My Life in Reverse (7 page)

“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.