There’s something intoxicating about a man in a leather jacket. Maybe it’s the scent of rebellion. Or the illusion of danger without actual jail time. Maybe it’s the cinematic promise that this will not end well and your inner chaos, polite as ever, whispers, “I’ll take two.”

I used to think I had a type. Tall. Dark. Charismatic. Emotionally unavailable in five languages. The kind of man who shows up late, kisses like a promise, and leaves like a ghost.
Call it charisma. Call it unresolved childhood issues wrapped in a leather jacket. I called it love.
Again and again. And again.

I used to think I had a type. Now I know I had a pattern. One stitched in trauma, soaked in love songs, and with just enough hope to keep me coming back for more.

Chapter One: First Love and Other Dangerous Experiments

I was still in high school.
He was a drummer in a rock band, and I thought that made him basically a god. That broody artist vibe and a heart that beat like a bass drum when he looked at me. He was all fire and freedom. I was all curiosity and hormones.

We didn’t last, of course.
We were young, wild in different ways, and heading toward parallel lives. I wanted to build a future and explore life; he wanted to chase music.
So I left him.

Fast forward 13 years.
I was mid-divorce, emotionally shredded, and somehow found him again: older, softer, still sexy in that rock-nostalgia kind of way.
I wanted more. A second chance. A poetic twist.
He, however, thought our story had too many characters, my ex still haunting the scene like a bad cover band refusing to leave the stage.
So this time, he left.
Balance closed. Karma noted.

Chapter Two: Daddy Issues, But Make It Fashion

He was the kind of man you could write a thousand sad songs about.
Unreachable, magnetic, and sometimes just a little bit drunk.
Our connection was wild. I twisted myself into silence and softness, hoping he’d notice I was the one.

But he was never really there. Emotionally absent, but oddly jealous when I talked to anyone else. It was love as hunger, not nourishment.
I loved him loudly. He kept me as background noise.

Then, one random Tuesday, he married someone else. No warning. No closure. Just a status update (no social media at that time) and a broken heart.
And I cried like the girl in every 90s heartbreak ballad.
Because I was.

Looking back, I wasn’t in love with him, I was trying to finally win an unwinnable war. To rewrite history. To finally be chosen by the very energy that once made me feel invisible. That’s not love. That’s reenactment.
And worse, it’s exhausting.

It took me years to realize that the spark I chased was often just the adrenaline rush of recognizing familiar dysfunction.

Addiction? Check. Avoidance? Double check.

Chapter Three: The Illusion of Stability

If there were red flags, I turned them into pillowcases.
He was charming. Dangerous in a way that felt familiar. The kind of man who could turn a room with his smile and destroy your soul in private.

Alcohol, cheating, manipulation, he had it all. He wrapped his damage in detachment and control, until I no longer knew where I ended and his drama began.
He broke me slowly. With harsh words, sharp silences, and just enough “I’m sorry” to keep me hoping.

I lost confidence. I lost myself.
But when I looked at my child, I knew I couldn’t lose her too.

So I left.
Torn, terrified, but alive. I left for something far more radical than love: safety.
It took me years to rebuild the woman he tried to erase.
But I’m here. Stronger.

Chapter Four: Exit the Pattern, Enter the Self

And then, when I wasn’t searching, I met him. The one who didn’t hurt. Who didn’t run.
He was calm and kind. Tall, of course. A voice that could talk me off ledges, and hands that held space, not just skin.

He saw me. Not the version I crafted for survival. Me, raw, radiant, ridiculous me.
We were a team. Partners in crime and healing.
He loved me like no one else dared to. And I loved this handsome man with a gratitude so deep it made the past look like fiction. I simply adored him.

We were good. Really good.
And for a while, I thought the story had finally turned soft.

But sometimes life writes endings you didn’t plan. And some goodbyes come too early, without warning.
He left to another dimension, not by choice. And with him, a part of my heart. But also, a new kind of clarity.

Healing is weird. It’s not glamorous. No leather jackets involved.
It looks like choosing someone boringly kind over someone thrillingly toxic. It’s setting a boundary and sitting in the awkward silence. It’s waking up and not thinking about who hasn’t texted you back, because his texts were always there.

And let me tell you, peace has surprisingly sexy energy when you’re no longer addicted to chaos.

Chapter Five: The Leather Jacket Now Hangs on My Shoulders

They all had that wild edge. That rebel rhythm. That spark that felt like a promise. But only one loved me in a way that healed instead of hurt.

Somewhere along the way, I stopped chasing unavailable men and started falling for myself. Not in a narcissistic, selfie-ring-light way. But in the slow, steady, “I’ve got you” kind of way. The way I always wanted someone else to love me.

Now, I don’t chase leather jackets.
I wear one.

I’m the rebel who walked away from old patterns. I’m the woman who chooses softness without begging for it, who no longer mistakes chaos for passion.
I’m the one who learned that healing doesn’t look like a man, it looks like me, choosing myself over and over again.
I carry my stories stitched inside like secret tattoos. I know the difference between adrenaline and alignment. Between longing and love.

Yes, trauma had a type.
But healing?

Healing has boundaries. And taste. And a really good playlist.