My Life in Reverse (11 page)

A psychological defense mechanism where a person “projects” their own undesirable thoughts, feelings, or actions onto someone else in order to seek acquittal from their own conscience; example: accusing the victim of cheating when the accuser is actually the one cheating.
[9]

8 months ago…

It seems anymore that my life has become a carefully-crafted dance. One where I must navigate through landmines on my tip-toes…

And my coordination isn’t that great to begin with.

I say something, I piss him off. I say nothing and I piss him off because I’m ignoring him. Apparently even my facial expressions are wrong, as that also aggravates him. At times it scares me to breathe. You know, in case my existing pisses him off, too.

To say it’s hard barely scratches the surface. It’s damn near impossible. No matter what I do, I’m wrong. I’m a horrible woman, the worst woman in the world. At least that’s what he tells me.

I refuse to get physical with him—for months now. He can’t comprehend my reasons and tries to guilt me into it every chance he gets. It’s all about sex—every other sentence a crappy innuendo.

He tries, I resist. It seems to be the story of my life anymore. I can’t sleep with someone I don’t trust. That’s just how I’m wired. He takes it personally, but doesn’t do a damn thing to rebuild said trust.

In fact, he hasn’t changed a damn thing about his behavior. Lately there’ve been little things I’ve found—a cut up straw (usually used for something like cocaine) and cotton swabs missing the tip (used when shooting heroin.) I’m a little proud of myself because I give no fucks this go. I honestly don’t care what the fuck he does, as long as it’s not around me or my kids.

He still hemorrhages money like there’s no tomorrow. For a few months I’d tried to get him to pay his own bills. He didn’t like that and began to give me his paycheck to do it. Only that also entailed him asking for more money back than he gave me to begin with. It took him yelling at me in the middle of a crowded store for me to tell him to fuck off. He can shove his paycheck up his fucking ass—and learn to pay bills on his own like a big boy. I’m done.

The look on his face when he tried to hand me his next check was priceless.

Our finances have been separate for months now. While I may have brought him up to date on his bills after the beach trip (seriously depleting my own funds) business has been good lately. I don’t even bother transferring it to my bank and manage to save up quickly.

I hold tightly onto the pipe-dream that maybe I can escape. I long for it, spend most of my waking hours dreaming about it.

My favorite adult suggests a visit—a much-needed vacation. It’s incredibly tempting.

I send out another package (cookie-free this go.) It’s nothing too major—just a wristband. It may or may not match mine. I’m a little cheesy like that.

Despite my best efforts, my youngest gets thrown again. It’s scarier this time because it almost snaps a forearm. I want to break his fucking face over it, but I can’t. It’s too dangerous—especially when he’s in his Mr. Hyde mood.

Regardless, he’s angry with me. I lie in the dark next to him when he gets up in a huff and goes to sleep in the living room. Instead of trying to stop him, I call my dog up on the bed—something I actually want to snuggle with. It even works. We fall asleep, until he abruptly interrupts us by throwing her off the bed.

Asshole.

The next day…

His social media posts are crazy lately. Constantly looking for sympathy over how cold his wife is. If only they knew the truth, how different they’d react. I’d care, but the people who matter know the truth. Everyone else can believe what they want to. Fuck ‘em.

All of my anger from the past year begins to fester. All of the mind-games, lies, violence, manipulation—the fact that he makes himself out to be the damn victim—it finally gets to me.

I go on the back porch and bide my time. When he gets home and showers, he eventually finds me out there in the cold.

The fight begins like all others, only this time I don’t sugar-coat a damn thing. I ask for a divorce and he laughs at me. But this time I don’t let that stop me. I press on.

“Fine—you go do whatever you want—fuck whoever you want.” He throws at me.

I take this as it’s meant—in a literal way.

It’s finally over.

A week or so later…

My verbal freedom ends up being just that—verbal. Again he changes none of his expectations or action.

It’s not over.

It’ll never be over.

Regardless, I stand by the last words spoken. He may want to live in denial, but I won’t.

I’ll live in fear, I’ll live under enormous stress—but I sure as fuck won’t live in denial.

Lord knows I did that shit for long enough.

I shuffle laundry around when my messenger pings. My favorite adult got his wristband. He sends me a pic of him rocking it, so I snap a pic of mine and send it back.

Moments later another ping comes through. “Look, on my phone it looks like we’re holding hands.”

It really does, too. In that moment something clenches in my chest and it dawns on me what it is.

I fell for my favorite adult. Without my ever intending it to, this man found his way into my heart. It scares the fuck out of me—and pisses me off. The idea of giving someone my heart petrifies me. The idea of being hurt overwhelms me.

Besides, my favorite adult deserves the best—someone far better than me. I’m too broken—every flaw duly noted and cataloged after years of them being pointed out and shoved down my throat. And this wasn’t in my plans, dammit! I was going to break hearts, not have mine broken again.

Fuck my life hard in the ass with a spiked-dildo.

A narcissist’s insatiable need to gain the attention and adoration of others for the purpose of building them up and confirming their false sense of superiority and entitlement.
[10]

7½ months ago…

“You really want me there cramping your style?” I ask.

“Shit, doing my dishes ain’t cramping no one’s style,” my favorite adult teases. “Roll out, be back in a week.”

“It’s like a sixteen hour drive.” I tell him. “I’ll look into alternatives, though.”

“Okay,” he replies quickly.

It amazes me that he really seems to want to see me. Blows my fucking mind. I don’t think it’s just for a booty-call, either—which is good because I’ve never done that before.

It doesn’t take long for me to find flight information. It’ll take some doing, but it’s manageable. Fuck it. Before I lose my nerve I book the flight. It’s been over a decade since I’ve flown anywhere, but he’s worth it.

Now the nervousness kicks in. I send him a quick message with the dates.

“Nice! I’ll pick you up. How are you getting to the airport there?”

“I have to take a train and then a bus lol.” I explain. “That means I’ll literally be taking planes, trains and automobiles to see you, you know.”

“Lol, awesome.”

I grin. At least there’s something to look forward to.

A couple weeks later…

I’m a freaking wreck. I want to go, but the idea scares me. I really care about this guy…but I know I’m nothing special. Is it worth the pain that’s likely to ensue?

Fuck yeah, MFA’s definitely worth it.

I try to recognize that it’s my own inner demons that hold me back. Of course, the fact that the douchecanoe still won’t leave me be doesn’t help any. Now I’ve become
his
personal assistant, too. I swear
he
makes me bring
him
shit daily just to keep tabs on me. And what’s worse? I do it like the asshole I am.

My trip gets closer and I continue to waiver back and forth about going. There’s also the factor of how dangerous it’ll be if
he
catches me. Despite
his
words declaring my freedom, once again his actions seem to negate it. Well, fuck that. I consider myself free of
him
whether
he
does or not. Nothing more has been said. It’s the pink elephant in the room that we both ignore.

My phone goes off. “So I guess we’re doing a whole dinner at mom’s Sat. Shrimp boil. My whole fam will be there. I didn’t tell them we have a visitor, lol.”

“I’m going to meet the original Super-Mom?” I reply. “Now I’m nervous AF.”

“This nervousness shall pass. Where do you think I get all my chill from?”

“It’s good nervousness,” I explain. “Don’t worry, I know the difference.”

“Good lol.”

It’s hard not to overthink. MFA wants me to meet his mom—hell, his whole family. It astounds me.

The hardest part of this is that I have to lie. I tell
him
and my mom that I’m going to see Judy (whose excitement shadows my own and is more than happy to cover for me.) I hate lying and liars in general. I’m always as honest as possible, but the reality is
he’d
kill me if
he
found out. So a lie to save my life to a liar doesn’t seem so bad. Besides, frankly I don’t owe that motherfucker a single explanation.

I’m free whether
he
likes it or not…that choice isn’t
his
to make.

7 months ago…

He’s
not happy that I’m going away, but
he
knows
he
can’t stop me and doesn’t try.
He
does step up his guilt-trips and manipulation, but they don’t work anymore. What’s scary is the less they work, the more desperate
he
becomes. I walk a fine line between not leading
him
on and not getting myself hurt...or worse…

The day arrives. It’s time to go. The combination of excitement and nervousness almost breaks me. I begin with a drive to the train station and park my car discreetly in long-term parking. I grab my stuff and buy my train ticket. It’s a cold rainy day, but I don’t feel it. Even the ice-covered river is beautiful.

I can tell my favorite adult is nervous about all this travelling I’m doing solo. He stays in constant contact. I send him a pic of the rainy river. He likes it as much as I do.

Once the train arrives I navigate through the busy rainy city and find my ride. I reserved a shuttle to take me to the airport. At least my flight is direct.

Airport security hates me. I flat out tell them my last flight was pre-9/11 and I have no knowledge of liquid measure restrictions. I check my bag regardless—so much for only packing a carry-on.

I have my computer so I work during the flight. I snap a picture of the clouds from above, because the sky is kind of our thing.

The plane lurches to the ground a few hours later and reality sets in. My nerves are a cluster-fuck. What if my favorite adult thinks the same way about me that
he
does? What if I really am all those horrible things? Only my curiosity overwhelms everything else.

I grab my bag off the carousel and walk out the airport doors. It only takes a second to spot him. My favorite adult. He’s taller than I’d thought, but then I’m kind of littleish myself.

“Hi,” I feel my cheeks heat despite my grin.

“Hey!” He smiles.

I give him a hug and he takes my bag. It’s entirely surreal to be here with him.

Surreal—and fucking amazeballs.