Bet
The crux of all problematic relationships lies in the idea that the good will always outweigh the bad. When you meet someone new you place a bet. You calculate the odds from a one hour conversation and roll the dice. Whether or not you throw a pair of sixes the first time does not matter because the cycle hinges only on your first big win. The first surge of chemicals–oxytocin, serotonin, dopamine, and endorphins–will compel your body* to sidestep all the initial clues of sketchy behaviour.
In gambling, a string of near misses does not signify an approaching win. Each time you place a wager you unwittingly forfeit control. A toxic relationship exists in fragments; the losses are discarded from memory, replaced by the highs of temporary wins. The only way to cure this addiction is to understand, by heart, that a solitary win can only cushion an imminent loss, not deter it. The illusion of control is sustained when you are led to believe you have the agency to withdraw your hand at any moment. No one wants to believe they are at the mercy of an addiction.
I should have left when he sat in silence the first time I said, “I love you.” We were in his car, and despite feeling–no, knowing--that he couldn’t accommodate an unbeliever in his life, the words left my lips.
If the people in his life ask me why the qibla is a direction I never face, what would I say? Where would I fit in this picture? If I choose to put on a show, read the holy lines when it is asked of me, place my head on the floors of musollas, what would become of me? It took him two months to say it back. Staying on for those two months had been a throw of the dice. His reply came unexpectedly. It was a rush of chemicals–another big win.
When I was younger, more impressionable, I built stories around my pain and called it faith. Tales of patience and acceptance comforted me in times of uncertainty. As a young child it was easy to convince me of the impossible; my belief a blinding light against the shadows of doubt. But the allure of organized worship, so potent in my adolescence, has little influence over the modes of spirituality I now practice. It was an archaic incompatibility. Being together was always going to be a bigger risk for him than it was for me. His belief had no room for doubt, so by default it had no room for me.
The way he snapped at other drivers on the road was not unlike my mother’s exaggerated anger towards me during one of her manic episodes. Of course he apologized for every outburst. Each time it happened, he held me in a way that kicked in another wave of intoxicating chemicals. That reaffirming touch eclipsed the telltale signs; signs I associated with hostility and indifference while growing up. My mother used to bake cookies as a form of apology. To this day the smell of burnt sugar reminds me of forgiveness.
*I say body because your mind will be acutely aware of this mistake
