Now I do begin to search. I tear through everything. I find more and more paraphernalia. I’m livid. Words can’t express the anger that courses through me. Even six months pregnant, I call one of his dealers. I threaten to kill her if she sells to him again. I tear into her viciously...and then I have an epiphany.
I realize that it’s not her fault.
I hit the end call button with a trembling finger and take a good look around me. This insane woman isn’t me. This isn’t worth it. He isn’t worth it. Not all this.
It doesn’t stop me from crying while I pack his shit.
2 days later…
Two days. That’s how long I last. That’s how long I remain strong. He swears he’ll quit using. He swears he’ll start working more. He swears all the same swears that he always swears.
Maybe it’s the hormones making me overly emotional. Maybe it’s because deep down, I love him and think that I can save him.
Regardless, I take him back.
Later that same year…
“He’s so adorable.” My sister-in-law swoons.
“He really is, isn’t he?”
“I’m going to run across the street to mom’s,” he tells us. “Grab the rest of the stuff from the shower.”
“Okay,” I agree.
After two hours pass, even his sister questions it. “What the fuck is taking them so long?” She asks me.
“I have no idea.” I say truthfully. Deep down I know what it is, though. His cousin’s an addict, too.
7 years ago…
We’ve been married officially for two weeks. Kind of the same deal as the last eight years, but it still feels kind of good after all this time. He seems to have cut back on the drugs. He’s been working at a deli here in town—mostly nights and on-call, but at least he’s bringing some money in.
This is good, because about a month ago we moved into our own apartment across the street from mom’s. Just in time for our second kid. I still work at the restaurant and we may actually be able to afford it.
His phone goes off and I grab it. He’s sleeping and I figure it’s his job. The phone comes to life in my hand as I touch it and my stomach lurches.
It’s impossible not to see the text from this girl he works with when the screen lights up—this high school senior, no less. Her tits and vagina sit very clearly across the screen.
I lob the phone at his sleeping head and tell him I want a divorce.
Fucking cunt.
2 weeks later…
“What do you mean Gram’s money is missing?”
“Not just her money.” My mom says angrily over the phone, “An entire thing with money and jewelry.
I shake my head, unwilling to point fingers, but finding the situation much too coincidental. I think back to the previous year, when my own jewelry was stolen—one of the few pieces I hadn’t hocked myself for food.
“I don’t know what to tell you, ma. Are you sure she didn’t misplace it?”
“Let’s hope so.”
I disconnect. It’s bad enough I let him convince me the girl he works with was sending him pictures for their boss—now this?
I can’t help the sigh that escapes.
3 weeks before Christmas that same year…
He’s been gone for almost forty-eight hours now. No call, no texts. Nothing.
A million emotions run through me, from worry to anger and everything in between.
My cell goes off and answering it scares me. Caller ID says State Police. I take a hard swallow and answer.
“Hello?”
I anticipate the worst—he’s OD’d and has died. But that’s not the case. That’s not the case at all.
“I’ll be there as soon as I can.” I assure the officer.
A friend is nice enough to watch the boys while I make my way to the trooper barracks. I still can’t believe it. This dumb motherfucker.
He’s there, along with his cousin and two other dumbass addict motherfuckers. The four of them were caught stealing over six grand worth of shit and they’re all in a fuck ton of trouble.
He looks so pathetic, I almost console him. I say almost because I seethe with anger. There’s only a few days left to pull off Christmas and he does this shit? I can’t even right now.
He doesn’t say much. Once we’re alone, at least he apologizes. He’s being charged with a felony—can face up to ten years in prison.
All over getting money to get his next fix.
He remains in custody until arraignment. I go get the kids, while he heads to the county jail for the night.
Love Bombing is a seductive tactic that is used when someone who is manipulative tries to control the relationship with bombs brimming with “love” right from day one.
It often takes place within whirlwind romances and is usually directed by sociopaths or narcissists.
During these relationships there is usually a pattern which includes three main phases: idealization, devaluation, discarding. These stages may not just happen once, the cycle can go round and round on repeat until either the abuser becomes bored or until the one who is the target sees through it.
Unfortunately, it is such a dizzying experience it can take a little while to grasp the reality of what is actually taking place.[3]
6 years ago…
Things seem to be looking up…sort of.
At least they’re not awful for once.
The restaurant I’d been working for closed down—owing me over a grand, no less. I managed to get a cubical job at a pencil farm about forty-five minutes away. The pay is decent, even if I’m gone for almost fifty hours each week.
He got released from jail that next day. I’d had to go beg two separate judges to release him without bail so I could work, but thankfully they took pity on me. The prospect of prison seems to have curbed his appetite for drugs. He’s on some program through a doctor now, some type of medication.
That and he’s grounded. I told him if he leaves the house, I’ll leave him. Ridiculous as it is to have to treat your husband like a child, it seems to be doing the trick.
I work. I pay the bills. I buy the food. Then I get home and do the dishes and the laundry. Play with the kids. That’s the hardest part—being away from them…leaving them with him…that all kind of sucks.
There are days I get home and I swear all he did was play videogames all damn day. I bite my tongue, though.
It’s better than the alternative, right?
5 years ago…
Exhaustion has basically become my permanent state. Work and doing everything at home begins to catch up with me. My health fails slowly, but surely.
I continue to push on because there are no other options other than doing so.
He ends up on probation and convicted of two felonies. One for grand larceny and the other for the drug charge he’s had previously. Then there’s the matter of the restitution payments. The courts expect over six thousand to be paid back. Want to guess whose lap that now falls on?
Yep.
On top of everything else, he’s restless and extra moody. Add in my exhaustion and lack of patience and things have been tumultuous at best.
But I don’t have time to worry as I collapse into bed to do it all again tomorrow.
4 years ago…
“I’m sorry—what?” I literally can’t comprehend his words.
“You’re getting yourself off in your sleep.”
This baffles me. He’s furious. “All I do is go to sleep and wake up. I have no idea what happens in between, other than me sleeping.” Frankly I don’t believe him—I think I’d know something like that.
He’s so very adamant, though. “Fuck you. You do it every night and push me away. You’re a fucking stupid prude bitch.”
“I have to go to work.” I say, unsure of how to react.
“Fuck you. Go.”
I leave without saying another word.
A couple days later…
He begins to sleep on the couch again.
It’s whatever. I’m frankly too tired to give any fucks about it.
He stays mad at me over this issue. I research it online and find it’s a real thing…but I still don’t think that I have it.
I think he’s full of shit.
Either way, he has an excuse to belittle me and be mad at me. He’s downright brutal when he wants to be.
He begins going out again, at his leisure when I’m not working. I don’t bother to try and stop him.
I just continue to work. And pay the bills. And buy food. And do laundry. And clean.
I just continue to do it all.
A few weeks later…
Eventually he stops being mad at me. He stops mentioning it at all. It works for me because I still think he’s lying about it.
He lies about everything else, so why not this?
He continues on probation. I continue to handle all else. Despite the sheer exhaustion I feel, I manage to convince myself that things are okay.
That I’m happy.
I must be, because the thought of leaving totally freaks me out.
I can make this work.
I can make anything work…
I think…
4 years ago…
“Mommy? What’s wrong with Daddy?” My oldest asks.
It’s hard to explain, but I try. “The doctor gave Daddy medicine to help him sleep and I think it made him act funny.”
Ambien. The doctor gave him fucking Ambien. And instead of taking it as directed, this asshole takes a bunch. My youngest sleeps through it all—thank goodness—but my oldest isn’t as lucky.
What begins as a playful tickle war between the two of them quickly escalates. I can see in his eyes that something’s off. My oldest begins to panic from being held down. I manage to get them apart. His movements are groggy as the medication distorts him. It doesn’t stop him from trying to crawl up the stairs behind us.
The bedroom door shuts and locks, but it does nothing to make me feel secure. I push the entire bed up against the door and lay on it with the kids.
19 months ago, winter…
“I got a new tattoo.”
I try not to show the anger that festers inside me from his statement. I’m doing all I can to pay bills and keep food in the kids’ mouths, while he’s laid off of work and taking his hundred bucks a week to entertain himself with. “Cool.”
Either he ignores my mood, or just doesn’t give a fuck. “And look, I got these at the comic shop.”
Most of me wants to take the fucking comic books and shove them up his ass, but I remain calm. “Awesome.”
The dishes get a good washing (by me, of course) and the kids eat, bathe and go to lie down in bed. I take a shower and lay down myself. He lays on his side, his back to me. His iPad is in his lap. He guards it—practically cradles the fucker. I’m nonexistent. A non-entity.
Being ignored is something I’ve become accustomed to now, so I fire up the PS4. Somewhere between killing zombies and little fuckers in online multiplayer, I forget about how absolutely miserable I am.
Victims tend to ‘dissociate’ or detach from their emotions, body, or surroundings. Living in a war zone where all forms of power and control are used against you (intimidation; emotional, physical and mental abuse; isolation, economic abuse, sexual abuse, coercion, control etc), the threat of abuse is always present. Dissociation is an automatic coping mechanism against overwhelming stress.
15 months ago…
Lately the low points in my life have been epic. I work from home now, having made a fairly successful business. Successful enough to keep us afloat, so I’ll take it.
It also makes taking care of the kids much easier. Especially since he comes and goes at his leisure, still. Gone for hours—sometimes full days well into the night. Maybe he’s using again. I try to find it in me to care, but I can’t. I won’t ever become that insane bitch again—not for him.
He’s not worth it.
It’s hard not to dissect everything constantly, though.
Every instance of other girls over the years.
The way he treats me lately.
The fact that he’s never here.
His temper’s more than volatile anymore. He punches holes through drywall, kicks the dog. His outbursts become scarier and scarier. He throws things in my direction when he’s mad, slams walls next to my head, shoves me out of the way whenever he deems necessary.
In my gut, I know what I have to do. Despite my loathing of confrontation, I can’t keep this up. There’s no love here, no support. I feel as though the life is literally being sucked out of me.
I make a choice—a choice that leaves me full of anxiety, but one I’ll stick to. It’s what’s right.
It’s the only way to save myself.
2 weeks later…
The kids go to my mom’s. I told her what my plan is, so she’s ready. I told him we’re going out to see our friend’s band. We might—or he might…or I might…I have no idea.
What I actually need is to have the kids out of the house so I can tell him I want a separation.
The cowardly part of me procrastinates. I take my time and straighten my hair. I apply makeup (not all too well, but I try.) I do everything that I’d normally do if we were really going out.
Except then I light a cigarette and sit down at the dining room table.
“What are you doing?” He asks.
I take a deep breath. I find my courage. “We need to talk.”
“What do you mean, ‘we need to talk’? And why are you sitting down?”
“Because we need to talk.” I flick the cigarette into an empty glass with a trembling hand. I never smoke inside—but the kids are gone and my stress level is through the freaking roof.
“About what?” He asks from across the room.
“I don’t think this is working anymore.” My voice shakes like my hands.
“I don’t understand what you’re saying right now.”
“Us. I’m not happy.” I take a deep breath. “I don’t think I can be your wife anymore.”
It’s the same cycle as any other fight. First he begs. He tries to make me feel guilty. He twists my memories as I state my concerns. He twists my words as I say them. Still I hold firm.
That’s when he gets angry. His tears turn to screams. We fight until I curl into a ball on the floor. Through my tears I beg him to go.
Then there’s silence. I know I should move—get up, lock the door—make certain he’s gone. Only I can’t. The emotion is too strong. I stay on the floor, tears flowing freely. They’re sad tears—but they’re also tears of relief.
Until I hear the front door open again.
Now the tears are new. They’re desperate, they’re suffocated…they’re scared as fuck.
He refuses to go. He refuses to let me go.
With all my fight worn out already, all I can do is allow it.
A few days later…
All we do is continue to talk in circles. He denies my thoughts and feelings any validity. He carries on as before.
I decide to take action. While he’s gone and the kids are at school, I pack my most basic things necessary and drag them to my mother’s house.
When he gets home, of course he notices. He’s not happy, but doesn’t stop me when I leave after the kids go to sleep. Before I go, I tell him they’re staying with me some nights, too.
Despite it all, I still don’t think that he takes me seriously. He tells me I’m going crazy.
Maybe he’s right.
I sort of feel crazy. My gut tells me one thing. My body revolts to my decisions. My mind second guesses everything.
All I know for sure is I can’t keep going the way things are.
I stay busy most of the night and well into the morning hours. Finally I sleep a little, but get up early to be back over there before the kids wake.
My stress levels triple as I cross the threshold to the apartment. He grunts a greeting and leaves for work. I start breakfast.<
br />
The kids are fine when they’re with me—but then they always are. It’s a normal thing for it to just be the three of us. It’s less stressful.
My oldest seems upset and I promise that we’ll talk later. They’re full of excitement when I tell them we’re going to have a sleepover at Grandma’s.
I send them off to school and pack some of their stuff, too.
A few weeks later…
My messenger pings. I’ve made some amazeball friends on social media. It’s a tool I use for my work, but in that process I’ve found some people that fit my wavelength.
It’s nice after being so isolated for so long. Even now—with him across the street and our separation a thing—he still tries to control me. If I go meet my friends for lunch, he has his friends follow me to spy on me.
It’s positively disturbing and completely embarrassing.
It’s why I’ve stopped going out with friends.
In the safety of my mom’s home, I’m sort of free…at least free to speak with whomever I’d like. My female friends and I ping all day, with jokes and memes or just shooting the shit. Recently I made a new friend. He’s not like all the other FB guys who just seem to be trying to get into my pants. He’s real. We talk about actual things and he’s funny AF. I guess you can say he brightens my day.
When my phone goes off again, my lighter mood disappears. His text reads: We need to talk.
I sigh. I’m sure I know what this is about. I haven’t paid any bills on the apartment—not since I’ve left. No rent, no utilities, no food. I’ve brought the kids’ stuff here and set up the smaller room for them. The dog and cat are here, too.
He’s been building up to this, telling me he can’t afford it. He was going to try and find a roommate, but obviously that hasn’t happened.
I dread the impending conversation.
Dread. It.
Post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) is a mental health condition that's triggered by a terrifying event — either experiencing it or witnessing it. Symptoms may include flashbacks, nightmares and severe anxiety, as well as uncontrollable thoughts about the event.
My Life in Reverse Page 3
