The Difference Between Broken and Rotten
Better read while listening to «I was wrong» by Ray Goren
I’ve been in and out of this «relationship» for more than 8 months. But it took only 24 hours of horror to realize something devastating: not all broken people are like vases — still beautiful, still worth mending. Some, once broken, turn into weapons. Sharp. Unsafe to touch. Ready to cut.
We often say, «hurt people hurt people.» But show me one who hasn’t been hurt. Show me one who hasn’t broken a little along the way. Pain is part of being alive. But not everyone weaponizes it.
There are broken people who, if you love them enough, begin to heal. Slowly. Tenderly. They become whole again not because you fix them, but because your love gives them space to soften. These people are rare, and they are worth every ounce of care.
But then there are the others.
There are people so angry at their own pain that they punish anyone who sees it. They don’t want healing — they want power. They want control. And if you dare to get close, you become the enemy.
Not every broken person is dangerous. But rotten ones are.
Rottenness is refusal. Refusal to look within. Refusal to take accountability. Refusal to stop spilling their pain onto you like you’re a canvas for their rage.
I didn’t know the difference until it was too late.
But now I do.
And I’m learning that love — real love — is not martyrdom. It’s not bleeding for someone who keeps handing you the knife. Love doesn’t rot you. Love restores.
So if you’re loving someone who punishes you for your care, know this: you’re not weak for trying. But you are wise when you finally walk away.
Not every broken thing is meant to be held. Especially when it cuts.
Often, I believed I didn’t need love to overcome the emotional trauma I’ve carried since childhood. But the truth is, with every relationship—though none perfect—I softened. I learned to love myself a little better, and I learned to love others with more depth, more clarity. My edges, once sharp, became gentler.
By no means am I perfect. I live with bipolar disorder and BPD, and my reactions in romantic relationships are—well, let’s just say—not typical. My chaos has always been turned inward. My destruction was mostly self-destruction, not cruelty. I may split when I feel hurt, but one thing every past lover could say is this: they felt safe with me. They felt seen. They felt loved.
As I wrote in another piece, I’ve always had a tendency to love people who are “a little broken.” To make them my projects. To try to love them into healing.
But this last one—after 8 months of back and forth—I’m afraid he wasn’t just broken. He was rotten.
And rotten doesn’t heal. Rotten punishes you for trying.
And so did he.
The 24 Hours That Changed Everything
Yesterday, during my weekly therapy session, we talked about the last 24 hours of hell with J.
On Thursday, I texted him again. Just to see how he was doing. He replied by asking me to dinner.
Now, let me be clear — we’ve been broken up since May, and it’s now November. Every few weeks, after a random like on social media or an unexplained money transfer to my bank account (his only way to reach me when I’ve blocked him), we fall back into the cycle: dinner, sex, silence.
It’s a waste of breath to list the ways he’s hurt me — but let’s just say all my coworkers, my friends, and even my family have him blocked for a reason. People think I’m either stupid, insecure, or under some kind of spell.
But honestly? I thought I understood where he came from. A second divorce. A new city. Financial stress. A dead mother at nine. A cruel stepmother. I thought our toxicity was just a symptom of pain — not proof of rot. And I believed if we loved each other enough, we’d transform.
So I tolerated the breakups, the silences, the chaos. Because I thought he was broken. Not rotten.
That Thursday, over dinner, he told me all about his dating life. I listened like a friend. But I responded like someone still in love. I made sure he knew: I still loved him. And he, of course, didn’t reciprocate. Not at first.
That’s fine, I told myself. I can love for both of us.
He casually mentioned his weekend plans — a Tinder date. I nodded, smiled, and drove him home. But something in me knew: he was telling me this to remind me that he didn’t need me. That he had options.
In front of his house, he didn’t want to get out. He kissed me and stared. I offered: let’s go for a drink.
A small detail about me: I make friends everywhere I go. He hates that. He’s used to being the only one in the spotlight.
We ended up at a karaoke bar. I talked with strangers — always including him — but still, he grew tense. Finally, I convinced him to sing. He picked “Shallow” and asked me to duet. I agreed, though I can’t sing. Because I thought it would mean something.
We got on stage. He sat at the front — and left me alone.
So I sang, and the crowd sang with me. A big group invited us to sit with them. Later, a gay couple — the club owners — invited us to their second bar. We danced. We drank. We stumbled home at 4:00 a.m.
And somehow, even then, I still thought it meant something.
We got up. Made love. Once again, I was late for work. He kissed me goodbye and said we’d talk later.
I arrived at work in panic. I told myself the breakfast in bed, the hugs, the “I love you’s” — they had to mean something. But deep down, I knew: none of it came from love. It came from power. He always said he wanted to «humble» me.
Co-workers — my Sex and the City confidants — told me to try one last time. So I called. He answered. We made small talk. I asked: “Will we see each other tonight? Yesterday was intense, and I want to know what it meant.”
A pause. “We can talk Monday. I’m busy this weekend.”
I froze. Told him to cancel. He refused.
I said I was coming over. He said okay.
I told my manager. He sighed. I promised to return on Monday a new woman.
I drove to J’s in a panic. He opened the door smiling. Kissed me. Hugged me. “Welcome back, baby,» he said.
We sat on the couch. I sat in his lap. I asked, “J, it’s time to cancel that date.”
His smile grew. “No baby, I paid for her ticket. She’s coming from Berlin.”
I said I didn’t care. He changed his story. “She’s just a friend. You can’t forbid me from having female friends. You can be here too. She’s coming with her boyfriend.”
The story kept shifting. And my panic grew.
We went to bed. He cuddled me. Told me I was the love of his life. That he’d marry me in six months.
We had lunch. He was cold. He accused me of giving ultimatums. Said I couldn’t reappear in his life and demand things.
We returned home. Had sex. Fell asleep. Ate dinner in bed. Slept again.
At 8:30 p.m., he shook me awake. “It’s time for you to go.”
“Why?” I asked.
“I have to pick her up from the train station.”
I got dressed. As he showered, I slipped out.
He ran after me — naked — into the elevator. Smiled. Reached for a hug.
I declined.
That was when the spell broke.
The bed still carried my scent. Ready to welcome someone new.
He didn’t even bother to change the sheets.
His smile held nothing human.
Even in the wildest stories, this would seem surreal. He felt nothing. Not for me. Not for her. Not even for himself.
He was hurting all three of us at once — and enjoying it.
And I couldn’t help but wonder: is this what rot looks like? Or is he just a sociopath?
My therapist asked me why I kept returning. I told her I’d never met someone so empty. I thought it was just pain. But it was so much deeper.
It wasn’t pain.
It was rot.
And I feel no anger now. I don’t miss him. I hold no grudge.
I just feel sorry for him.
And for the part of me that confused pain with potential.
She deserved so much more.
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