Stockholm Syndrome

I’m held captive by my former self, actually my current self. An agitated fella who I really don’t want to upset. Swigging brutally from a bottle of some homemade liquor. The fuckers got me chained to a radiator.

Oh God this Stockholm Syndrome thing is real. Sometimes I find myself feeling a bit sorry for him. I can empathise with him and see why he does some of the things he does. Occasionally he let’s slip about his troubled childhood, and the mistakes he’s made in his life.

I mean he’s not all bad. He’s a lot bad but not all bad. That jittery, hair-trigger temper is bad. He put a gun to my head the other day, for no reason that I could discern. Just a fucked-up guy.

Other times I see the good in him. I see the reasons why I don’t want to leave him. Above all he’s kept me alive up to this point, I can’t ask for much more than that. He’s fed me and watered me. He’s put a roof above my head.

I’m sure that sometimes I see his tears. Like he’s wondering how on earth he got us into this fucked-up situation. Like he can’t see any way out. I want to offer him some suggestions but I’m not sure he’s in the listening mood.

I know I’m suffering from Stockholm Syndrome. He knows it too. He doesn’t chain me to the radiator anymore. He knows he doesn’t have to. He let’s me wander outside, safe in the knowledge that I’ll be coming back. I actually think he’s had enough of me; he doesn’t want me to come back. Some days I wander a little further from base, testing the tether that always bring me back.

He’s still drinking, he’s still unkempt, he’s still bullies me, speaks badly to me, but I can’t bring myself to leave. It feels like a love of sorts. Imagine if I never saw him again.