My Life in Reverse (6 page)

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.

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.

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.