When most girls think of a prince, we envision handsome, wholesome, gentlemanly saviors. Someone to romanticize and someone who will romanticize. Someone whose nobility of character attracts hordes of pining, hopeful women. At his best, the Dark Prince was all of these things for (Sisterwife and) me. But he wasn't at his best very often. He usually showed these glimpses of humanity at the moment when I could not handle any more of his hatred for women in general, and more immediately, his disdain for me. But when those human, loving, affectionate qualities surfaced, I felt like the only woman in the world.
I felt special because he had chosen me. Me! It's funny how quickly all the uncertain feelings of confusion and frustration would just disintegrate when he would look at me - a deep, unending stare. His whispers of meaningless endearment in my ear about longing and desire would placate me while the cycle started again. I felt if I just held on and waited long enough, he would reveal all the things I wanted to know but was too scared to ask. Things I knew didn't make sense. Things I knew were being withheld from me. Things my entire being was trying to tell me were wrong. Instead of waiting to hear from him, I should have been listening to myself.
So, my prince certainly didn't arrive shiny and bright on a white horse. He turned out to be a little more dark. Turned me a little more dark. He made everything around him turn dark. He was powerful. He could do things to smart and savvy women that many men would not have the power to do. He had the ability to turn lives inside out. He had the ability to turn ideas of love and relationships into twisted plots perfect for a Lifetime movie. He stole all the lightness from lives and left misery in its place.
Or rather, I allowed him to do this. In fact, the Dark Prince provided an outlet for myworst self to emerge. I needed his darkness to permeate my life in order to understand how far I was from being my true self.
Calling him the Dark Prince does provide him with a sheen of mystique, but it exists. That mystique is what draws the collection of women to him. His initial charisma paired with his face and sexual prowess are what bring the ladies back for more. The mystique is what generates the hope and longing. Then, the darkness rolls in and disorients rational thought. The devastating amounts of confusion, self-doubt and manipulation generated by his hypocritically sick desire for total accountability from his ladies were masked with a constant communication stream. In a series of distractions - links, pictures, empty sentiment - he fostered a sense of involvement. It bound me to him and left me waiting for the opportunity to just talk about us.
He used my desires and hope against me. He took my vulnerabilities, my hidden weaknesses and exploited them. He turned me against myself leaving me alone, isolated, fat and miserable.
So, sardonically, he was my prince. Our prince. The Dark Prince.
Emily Brown was a single woman in her mid-30s living in the Midwest when a Dark Prince found her online dating profile. Fearing it was now or never, she relented to his persistent persuasion and immediately began ignoring the instinctual pulls telling her something wasn't right. Their tawdry relationship centered around guilt, shame and withholding served up by the Dark Prince until Emily put her foot down. Well, actually, she put her foot in his backpack. And that showed her all she needed to know.
Emily shares the painful discovery of how the man she loved was sharing his life with other women, how she went on to befriend her "Sisterwife," and how she found herself again. “Stories from the Sisterwives” is the remarkable true story of heartbreak, friendship, love and triumph over the darkness.
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Genre - Memoir
Rating – R
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