Freak Magnet

I have a freak magnet attached to me; possibly on my forehead. I believe it to say something along the lines of, "if you have a messed up story and want to mess up mine, come on over, I will listen." This magnet secured itself to me relatively painlessly some time in early puberty when I became know as the shy friend who didn't say a lot but who would listen to anyone's life story and offer unquestioned support with a dose of compassion.
The first time I missed my midnight curfew in high school was not to sneak kisses with some budding literary Orpheus, whispering promises of undying love in the back of a sixties mustang. Rather, I was listening to my on again off again friend confess that she was the latest victim of the neighborhood rapist, and that her drunken mother and lawyer father, and all the police knew, along with everyone else I suggested she tell, and that I should now leave in disfavor, much to my dismay, for having been disloyal enough to suggest she seek help. Thus began her game of catch and release that went on for the next ten years or so, which I was oblivious to.
When my boyfriend called me one night, enraged, to tell me that he was confined to his room, thanks to me, for having felled his closet door with a hatchet because he mistakenly thought I was at the movies with another boy (that boy was actually was my mother), I told him how sorry I was that he was in trouble. The part about the hatchet and the  disturbing possessive behavior went unnoticed, except for a slight twist of anxiety in my chest.
Basically, acting strangely did not throw up any red, streaming flags in my face. At most I let out a sigh, and wondered at how complicated life could be.
So my freak magnet set up home like a lit neon motel sign, welcome comfort for visitors, bigger and more visible as the months and years went by. 
Oh the stories!