He Had a Son Who Was Only 6 Years Younger

I was 19 when I fell in love with a 41-year-old man

He was 41. He carried the scars of a marriage in which his wife constantly cheated on him. He also had a son who was six years younger than me.

I was 19, and I carried zero baggage.

We met through a mutual friend, another 19-year-old girl he was trying to bang, a fact that didn’t register as the red flag it should have been. As months went by, that girl faded away because he “chose” me.

At the time, I was delighted. However, it soon became clear that I had no idea what I had gotten myself into.

I was a grown-up.

At 19, for all terms and purposes, I was an adult. In my country, I was able to legally drink, buy cigarettes, had the duty to pay taxes, and could do whatever the heck I wanted, within the law, of course.

Why did I decide to become entangled with a man who could have been my father?

I suppose psychologists could have a field day, dissecting every single one of my personality traits until there’s nothing left of me. They could go back to the abuse my siblings and I went through during our childhood, my being autistic, or whatever reason you might want to choose.

The truth is I did what I did, and spending the rest of my life performing an autopsy of that relationship would lead to nowhere. All I know is that for several years I felt unable to resist that man’s logic. Everything he said, the reasons he explained to me, made perfect sense. After all, he was the mature one, the wise one, the knowledgeable one.

I find it funny how, during our arguments, I would be two different people at once. When it was convenient to him, I was just a little girl who had no experience in the world and, therefore, couldn’t make good choices. However, when shit hit the fan, he would immediately remind me how I was already an adult and, therefore, had given consent to whatever crappy situation fell upon me.

I was a girl, I was a woman, and then a girl again. It all depended on what he needed at the time. Even when I turned 30, since I remained 22 years younger than him, I was still being treated as less than. However, it was becoming increasingly difficult for him to keep me in check.

I was growing up.

Did I ask him to stop?

I lived with that man for almost 20 years. We never got married, but I always called him my husband, and he referred to me as his wife — you can still find references to him in my old articles.

We lived in a house that belonged to him, but a few years after we got together, I became the primary breadwinner as job opportunities became scarce for him.

I had no issue with that. The problems lay elsewhere.

When we first met, he revealed he had dealt with alcoholism in the past. He told me about the things he used to do while under the influence and how later he became a “healthier” person. However, after we started living together, he went back to it.

I won’t go into too many details about the kind of things he did while intoxicated. Suffice it to say, he was the kind of drunk who gets sad after the sixth beer, which pushes him to consume six more. After that, he would turn into a nasty, violent drunkard who terrorized me, screamed at me, and threw things around the house.

Worst of all, the next day, he would claim not to remember a thing, which was probably true. However, in his mind, the fact he had no memory of whatever atrocity he had committed meant that it probably hadn’t been as bad.

Did I ask him to stop? I think the word you might be looking for is beg.

I cried, tried to bargain, and did my best to make him happy. But that wasn’t enough; I know so because he told me I didn’t motivate him enough to get sober. Then, I had his child. Yes, I was that stupid.

When our son was around 2, he finally quit, and although his violent outbursts reduced in frequency, he was never able to fully restrain them. And I chose to stay with him through all of that.

At the time, I had no support system. I was estranged from my family and didn’t have any close friends. I had effectively isolated myself. There was no one to tell me, “Hey, maybe this isn’t a very good idea. Want to pause for a little bit?” He was my only source of companionship, and I assumed he loved me and wanted whatever was best for me.

However, now I see how he just wanted to start over. He ached to build a new life for himself. And I was there…willing and available.

Yes, there are many things I can see now. 20 years later. Who would have thought that having life experiences actually helps you change and grow?

I was so ashamed.

During my time with him, I did not protect myself. I did not advocate for my happiness. I endured years of tolerating his every whim, completely unaware of the fact I didn’t have to.

I used to believe I had to be in a relationship because of course I had to. I thought I had to have a child with him because that’s the whole point of relationships, right? I believe I had to stay with him even during the worst of his alcoholism, even if it meant putting myself at risk, because self-sacrificing is what a partner must do, right?

And through it all, I was so ashamed of being a bad feminist who didn’t dare leave the man who was abusing her that I didn’t tell anybody about it. When I started writing here, I would just make a passing mention of the “problems” between us. In fact, sometimes I would write about a particular “boyfriend” who did horrible things in the past, failing to disclose that, in reality, it was all him.

It mortified me to admit I was still living with the man who had hurt me. The man who was still hurting me.

Maybe we would reach some peace.

A few years ago, he got a prostate cancer diagnosis. For a while there, that softened him. I seriously thought we were going to be able to salvage the relationship. Maybe we would reach some peace during the final years of his life.

But that did not last.

He had always been the jealous type, but suddenly, his distrust went to the roof. Apparently, I was fucking everything and everyone that moved. Everything about me was studied carefully and evaluated, up to the way I laughed or who I smiled at.

He would tell me what a horrible person I was, basically the worst thing that had ever happened to him. Then, he would turn around and tell me how I had to promise never to leave him because he loved me so much he couldn’t fathom being without me. Once again, there were two of me.

Last year, the situation became unbearable. Scratch that…it had been unbearable for a while. I guess you could say what really happened is that I was finally ready to leave.

So I did.

There are life lessons that can’t be taught.

Nowadays, I keep seeing people argue how a 40-year-old man holds no advantage over a 20-year-old girl because she is “Oh, so mature!” Plus, she is of age and can provide consent, so all is fair, right?

Right…

Except there are life lessons that can’t be taught. They must be learned through the years. Add to that, we also need to forget the relationship dogmas that were shoved down our throats during our formative years. That takes time…

I write these words because I want to make it clear there is nothing particularly romantic about a May-December romance. Sure, some of these relationships are for real, with two partners who are prepared for a life together. I’m sure you know someone like that.

But that wasn’t the case for us.

He just needed Marriage 2.0. And me? I had no idea what I wanted, but I had heard I had to do X, Y, and Z and knew nothing about boundary setting.

I hope reading my story will, at the very least, give people a pause. Maybe stop for a moment before you jump head-on into a situation you don’t fully understand? Maybe stop rushing into things?

Maybe ask yourself if your dreams of a happy marriage, happy baby, and happy home truly belong to you or if they come from the illusion that a “traditional” life will bring you the joy you have always desired.

But, hey, perhaps I’m deluding myself by thinking someone will listen to me. There are life lessons that can’t be taught…