It took decades to figure out why I preferred them to the “nice guys”

I should have been safe at home. All kids should be. But for many of us, we weren’t. In my case, a hostile, frightening environment in childhood left me primed and ready for the bad boys to do their worst.

Some kids will respond to that sort of upbringing with rebellion and acting out. I was a “good girl,” doing my best to stay out of trouble, to stay out of the way and out of sight. It was self-preservation, my best bet to stay safe.

My mother’s anger was tight-lipped, quietly bubbling like acid that dripped from her mouth in bitter insults and hurtful comments. She did plenty of her own vile damage that left lifelong scars and contributed to my attraction to bad boys.

Growing up with two angry males for role models clinched the deal. I had a complicated relationship with my father. His own difficult life drove him to seek solace at the bottom of the proverbial bottle. Unfortunately, this meant he would often unleash years of pent-up anger, frustration and disappointment. I was usually the nearest target.

My older brother was just plain spoiled, sadistic and nasty. An abusive little bastard who caused me no end of physical assaults and emotional torment. And no one stopped him.

If I could stay quiet and out of the line of fire, I could minimise their attacks. I became a very, very good girl. Be quiet. Be polite. Do as you’re told. Do not ask for anything. Do not complain. And for heaven’s sake, stay out of the way!

I learned at an early age to keep my thoughts and feelings to myself. They were wrong and could get me into trouble if I let them slip out.

“Shame on you!” my mother spat. Yes, Mummy. I know. I am wrong, all wrong from the inside out. Everything about me is wrong. I am shameful. I am a bad girl. Because I exist. Because I am not like you. Because you wish the adoption lady hadn’t given you a fat, ugly baby with eczema. You tell me that all the time.

My 15-year-old birth mother wanted to keep me and had looked after me for a few weeks. But ultimately, I was taken from her and put into foster care until I was adopted at about 6 months old. No doubt it left an impression to have bonded with at least two mother figures, only to be ripped away from them. I’d better be good or I might be sent away again.

Being placed in a home with a lot of anger didn’t help. I got the brunt of the tempers that flared, even when I hadn’t done anything to deserve it.

By the time I was a teen, I rebelled a little, as any proper teen ought to do, but the worst thing I did was mouth off a bit to my parents. “A bit” — just enough to begin asserting some independence, but I knew when to keep my mouth shut. Sure, I smoked, as many teens do. But I wasn’t one to do drugs or get drunk like some of my friends.

Nah, I saved my teenage rebellion for the bigger things, like being engaged at 15, leaving home at 16, marrying at 17, having a baby at 18, and being a divorced single parent at 19. All things that hurt me far more than they did my parents.

I went a bit off the rails after that, and although I went out with a fair number of “nice guys,” those brief connections never went anywhere. On the surface, they seemed like they’d be great as boyfriends or for marriage, but I always felt something was missing and I’d move on to the next guy.

Then there were the “bad boys.” You know the ones. They’re a tad irresponsible. Maybe a lot. They skate just under the legal radar. They’re moody, temperamental. They’re passionate and romantic and a little bit dangerous.

Or a lot, in some cases. Like the handsome, charismatic client of the lawyer for whom I worked. “J” was polite, funny, quick-witted and kind. Mm, those chocolate brown eyes, the warmest smile…he was affectionate and sincere. He had a scary Doberman that he kept at his side at all times, which I thought was a little weird, but hey, I guess he loved his dog. A lot. Apart from that, I could see myself with him for a long, long time (she remembers, dreamily). Except for — well, you know, that one little thing that was a bit of a problem, the one where he was likely going to jail.

What’s that? Oh, did I forget to tell you? “J” was a big-time drug dealer.

I guess that explained the Doberman.

There was another client who was already in jail when I — hm? Another client and jail? Oh, sorry. Did I forget to tell you my boss was a criminal lawyer? (I know, some people would say they’re all criminals. Bada BUH!) This guy, another “J,” was a smooth talker with a criminal record as long as the Trans-Canada Highway (Canadian Fun Fact: It’s 7,281 km or 4,860 miles long, running between the Atlantic and Pacific coasts. Yep. Canada is big).

He was well into his 30s. I was 20. Naïve. Too trusting for my own good. Not that I was aware of that yet. I believed all his excuses — er, “reasons” — for why he had been in so much trouble. Constantly. For many years. Mostly, he wasn’t to blame, of course. Heck, no. After all, people made him do stuff that he knew was wrong, poor thing, but he didn’t have any choice and oh, dear, he got caught and wasn’t it just awful because it was really their fault.

He sent me flowers from jail. Ooo, so romantic! Made some beautiful leather goodies for my daughter and me. Awww, so nice of him! I visited him when I could get a babysitter. He would be getting out soon and needed somewhere to stay. A sponsor. He had reformed, you know. Was never really “a bad guy” in the first place. Sweet-talked me about “forever” and wanting a fresh start. I could be his sponsor and give him that, he said. Wow. Me? Lucky girl. Sure! And we’ll all live happily ever after. (Barf.)

I found out about a naughty lie he told his pals in jail. Said I’d done happy things to him during my visits when he was in hospital, and I hadn’t. I hadn’t even kissed him, much less…the, uh, other stuff he said. I didn’t like him talking about me that way. I was done.

Done with him. Unfortunately, not with bad boys. Nope. Not by a long shot.

They weren’t all criminals. There were the ones who drank too much or drove too fast, the ones I was sure were seeing other women. The ones with the flashing, angry eyes that silenced me, the ones who lived on the edge, the risk-takers, daredevils, the ones that scared the pants off parents when their daughters brought them home.

And the one I married that turned out to be a crack addict. The whole time we were married. And I didn’t know a thing about it.

Not until I’d had enough of his violence and mood swings and I finally chucked him out. A few months later, I learned about the crack. Well, I guess there was good news. It explained his insane behaviour.

Sparks flew the moment we met. He was passionate, romantic, a hell of a lot of fun. I couldn’t stay away from him. Wouldn’t have even tried. Dancing, road trips, days out … we had such a great time together.

Except when we didn’t. Then it was as awful and scary to be with him as it could be exciting and playful.

I’d been such a sucker. I’d told him up front on our first date that if he did drugs, this wasn’t going anywhere. I didn’t give a rat’s ass what my friends did on their own time, but I didn’t want that stuff near me or my kids. He said no problem, he only smoked a little weed now and then and would have no trouble giving it up.

I believed him. And I paid for his lies. His violent rages meant he took my life in his hands more than once.

There were other bad boys — another of my way-too-many husbands, a lot of men I dated, a few I was supposed to marry but didn’t (whew!). I’d be here for days with that list but I’m sure you get the point.

Over the years, I’ve thought a lot about this attraction to these kinds of characters. That’s about the nicest thing I can call them. An accurate description, too. What the hell was it that drew me in — and kept me hooked?

Oh, sure, I’ve heard much of the psychology behind this phenomenon and no doubt it’s valid. I think there’s more. At least, for me there was.

As a “good girl,” I didn’t dare get into trouble. Even as an adult, I was super responsible with five kids and a lot of single parenting. I lived what I’d been taught as a child. Don’t say what I’m thinking, it’s wrong, it’s bad. I can’t have my own opinion. I have no right to want or need anything because that makes me selfish and just who do I think I am, anyway?

Heaven forbid I should get angry. It simply wasn’t allowed. Plus I’d seen plenty of frightening displays of anger by the others in my home when I was a kid. I had been on the receiving end of it on numerous occasions. I’d spent a lot of time hiding, staying out of the way or being quiet in an effort to avoid being someone’s target.

It was just a damned terrifying thing. I didn’t know what my own anger might look like. And I didn’t want to find out.

***

Being with a “bad boy” was like having an outlet for the feelings I’d never been allowed to express. I believe it was my own attempt at rebellion, or maybe not so much rebellion but more like self-expression. Being near a bad boy, being close to him was kind of like seeing him as an extension of myself. I didn’t want to be a good girl but I didn’t know how else to be. I wanted — needed — an outlet for my frustration, for feeling trapped, suffocated, stuffed into a box and unable to speak about my feelings, my thoughts. I was unable to express who I really was.

Somehow, being with a bad boy allowed me to feel like I was doing some of that (even though I wasn’t, really). It was defiance, I suppose. Like saying, “No! I’m not that Goody Two-Shoes that you want me to be! This is who I really am! This is who I wish I could be!” I wished I could thumb my nose at society, at my parents, at my friends, everyone who thought I “should” be a certain way, especially my mother, who never liked me from the day they adopted me. I was sick of being The Good Girl. I hated it but I was a parent so I had to do the right thing. I had to be a good influence.

I had to be The Good Girl, whether I liked it or not.

Being with a bad boy was like getting a taste of living that Fuck You attitude, a glimpse into how it would feel to say or do whatever the hell I pleased and not give a rat’s ass what anyone thought about it. I got to dip my toes into living on the dark side, the wild side.

And I bloody loved it.

Until the last one nearly killed me — literally.

The last bad boy’s ability to be selfish was beyond comprehension. The last bad boy was unbearably manipulative and toxic, forcing his mental health issues down my throat until I was doing battle with my own.

The last bad boy wouldn’t stop raging at me one night, in spite of my gulping meds to stave off yet another heart attack. He was well aware that for some unknown reason, I’d had severe heart troubles with unstable angina since I was in my 30s. He was also aware that emotional upset can aggravate it and cause a heart attack.

He could see I was in significant distress. I couldn’t get my breath. My chest was aching. My left arm was heavy and tingling. My jaw hurt. I was well familiar with the signs. I told him I was trying not to have a heart attack but he wouldn’t back down. With one obnoxious comment after another, he did his level best to be hurtful, ignoring my pleas for him to stop. Stop. Stop!

He didn’t. Not until he was good and ready, which was sometime well after I’d managed to get to the bedroom with my heart meds and could lie down. I was too ill to respond anymore, which took all the fun out of it for him. Eventually, he got bored and left me alone.

That was the turning point. I was so ill that night and the following day, I got the lesson. I had repeatedly put myself in the hands of bad boys, each one worse than the last, and apparently, I would do it until they killed me one way or another. I had never been as close to death as I was that night.

It occurred to me that as much as I had been pleading with him to stop, I was pleading with myself to stop, too. To stop allowing him or anyone else to abuse me or to force me to be a good girl and bloody well do as I’m told. To stop allowing anyone to silence me. To stop silencing myself.

Once and for all.

My feelings mattered. What I thought mattered. What I wanted and needed mattered. And by God, no one was going to shut me up ever again.

He was my last bad boy.

It was a long time ago. I swore off dating for several years, not that I had any interest in it anyway after being with him. I’d been pushed way too far and it would be a good while till I’d even begin to find my way back.

I spent a long time healing, learning to love and value myself, and to be able to speak my truth and be open about my thoughts and feelings. I dug deeper into allowing myself creative expressions of who I am, using writing, art and music to do it.

I learned to be out in the world as myself, fully and completely, whatever anyone else might think of who that is.

I am the only one who needs to be happy with who I am and how I show up in the world.

And as for the bad boys, they can take a long walk off a short pier. Or they can grow up and become Real Men. Yeah. I know. That’s hilarious.

Whatever they do — or don’t — it’ll be without me.

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