My Life in Reverse

by Casey Harvell

  My Life in Reverse

  © 2016 Casey Harvell

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without the express written consent from the author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review.

  Trademarked names appear throughout this book. Rather than trademarked name, names are used in an editorial fashion, with no intention of infringement of the respective owner’s trademark.

  The information in this book is distributed on an “as is” basis, without warranty. Although every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this work, neither the author nor the publisher shall have any liability to any person or entity with respect to any loss or damage caused or alleged to be caused directly or indirectly by the information contained in this book.

  The characters, locations, and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity or resemblance to real persons, living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Cover, Editing & Interior Design by Fancy Pants Book Formatting

  Based on real events.

  This book contains graphic content, including strong language, violence and sexual situations. It’s not intended for readers under the age of eighteen, or for the faint of heart.

  To my boys. Mommy will always protect you. To my inner circle, I never could have made it through this without y’all. To the man who saved my soul…I’ll never think I deserve you, but I’ll love you, care for you, and try to brighten your day for as long as you’ll have me.

  Disclaimer

  Dedication

  3 Sides…

  Narcissist:

  Bye, Feliciano

  Screenshot

  Pathological Liar

  …

  Grooming:

  WTF

  Gaslighting:

  Attempts & Acquisitions

  Narcissistic Mask:

  Inescapable

  Love-bombing:

  Blissful Ignorance

  Disassociation:

  The Art of War

  PTSD:

  Liar, liar…

  Hoovering:

  Rock Bottom:

  Stalker:

  Enlightenment

  Silent Treatment:

  Consequences

  Devaluation:

  Tenacity vs Audacity

  Normalizing:

  Fools

  Ambient abuse:

  Conformity

  Projection:

  Danger, Will Robinson

  Supply:

  Diagonals

  Empath:

  Part Two: Strength

  Who I Really Am

  Jambi

  Adjudication

  Gambit

  Exoneration

  Part Three: Faith

  My Life in Reverse

  Solace

  Aftermath

  Middle Game

  Checkmate

  Epilogue

  Warning Signs:

  A Note From the Author

  #MLIR Playlist

  "Acknowledgments"

  About the Author

  Other Books

  Author Recommendations

  Summer of St. George

  There are three sides to every story:

  1) My side.

  2) Your side.

  3) My screenshots.

  (or narcist):

  [nahr-suh-sist]

  noun

  1. a person who is overly self-involved, and often vain and selfish; lacks empathy.

  2. Psychoanalysis. a person who suffers from narcissism, deriving erotic gratification from admiration of his or her own physical or mental attributes.

  Present day…

  Tell me no again and make me want to do it more…but you learned that quickly.

  Fuck with my head to get your way, instead? Touché, motherfucker.

  At least if you hit me, the scars could be seen. But you’re too concerned with others’ opinions to leave marks where they can be noticed easily.

  Now? I can’t believe how stupid I was for so long.

  How weak.

  How I became everything you wanted to make me into…

  Well—fuck that.

  You can take your box and shove it up your ass, you manipulative fucktard.

  I’m me again and I’m better than ever before. I have no time for your static.

  Bye, Feliciano.

  A person who habitually and compulsively lies in order to suit their own needs.

  You never loved me.

  You loved the idea of me.

  You loved saying I belonged to you and trying to enforce it.

  You loved controlling me.

  You loved manipulating me.

  You even loved hurting me.

  But you never loved me.

  You loved what I could give you.

  You loved everything you took from me.

  You loved saying it was yours.

  You loved to break me down.

  You loved to break my heart.

  You loved to use things I love as a weapon against me...

  But you never loved me.

  For a long time, I thought that it was my fault.

  That I was lacking.

  That I could control how you treated me.

  I tried to please you.

  I tried to conform.

  It damn near killed me.

  But it didn't work.

  I'm stronger than that.

  I'm stronger than you.

  I'm stronger than your lies that you infect others with.

  I'm better than that.

  I'm better than you.

  I'm too good for you.

  Always have been.

  And you knew it, too.

  Well, now we both do.

  I'm slowly learning my worth.

  With the patience of a good man.

  A man who DOES love me.

  And shows me what love is supposed to be.

  Without any of the pain.

  A man who I love so damn hard.

  So spread your misery like an infection.

  Spread your hate and your lies.

  Spread your pain.

  Make it all about you.

  Just like you always wanted.

  Spread it wherever you want.

  Because I'm immune to your manipulation now.

  A calculated and predatory act of maneuvering a person into a more dependent and isolated position by claiming a “special connection” where they are more vulnerable to accepting future abusive behavior.[1]

  Present day…

  The first time I had a panic attack, I thought I was dying—that my heart was literally about to explode from my chest. I couldn’t really hear much, like I was underwater or something. My vision began to get clouded out by white spots as a sharp pain shot through my head. I lost my balance.

  Overall, it fucking sucked.

  If you’ve never had one, I don’t recommend it. If you have, then you know.

  You know.

  I remember how it baffled me. I’d never had one before—why now?

  I’ll tell you why…

  …because I was an asshole.

  That’s why.

  20 months ago …

  “I’m going out.” The door slams and I jump as it does.

  There he goes again. I gave up trying to find out where he goes (or what he does) years ago. Fuck, I gave up caring years ago, too. He just gets mad if I ask.

  He gets mad whenever he doesn’t get what he wants.

  I live with Dr. Jekyll (and worse, Mr. Hyde) whose mood swing
s drive me close to the edge.

  In truth?

  It’s a relief every time he leaves.

  Every.

  Single.

  Time.

  I think about leaving him—constantly—but every time I try to say the words to him, I freeze up like a deer in headlights.

  My heart pounds.

  Pain shoots through the back of my head.

  White dots encroach upon the outskirts of my vision.

  What in the actual fuck?

  I can feel something’s wrong. Deep in my gut, I know it.

  Something has to give.

  14 months ago…

  Every argument with this man leaves my head reeling in confusion. I barely know what’s right from left after listening to him…

  “…and there’s a reason why you don’t trust me, but it’s not—I’m not—cheating. And I haven’t cheated on you. I’m just letting you know. Like, I don’t know why you want to destroy our family over something that you don’t even know—”

  I try to cut him off, “It’s not me destroying our family, I told you—this is on you…” but my voice trails off as he talks over me. “This is on you.” I say louder, refusing to put up with his shit one second more.

  “But I didn’t do it!”

  “Yeah, you did!” I counter. My entire body revolts against what I’m doing, but my anger is stronger.

  “I did not cheat on you.”

  His statement enrages me. “Talking to girls the way you’ve been talking? None of that is okay or cool.” I hacked his Facebook account after he’d been acting weird last night. It was way more than I bargained for.

  “About what?” He asks. “About how I feel?”

  “About how you feel is fine—but everything we do in the bedroom? All that shit’s okay?” I ask incredously, imagining his reaction if the tables were turned.

  He begins to grow agitated. He’s not used to me standing up for myself. “I was talking to a mutual person about you. I have no one to talk to.”

  I shake my head in disgust and decide to switch tactics. “And you are—you were, or had moments, where you were falling for her—because you’re saying to me that you don’t want anyone to come between us and you said it so many times. I thought about it and I got it—”

  “Because you keep saying that I’m cheating,” he cuts me off again. “When someone keeps saying that you’re cheating, that person’s cheating.” He insists.

  It’s like talking to a brick wall. Let’s try this again. “At this point, I don’t care if you stuck your dick into someone or not.”

  “I didn’t, though.” He’s really getting mad now. “I didn’t fucking stick my dick in anybody!”

  “I don’t care.” I tell him. “If you did or not, it doesn’t matter to me anymore.”

  “Why are you doing this to our family, though?” He persists, trying to manipulate the situation and put the blame on me. “I didn’t, and I haven’t, and I won’t—that’s my thing—and you just don’t want to believe it!”

  “You’re yelling at me.” I point out, calmly.

  “Because you’re not believing me and it hurts.”

  “Because I don’t believe you!” I lose my cool temporarily and scream back.

  “I didn’t—” He tries to continue, but I don’t let him.

  “You want me to lie? Oh, yeah—I believe you,” I say sarcastically.

  “No, I want you to try and trust in me and believe because we have a family.”

  “I tried and I tried,” I repeat as he continues to yell at me, ignoring me.

  “And we’re going on fourteen years and you just want to throw everything away because you don’t believe me.”

  It takes me a moment to realize that my feelings really don’t matter to him at all. “Keep yelling,” I goad him. Probably a stupid idea on my part, but I don’t really care at the moment.

  “That’s why,” he continues now, ranting. “You just don’t want to fucking believe me.”

  “I really don’t.” I say when he finally shuts up. “I don’t believe you. It’s not a matter—”

  “I didn’t shove my dick into anyone,” he cuts me off to continue. “And it’s like you just want to throw away our family because you think I did.”

  He sounds like a damn broken record. We’re literally talking in circles here. “I have put up with enough shit from you over the years—” He tries to cut me off again and I raise my voice. “And I’m fucking done.”

  “You are going to throw away our family. That’s what I’m saying. I didn’t do anything and I don’t want you to do this. I don’t know why you would throw away our family!”

  “You already did it! I told you—this isn’t on me—”

  “I didn’t shove this into anybody! You don’t want to hear it!”

  “You don’t want to hear it!” I counter, stating the obvious.

  “Because you don’t give a fuck!”

  “And you’re still yelling at me.” I point out.

  “No, I’m not yelling.” He argues.

  “And not letting me get a word in edgewise.” I add. “Which is what you always do—which is why I never talk to you to begin with.”

  “And—this? Fuck you. You’re a piece of fucking shit for thinking that I did that. I love these fucking kids and I love you with every fucking fiber of my body. If you think that I did that, then you have a fucking problem. I did not shove this into anybody. I love you. I don’t know why you can’t see that.”

  “You need to calm down,” I say quietly because he’s beginning to scare me. I repeat my plea again, but he ignores me.

  “This is who I love, this is who I love—is my family—and you don’t give a fuck, for what, I don’t know.” He paces the small porch gesturing violently as he basically chants this like a crazy man.

  “You treated me like shit all fucking winter!” I yell over him—while he continues to go on.

  “It’s a fucking winter thing and things went wrong,” he tries to convince me. “And I’m fucking sorry that I’m down.”

  “And I’m not getting treated like that anymore. Even now! You’re treating me like shit! You’re yelling at me!”

  “But I don’t want to—” he argues further, “because you’re upsetting me so much that you want to throw away our family—everything that we have and want to work for—because of something that you think.”

  “What do you think is going to happen over the course of the next few weeks?” I ask.

  “I just want you, babe—like that’s all I want.”

  “You don’t have me.” I point out.

  “I’m trying to fucking do shit so I can get whatever. I don’t want to be unhappy. It’s because of fucking work and stress—and my fucking parents and everything, and not grabbing everything for you and the kids that you fucking deserve, babe. That’s it and—”

  I cut him off this time. “I don’t think you understand what I deserve. I think your idea of what I deserve is something totally different than what I actually need.”

  “To be happy?” He asks. “To have a family that loves you and we—we do things, together. It’s a family. I want you to go with your career and go and do everything that you want to.”

  “Except you have a problem when I actually go and do it.” I point out.

  “No, I don’t.”

  I can’t help but laugh at this. “Yeah, you do. You give me a fucking attitude every single time!”

  “Right now, because of our arguments and stuff. I wanted to come with you and felt left behind.”

  “And I told you to fucking come with me from the get and you didn’t want to—both times I did!”

  “No!” He argues.

  “You have some perverted, twisted memory.” I shake my head. I’m never going to win an argument against him—not when he believes his own lies like this. “I don’t understand what you think is going to happen over the next few weeks that’s going to make this all better.”

 
“It’s not the next few weeks, it’s something that takes time—but I don’t want to throw away a whole family. That we know we love each other and, you know? Because I was fucking down over the winter? I’m sorry I was down, and you’re my wife, and I took it out on you—and you shouldn’t have had to take it. And I apologize for that, so fucking deeply. But you just don’t want to hear it. Our kids can’t fucking take that. I can’t take that. I don’t want anyone else. And it’s like you just want to—everything that we’ve done—you just want to toss it. And you want our kids to grow up in a broken home like we were.”

  That’s a really low blow and he knows it. “You don’t get to put all that on me, I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not just all on you.” He agrees on something—finally.

  “What’s going to happen to them is going to depend on how adult we can be.” I tell him. “Can you be a grown-up?”

  “About what?”

  “About them?”

  “It’s been you and me forever and you think they’re going to like that? Not being with us in the same house?”

  “They can still see both of us and know that they’re loved by both of us.”

  “They don’t want that. They see their friends and their parents that have gone through a divorce.”

  He doesn’t understand that staying with him isn’t an option for me anymore. I wrack my brain for something—anything I can say to make him leave me alone. “I don’t love you anymore.” I lie. I say the words clearly and keep my expression hard.

  “Thank you. I don’t know how you can say that to me. Fuck off. You’re a liar and I think you have the problem. If I was down? I’m your fucking husband—I love every fucking fiber of you—and I was down—”

  Fuck this shit. “I picked you up too many fucking times.”

  His tone changes, his anger growing. “You’re my wife and you’re supposed to love me. I’m sorry you’re ‘up’ all the time.” He says.

  I shake my head internally while he continues to go on.

  How do you leave a man who won’t leave you alone?

  A few days later…

  I make it to the sanctity of my mother’s house…across the street. Maybe not the best (or safest) plan, but it’s all I got at the moment. The kids alternate between staying with me and staying with him. Nights they stay with him, I stay over there until I tuck them in. Then I retreat.