14 months ago…
Stress takes its toll on me. Anxiety ridden and hopeless, I try to stay positive. Strong.
I try not to think about taking an easy way out. It’s oh-so-tempting, but I have two very important reasons I can’t do that—two things far more important than I.
Sleep isn’t really my friend anymore. Despite utter exhaustion, I can never will it to come until it hardly does any good. Every time I close my eyes I see his face, hear his cruel words…
Every argument recants itself over and over in my memory. Every shady story. Every time he ‘wasn’t’ cheating. It sickens me. Makes my stomach revolt.
Makes me feel like a fucking asshole.
It’s been worse since he moved in here. Not into my bed—oh, hell no. He takes the bigger room, while I share with the kids. I could’ve taken the big room, but I’m tired and frankly don’t care.
It’s my hope that he doesn’t stay long.
It’s my fear that he’ll never leave.
Despite all my knowledge, all his actions since I left him that have solidified my need for leaving—still he freezes me up. Still my words choke in my throat while my heart skips beats menacingly.
It’s despite my better judgement that he’s here. I just couldn’t take his sob story about having no place else to go.
It’s yet another mistake on a gargantuan list of mistakes I’ve made with this man. I keep doing what I need to, to get by.
Because that’s all I can do.
2 weeks later…
“Come on, you can sleep in bed next to me without having to do anything with me.” He says. “Let the kids have that room.”
The kids look at me imploringly. “Yeah! Please, mom?” They like this idea.
It seems silly to say no when he’s just been crawling into my bed in the kids’ room every night, anyway. He claims he can’t sleep otherwise. Any attempt to have him stop has failed.
“Sure.” I say with a fake smile. “Why not.”
I know this is another ploy of his to get me back. Confusing the kids is a great touch. I try so hard to shield them from all of this, but he drags them right into the middle again and again.
I can stand a lot: being put down—both publically and privately, being yelled at, being made fun of, being shut out, dodging thrown objects, or being shoved out of the way…even attempted and actual rape, apparently.
But. Don’t. Fuck. With. My. Kids.
A couple weeks later…
I’d never been to a music festival before and he used the opportunity to get me to agree to go somewhere with him. He still does everything like we’re still together, including call me pet names.
It drives me nuts.
He wants to rekindle our romance, he tells me as we hike the mountainside and listen to bands in the distance.
“I can’t just do that.” I tell him. “Don’t you realize that the trust is gone between us?”
“How do we get it back?” He asks.
I know it’s all an act—I know it. But when he’s like this, it’s easy to remember the man I fell for. The charmer.
“I don’t think it’s something that just comes back.” I try to explain.
“Then let’s work on it.” He grabs my hand.
I try (unsuccessfully) to get it back. “Maybe we should just work on being friends again first.” I suggest. Anything to get him to stop constantly coming on to me. It’s annoying.
He considers this. “Okay. If you can be nice, I’ll try it.”
“If I can be nice?” I ask incredously.
“Yeah.” He says sincerely. “You’re really mean sometimes.”
My head spins, but I don’t argue. I consider the whole friend thing a won battle.
Only I wish I knew how long until the next one…
Soon after…
It’s a depressing (and embarrassing) admittance to say I spend more time on his Facebook account than I do my own lately, but an honest one nonetheless. I try to decipher his actions against his words.
His words constantly coax me to take him back. He doesn’t cheat, never has and never will. It doesn’t matter what I’ve read, what things look like—I’m supposed to take him at his word.
Yet his Facebook tells me the opposite story. He sends girls friend requests, flirts with them on their walls, and messages them.
Actions versus words.
That’s what it always boils down to with this man. His words are smooth, carefully-crafted enunciations that play on inner hopes and demons.
His actions prove their emptiness.
And make me question my sanity.
I begin to take screenshots so I can remember these actions, when his words become overpowering.
I need to remind myself to stay strong.
I need to remind myself who I’m dealing with.
My own messenger pings. A meme comes through. “Don’t let anyone treat you like a yellow starburst,” it reads. “You’re a pink starburst.” I grin, but at the same time tears fill my eyes. At least somebody thinks I’m awesome.
“You really think so?” I type back.
“Definitely.”
We’ve spent hours talking every day, connecting on so many different things—music, games, movies, random points of view. It’s nice not to be made to feel stupid every time I say something—or to be put down. My opinion matters…and so does his to me.
One day not too long ago, we were commiserating about how much life sucks:
“Sometimes I just want to go to sleep. The only person I’d miss is my kid. Well, you too.”
“You’d miss me?” I replied back.
“Yeah.”
“I’d miss you, too. You’ve kinda been keeping me sane. Thanks for that.”
“Ditto.”
How can I feel such a connection to someone I’ve never even met? How can I miss someone so hard that I’ve never even seen?
All I know is that I do. I really, really do.
And there’s absolutely nothing that I can do about it.
“Hoovers & Hoovering - A Hoover is a metaphor taken from the popular brand of vacuum cleaners, to describe how an abuse victim trying to assert their own rights by leaving or limiting contact in a dysfunctional relationship, gets “sucked back in” when the perpetrator temporarily exhibits improved or desirable behavior.
Here We Go Again
Many Nons have experienced the phenomenon we call Hoovering, which is a metaphor derived from the popular (and effective) brand of vacuum cleaners. And just as dust gets caught up in the vacuum cleaner, many Nons get sucked back in to the status quo when they attempt to escape an abusive situation.
It is most likely to happen when:
There has just been an emotional outburst, episode of violence or other extreme period of abuse; at the point where the perpetrator realizes the victim is likely to leave, retaliate or seek help from others.
The victim starts to pull away from the relationship, leave the relationship or establish firmer boundaries within the relationship.
The abuser internally feels unworthy and fears the loss of the relationship.
The abuser may shower their victim with gifts, compliments, promises, demonstrations of love and acts of affection in order to win back the victim’s trust or faith, and therefore maintain the status quo.
Hoovering is one of the key components of an Abusive Cycle. It is the tactic which ensures many abusers do not have to live alone. It can also act as the ‘plus’ side when the victim calculates the emotional balance sheet, manipulating them into sustaining the abusive relationship.”[4]
13½ months ago…
We’d promised the kids we’d go to the beach this weekend. It’d be a shame to disappoint them.
We make a mutual decision to go. Things have been decent—in some ways, anyway. He’s been on his best behavior, at least to my face.
His social media account is still more active than it should be—especially since he sleeps in my bed again. Only
sleep, but that doesn’t stop him from trying—constantly.
I see a funny meme one afternoon and it sticks with me, mostly because it applies so well. It says, ‘I wish I could be little and mean like a scorpion.’
I tell him about it and his whole demeanor changes. I’m not even sure what he finds so offensive about it, but he gets mad and leaves for the day.
My own day grows worse. It’s basically impossible to stay of his Facebook account. Somehow it becomes both a blessing and curse.
And a knife that cuts deeply.
Not everyone knows it, but Facebook has this nifty feature called an ‘Activity Log’ that holds every little tidbit you do on there. His log today is like a punch in the stomach. We’re separated, sure—but he keeps trying to get me back. So when he goes on some skanky girl’s profile and comments lewdly on her bikini pic, it rubs me the wrong way.
When he starts to message her, flirt with her and exchange numbers, I lose what little of my shit that I have left.
I check the time. He’s definitely off work. Just as I hit the part of the message where she asks him to come meet her, my phone goes off. It’s a text from him—a text from him saying he’s going to be late.
Get.
The.
Fuck.
Out.
That’s a less vulgar version of my reply. I rage, internally and externally. Thankfully the kids are at their friends and I’m free to do so. I begin to throw his shit on the bed. Who the fuck does this guy think he is?
My response freaks him out enough to come home instead. It’s just us and I wonder if the neighbors can hear our battle.
“Get out.” I demand.
“No.”
“Get the fuck out!” I scream now.
“It’s not what you think,” he tries to reason with me.
“I don’t give a flying fuck. I want you out. Now!”
“I have no place to go. Maybe I’ll go jump off the bridge.”
“I don’t really fucking care.” I spit back at him.
“I’ll sleep in the living room.”
“Not good enough.” I hold firm. “Get the fuck out.”
He refuses to budge.
“If you don’t get out, I’ll call the cops.”
His eyes change. “You’d do that to me? You know what’ll happen if you call them.”
If I call he’s gone for the maximum time his crimes allow—up to a decade. Any run-in with the law lands him there. It’s so damn tempting to do it, but I can’t.
“I’ll do it,” I bluff and clutch my phone tighter.
“I can’t fucking believe you.” He says and grabs a handful of his shit. “I’m fucking going.”
He does go.
He goes all the way to the driveway and gets into his fucking car.
Where he spends the entire fucking night.
The next day…
Here’s the thing with me, when I’m mad (though it takes a lot to get me there) that anger makes me strong—far stronger than I’d be normally. So when I cool off and he slithers back with his excuses, I listen like the fucktard I am.
He convinces me to let him stay—he has no place else to go, of course. We agree not to let the kids down and still go away for the weekend. None of this is their fault and I hate that they suffer from my actions…or lack thereof…
Not to mention the shift of power that we both know occurred last night. He’d called my bluff, staying in his car outside. I didn’t call the cops. I should have—should’ve had him escorted off the damn property, but that’s not the kind of person I am. Not when it sends him away for an entire decade.
Nobody else will get involved.
Nobody else will make him leave me alone.
He knows it.
I know it.
I don’t wish I was little and mean like a scorpion anymore.
Instead, I wish I could be strong.
Strong enough to remove this man from my life.
That weekend…
It takes about three hours to drive to the beach. The kids are happy and I try to make the best of it.
He insists on driving (control-freak that he is) even though my car’s newer and bigger. I don’t want to fight, so I agree. We arrive at the hotel at dusk. I check in (and pay—shocker.) It takes a few passes to get the kids and everything inside. It takes me even longer to get them to settle in. Luckily the room’s on the first floor, so I can go have a cigarette and stand outside the window. This is especially convenient because he disappears without a trace.
I step into the muggy night air, only a few traces of light left in the sky now. I spark up my cigarette and poke my head around the side of the hotel to the parking lot. The kids are hungry and want food. I haven’t eaten anything yet today myself and my own hunger is mighty. His car’s there, but I don’t have the keys.
He’s still nowhere in sight.
I tap out a message on my phone. No response. I call. Same deal—nothing.
Back inside I check on the kids and give them some snacks I’d brought in lieu of actual food since there’s no place close enough for me to walk to. Then I grab another cigarette and head back outside.
My stomach grumbles. My anxiety compounds it—stuck in a strange place, hours from home and basically stranded with the kids.
Helpless.
I contemplate calling my mom and asking her to come get us. That’s when I hear the sound of wheels on pavement.
This man rolls up on a longboard like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Like he didn’t just leave me and the kids stranded for hours without so much as a word.
It angers me—hard—but more than that, I’m scared, hungry, empty and so very tired. It’s a soul-weary tired.
We argue over his actions—nothing unusual there. He claims he just wanted to check out the area—that he didn’t even consider the fact that we’re stuck here, hungry—or that he should’ve let me know he was going. What do I care, he asks.
I don’t have energy for this right now. I sit on the curb—the smallest ball I can make myself into—and belittle myself as the tears start to fall. I don’t want to seem weak, but I am at the moment.
And that moment is all he needs.
“Why do we have to keep doing this? Hmm?” He picks me up even as I try to fight him off. “You’re the one who can stop all this. All you have to do is take me back.”
It all clicks into place now. This was likely his plan all along. And I play right into it.
The fight leaves me and all that’s left is a feeling of defeat and emptiness. He asks me again and again to take him back. I never say yes, but as I quiet down he takes it as my compliance.
“Why are you still crying?” He asks when he notices the silent tears that still stream down my face.
“Because it hurts.” Duh.
“Don’t let it.” He squeezes me and puts me down. “Let’s go tell the kids we’re back together.”
I know this moment is pivotal—that I should correct him. I’ve held strong for so long now…I’m so tired.
I give up. It’ll make the kids happy, him happy—everyone around us who’s been sucked into this cluster-fuck—happy.
It’ll just be me that’s miserable, instead.
ˈstôkər’
noun
1. a person who stealthily hunts or pursues an animal or another person.
2. a person who harasses or persecutes someone with unwanted and obsessive attention.
13 months ago…
Things are worse. So very much so.
My momentary lapse of judgement has become my own personal hell. I grasp at the shirttails of my almost freedom regardless. I refuse to put my wedding ring back on. I refuse to get into his box.
It drives him crazy.
I put laundry away when I find his iPad. The kids have been looking for it to play on. It’s not unusual for them to do so. I turn it on to make sure they don’t see anything inappropriate, but what I find chills me to my very core. It couldn�
�t just be porn?
Even though I can see it, it still baffles me. To be sure I place the iPad back where I found it. I line it up. Motherfucker.
I pluck it out again and hit play on the first video.
The first video of me sleeping.
He’s been hiding his iPad and using it to spy on me. There are at least six videos here. My stomach twists in knots.
This is not normal.
And this is not okay.
To say it freaks me out is the fucking understatement of the year. It scares me, because it’s creepy as fuck. Who fucking does that?
Yes, things are worse…much, much worse…
A few weeks later…
“I’m going to send something to you.” Marissa tells me over the phone. “I want you to read the whole thing and call me back.”
“Okay.” I agree. I don’t really argue when it comes to reading.
Messenger pings and I follow the link she sends. It’s a good thing I’m home alone, because it immediately has my full attention. The more I read, the sicker I feel.
My life. This is my life to a T.
Holy fuckballs.
My stomach clenches. My breathing becomes shallow. This is it. This is what he does to me.
This is what I allow him to do to me.
I take a few deep breaths. Knowledge is power, right?
Then I read it again. And again.
I read it until it’s practically memorized word-for-word.
Love-bombing, gaslighting, the silent treatment, hoovering, disassociation—all of it. The manipulation—oh fuck, the awful manipulation.
This is an actual thing. My entire fucked-up existence has a label: Narcissistic Victims Syndrome.
The panic attacks, feeling like I’m crazy…the constant battle between what my gut and heart tell me versus my brain’s response.
This self-absorbed fucktard basically brainwashes me into doing his bidding, preying on my empathy and sense of loyalty.
My Life in Reverse Page 4
