"I know I'm being used. That's okay man 'cause I like the abuse." -The Offspring

I don't think anyone sets out to find despair and chaos in relationships. No one yearns to constantly crave affection from the hand that squeezes at their throat. It's never any little girl's dream to be in love with the anxiety that comes with constant belittling and marginalization.

It wasn't mine. But today I woke up and realized that I am in an abusive relationship. I fell in love with a man who built me up like a skyscraper and then pecked away at me like his personal game of Jenga. And in true damaged fashion, I loved The Man anyway.

Because The Man is my job.

I do some freelance writing here and there and I adore it. Most of my gigs are a dream come true, but The Man was a fairy tale. At first it was the "this is new and this is awesome!" feeling that we all love. Dozens of emails in a day. Cute links and tags on Facebook. I was the new girl; The Man drooled over me, told me I was the best writer he'd ever had, and he could see a bright future for us. I was smitten. No, more than that. I got a taste of intellectual heroine and I was hooked. The first hit is always free, you know.

Slowly the emails stopped. No more blinking light on my Blackberry, but I checked obsessively anyway. Maybe my phone was broken. Maybe The Man's email was broken. Maybe the whole internet was broken and The Man was at home wanting to reach out to me just as much as I wanted him to. Yes, that was it.

I still go to networking events, but The Man has pushed me away. Gone are the nights of cuddling in the corner and pouring over our article notes. It was subtle at first, him just saying he had important people to entertain, but soon I was at the bar alone, getting beers for The Man. And who is that catching his eye? A new writer? No, it can't be. He loves me. The Man may have a wandering eye, but he always comes home to me.

I stopped getting phone calls. Now it's just the occasional freelance booty call of "hey, I know it's last minute but can you cover this?" I happily work that Wordpress the best way I know how as to please The Man. But when it's over I don't get any feedback, just a stale "thx" via text. No discussing of strengths or reworking of weaknesses. The writer's pillow talk that I ache for has vanished. I still make The Man a sandwich, but never seem to get the mustard/mayo ratio right.

If I could just write more often The Man will remember the good times. If I could just write better, if I could just stop fumbling over simple feature pieces, then he will be happy again. Happy with me. I just have to focus more, stop forgetting attachments when I send emails and learn something, fuck, anything about HTML. I can make The Man love me again. I can change him.

Emails with questions about articles go unanswered for torturous amounts of time. I have suggested topics that I can write about, just to have the chance to wow The Man like I did in the beginning. The Man answers when The Man feels like it. And the response usually ignores my question anyway.

It's probably my fault. If I weren't so needy and jealous none of this would have happened. Everyone needs space, right? Everyone should a get a second chance nine times, right?

I have a buddy who I talk to about this. He's in the Freelance Friendzone right now, helplessly watching as I go back to The Man time after time. He tells me that I deserve better and any publication would be happy to have me and let me write as much as possible. He's offered to let me write for his website, but I just can't commit. I'm hoping I can work things out with The Man. I can't just leave him. He needs me, okay?

It's not so bad with The Man, really. Every so often I get some dollars in my PayPal account or a stack of business cards, and once I got a fancy name tag with my picture on it and everything. The Man isn't disrespectful of my time, he's just busy. He's not ignoring me, he just knows best. I met his sponsors. He. Loves. Me.

I spent some time looking at old pictures and crooning along to shitty Radiohead break up jams. I wrote a text, deleted it, wrote it again four times before eventually sending "let's talk plz" and then regretting it. I called up my besties for a girls' night out but ended up crying in my martini before we could even go dancing. I scoured The Man's Facebook and Twitter pages, trying desperately to figure out where it all went wrong.

Today I realized how unhealthy this is and how much bullshit I put myself through just to see my name in print. It's not worth it. It never was. I was just so beaten down and confused by the sudden silent treatment that I craved the attention I used to get from The Man. I cannot change the Man, but I can change me. I'll find someone who really loves me, not just for my verbs but for my adjectives too. And I'm not going back. I'm nobody's Rihanna.