couldn't be naked near him. To be naked is to be seen, and he had already shown me he didn't like what he saw when I was being real.

He took me home, bought me a coffee, and dropped me off. The silence was deafening.

By Tuesday morning, the mask had slipped entirely. The "Good morning" text was a dry, low-effort husk of his usual self.

I’m a big believer in energy matching. If you give me a teaspoon of effort, don't expect a bucketload in return. I copied his text exactly and sent it back. I wasn't being petty; I was being equal.

That afternoon, the question came: "Are you mad at me?"

I told him the truth. I told him I was in pain from the CRPS, but more than that, I told him I was hurt. I told him that attacking my character by calling me "superficial" was a line he shouldn't have crossed.

His response was a masterclass in gaslighting. He told me he hadn’t attacked my character. Then, in the same breath, he admitted he didn’t even really know what "superficial" meant—but he still insisted he was right to say it.

It was the logic of a man-child. A beautiful soul, perhaps, when things are easy and the beer is flowing and the FIFO money is hitting the account. But the moment accountability is required, the moment he has to look past his own nose and realise that the woman in front of him is a person with needs and a history, he folds.

He asked me not to end things while he was at work. He wants to go back to the mines with the comfort of a "girlfriend" waiting for him, while I’m left here, juggling my health, my lack of a home, and the memory of him calling me shallow while he counts his coins.

From where I sat it looked like he was constantly bailing out of his own emotions. He would be sweet and then panic he was too vulnerable, and then would transform into a cold shoulder or hurtful words and insults in some insane sense of control and power. My reality left me with this;

I am not superficial. I am a survivor. And if anything is shallow here, it’s the "emotional connection" he claimed he wanted.

......Because you can’t connect with someone if you’re too busy judging them for having a pulse.