Having grown up in a Bad Romance, survived one myself, and subjected myself to other people’s hell, time and again, to rescue battered women from their manipulative, controlling, violent abusers, I expected that I would enjoy reading the YA contemporary novel, “Bad Romance,” by Heather Demetrios.
This book is well-written. Ms. Demetrious has a strong prose style, uses beautiful details to bring a scene to life, and writes with compelling honesty about what an abusive relationship looks like and feels like for a victim.
This book employs a specific "you" in its narration, and while it is technically correct to label "Bad Romance" as a story with a second person point of view, I would still label the narrative style as first person. The protagonist of this novel, a high school junior/senior named Grace, narrates her story in the first person, always addressing herself as “I” to the reader. Grace describes her life and her history in long passages which are often independent of the relationship of the title. This is really a story about Grace and her life, and she is the self-identified "I" of the prose. Grace narrates her story to a “you”—her abusive boyfriend, Gavin. Gavin is always referred to in the prose as “you.” So the reader, by extension, is also the “you” of the story—the abuser Grace must escape. For this reason, the book is labeled as having a second person point of view, but that second person (the employed "you" in the prose) was very much secondary to the "I" of Grace's first person point of view.
I must state that I didn’t appreciate this narrative choice. While I often enjoy books written in first person, I didn’t like being the “you” of Grace’s story, thereby filling the shoes of the abusive boyfriend Grace must break free of. I understand the author chose this narrative style to make me feel more solidarity with Grace, but personally, the style made me wince, every time I saw a “you” on the page and understood the implied complicity between myself—the reader—and Gavin.
Because the truth is, Gavin would never read this novel. The Gavin at the end of “Bad Romance” is too far gone into being a toxic human being to give a sh*t about Grace. Gavin has no respect for himself, and he certainly has no respect for Grace. So who is Grace really addressing as the “you” of her story? The answer is: me, the reader. And this hurt me, as a reader. It pains me that I’m the implied abuser reading my victim’s account of what I have done to her. If the author wanted me to believe Gavin is *the actual recipient* of this tale, then something should’ve been changed in the final chapters, or in the epilogue, to make me believe such a thing possible. Having finished the book, I don’t believe Gavin capable of reading Grace’s story. Not ever, not at all.
And that is one of my biggest problems with “Bad Romance.” This novel is a long, glorious tribute to victimization, without ever addressing the root of victimization, and without ever trying to understand why abusers abuse.
Grace is a toxic character. Long before Grace and Gavin begin their relationship, Grace has a toxic mindset. If readers cannot see how poisoned Grace is long before she starts her relationship with Gavin, I view that as further proof of how toxic our culture really is.
This novel doesn’t ever use the word “feminism.” Nor do the terms “rape culture,” “toxic masculinity,” or “misogyny” make any appearances in this book. The entire novel is a tribute to Grace’s severe victimization, and that is all. The root of why she became such a victim is never identified or explored, and she doesn’t save herself. Grace does not wake herself up or save herself in this story. Her friends tell her what to do, and she finally does it. Her friends save her. Emotionally, psychologically, and by the sheer fact that her friends provide a safe home for Grace to come and live in—for free—Grace’s friends rescue her. Grace never has agency in this book. She is always a victim. And by the end of the book, all she can do is point a finger, and place blame. Not as an equal participant in the toxic relationship that caused her to suffer so much, but on “boys.” As Grace states at the end, “boys are the problems.” (page 326)
“Bad Romance” is a trainwreck. To me, the messaging in this book felt as toxic as Grace.
The biggest misogynist in this story is Grace’s mother, a woman who sacrificed her freedom and dignity to live with a violent abuser Grace calls “the Giant.” Over and over, Grace’s mother sabotages Grace’s mental, emotional, and physical health—even makes Grace miss taking her SATs for her college applications, repeatedly makes her late for work, and heaps upon Grace so many verbal, emotional, and physical punishments, abusing her throughout the entirety of this novel. This adult woman plays the strongest role in giving Grace the toxic mindset of a victim. Grace’s mother does this as the price she herself pays to live with the Giant. Grace’s mother is a completely toxic human being, even more so than Gavin. And this is never addressed in the story. Not once, not ever.
Men are not the only misogynists in the world. Men are not the sole “problems” of abusive relationships. It takes two to tango. It takes two for an abusive relationship. It takes a toxic mindset for anyone to believe they need to “suffer” for love. Grace begins the novel with a toxic mindset, and she ends the book having never addressed the root of her own victimization. She is physically safe, living with her friends, but she is far from “healed”—far from being “emotionally safe” from an abuser.
By the end of this book, Grace is only a victim who is momentarily safe from a single physical abuser. And she is only momentarily safe because she is living with her friends, friends who are physically protecting her, providing a physical barrier with their own house and their bodies to keep her safe from any outside harm.
Why do I refuse to believe Grace has “saved herself” by the end of this book? Because the story made it quite clear how mentally and emotionally sick Grace really is. Because here is Grace, speaking to Grace, in lines that appear on page 282 --
“You stupid fucking idiot girl. I hate you. You’re just staying with him because you’re a coward, a whore who’s too scared to be alone. Fuck you, Grace. Fuck. You.”
As Grace speaks (in her own mental thoughts) to herself in that passage, she “grabs the skin” on the inside of her arm, and pinches it, “hard.” (page 282)
Where did that voice come from, inside of Grace? Why does she self-talk this way?
The book is silent on that. Grace’s self-talk is completely unexamined, unaddressed, and completely unhealed by the end of this novel.
The brutal truth this novel never addresses is that Grace’s abusive self-talk did not come from Gavin. She talked to herself this way before the story even begins, before Gavin even so much as *smiled* at her for the first time.
Gavin isn’t the only “poisonous drug” in Grace’s life. Nor is he the most important poison in this book. Grace’s abusive self-talk is the primary drug. Hating on yourself is a poison, a toxic drug, and an addiction. Hating on yourself is the necessary first drug one must become addicted to before the Gavins of the world step in and take advantage.
Why do women so often engage in such abusive self-talk? This book doesn’t examine any of the roots of victimization, whether in the culture at large, or within the microcosm of culture on display in Grace’s family unit. Grace and her friends are highly intelligent, funny, and perceptive. But no one brings up the words patriarchy, rape culture, toxic masculinity, feminism, self-love or self-worth. No one talks about how women are sent a message, over and over, that men are worth more than women. And no one in the story talks about how this message—concerning a woman’s worth, goodness, or how women are expected to “behave” in the world—is the real root of all Grace’s problems. For as many times as the words “slut,” “whore,” and “bitch” appear in this book, no one addresses how wrong it is that these words even exist, much less that Grace continues to suffer the damage these words cause.
I wish I had loved this book. I spent hours and hours reading it, because it’s a very long novel. Long and belabored. I kept expecting a big payoff by the end. I kept expecting the novel to reward me for being so patient.
But “Bad Romance” had no reward for me. The reader knows at the outset that Grace succeeds in “breaking up with” Gavin—and in case the reader forgets the prose on page one, Grace reminds us, over and over, throughout the novel, that she and Gavin break up.
Grace does not heal herself, or save herself, in this story. Grace is a victim whose friends have temporarily saved her by the end of this book. Grace’s unexamined abusive self-talk remains, so deep and so strong that she doesn’t even acknowledge the poison she’s really addicted to, the negative labels and self-hate Gavin recognized and used to hurt her for so long.
By the end of this book, Grace is a victim who will soon encounter another abuser and become another victim again. I know this because readers like me are the real-life people who keep stepping into the burning houses of these women’s lives, and trying to save them. Like Grace’s friends in “Bad Romance,” I can physically rescue a victim, over and over again. But soon, they’re in another burning house, and then another, and another. Because the real poison is all around these women, all the time. In advertisements, in books, in movies, in bars, in their families, in the current tweet storms of the current President of the United States: the message that women are less, that women have no inherent worth without a man, that women should sacrifice everything if it means keeping a man.
The biggest drug dealer of poison is society at large. We are all victims of it, and we are all complicit in the system as well. It’s a wonder any of us break free at all.
Some people do break free though—women and men. But the message of victimization remains everywhere, all the time, and that poison is hard to counter if you don’t recognize it for what it is.
The single biggest supporter of misogyny in “Bad Romance” is Grace’s mother. At one point, she even slaps Grace repeatedly, so hard that Grace’s head knocks against the wall. Is Grace’s mother a victim, in her own right? Of course. But her husband isn’t the worst drug Grace’s mother is addicted to. The biggest poison Grace’s mother is addicted to is her own self-hate, her own abusive self-talk. A self-hate so strong that she beats her daughter down, over and over again. She even tells her daughter to go back to Gavin, to sacrifice herself to Gavin, after Grace breaks up with Gavin the first time. After Grace’s mother sends her back into a toxic relationship with Gavin, Grace almost commits suicide. Her mother doesn’t care, doesn’t notice, and does nothing to help.
Reading “Bad Romance” was an extremely negative experience for me, a toxic journey that offered no help. Society already places the blame of “staying in an abusive relationship” on women, and repeatedly tells these women they should be “strong enough to get out.” The author states in her Author’s Note that the intended purpose of this book is to tell victims of abusive relationships: “Whoever you are, know that it does get better. You just have to take the leap. You’ve got this.” And she provides an important list of resources on the next page.
I support that message, wholeheartedly. I support anything that helps any victim—whether male or female—to find the help they need to live a happy, mentally healthy life, a life free of abuse.
But I don’t think “Bad Romance” is a responsible book. I feel like the intended audience for this novel would be readers who have never witnessed what being a victim looks like and feels like, and want a didactic, educational illustration of what a victim goes through. Similarly, a lot of female abuse victims are praising this book for giving an authentic portrayal of what they have gone through, and have stated that this book gave them that important sense of “I’m not alone” and “I’m not the only one who has suffered this.”
I’m glad those readers leave this book feeling educated about victimization, or—for surviving victims—leave this book feeling like their suffering wasn’t an isolated event.
For me though, I expected a lot more. I expected the main character to have some agency, and to at least ACKNOWLEDGE the deepest root source of her victimization, even if she couldn’t completely heal herself by the end of the story. Damage takes a long time to repair, and I’d have found Grace’s continued brokenness believable, as long as she had at least recognized her greatest poison.
But this story only existed as a spectacle of suffering. Grace’s suffering is offered up as the experience I’m meant to gawk at, shake my head at, bear witness to, and then cheer for her that she had friends to save her.
Sorry, but no. This story did not work for me. “Bad Romance” insulted and enraged me, and I can’t recommend it to anyone.
If you want to read a spectacle of unexamined suffering, then this book is for you. But please know that “boys” are not “the problem.” Grace’s problem is much, much bigger than “a boy.” This novel isn’t offering up any truth, and this entire story is as blind to “the problem” as Grace is.