Moving Parts.

Moving Parts.

Our next home after the place in the county was the house we purchased.  It should have been an exciting time, but I dreaded everything about it. I pushed away all of the clear bad thoughts, but every part of me knew this was a horrible idea.

So I dragged my feet packing. This led to one of the worst moments of violence.

One of our last nights before moving out he lost it.  He was angry he was doing most of the packing. It was true; I tried to argue that a lot of what I had to pack we still needed (kitchen stuff, etc) and that I was furious when he started packing my things. I attempted to stand my ground.

My brain fogged this up pretty good.  I remember being dumbfounded by his rage and that this was actually happening to me.

He kicked my legs up from underneath me.  He threw me up against the wall.  He choked me.  He lifted me up off the ground by my neck and spitscreamed in my face. He threw me over boxes of our things causing damage we had to lie about later. He tackled me to the ground, smashed my head off of it and then kicked me multiple times as he got up. He punched me in the stomach.

He chased me into the kitchen and warned me to stay away from him because he couldn’t control himself.  

I don’t remember at all how this situation resolved, and I have no idea what lies I told myself to get into bed with him that night.

Show this photo to your daughters as they grow up.

Show them that courage is important, even in the scariest of situations. This woman stood up and faced her fears, spoke her truth in front of a group of men while balancing the world on her shoulders. She is a hero. She is a representation for all women who are done being assaulted and abused.

I Believe Dr. Christine Blasey Ford

Milestone

It has been a year since I've had sex.

I won’t say that I am ashamed that my heart strings still get pulled when I think of the things he suffered.  So much of what I’ve read makes me think that as a survivor I’m supposed to be as cold toward him as he was to me.

I can’t do that.  I loved this man, and the things that haunted him, haunted me.  And I can mourn for the life he may have had if things had been different.

The difference is, rereading these posts, my heart swells for him, but there is no longer the urge to run over and sweep him into a hug he’d probably reject. I won’t accept the shit he’s endured justifying what he did to me.  

That is progress.

Learned Behaviour

His dad was abusive. Violent. And his father before him.

Once he asked his dad for money for a field trip and his dad threw him into a wall so hard he went through the drywall and ended up in his sister’s closet.

He wasn’t born with these skills.

His mother told him when he was in highschool that regardless of what happened, she would always back her husband over him.

He wasn’t born cold.

I know exactly where he comes from.

We’ve hit Anger, for now

A few years ago, my friend’s city had to be evacuated due to a wildfire. Pictures from the evacuation process look exactly what I (an atheist, and admittedly not a theology expert) picture Hell to look like. It is pure terror.

Once my friend was able to return to her residence she found that it had burned to the ground.  She and her partner had lost everything.

I remember her telling me the frustration she felt  trying to talk about it.  She heard a lot of “but at least you’re ok, it could have been so much worse!” My experience is different than her’s, but I understand her now much more than I did then.

I am Angry.  Yep, Capital A.

When I actually sat down and looked at the numbers, I handed him 6 figures.  I got years of therapy and the prospect of never being right again  nothing.

When I think about how I’m killing myself to pay off debt that I got into to appease him, and scraping pennies together to try to get myself even half way to where I was with him, yeah, I get Angry.  

I am angry for the life he stole from me. 

I’m furious  he’s sitting in MY home, with MY bed and MY furniture, and gifts MY family got us, with MY money lining his bank accounts and MY trinkets and heirlooms that have no real value in this world aside from the memories and connections they have to me lining his shelves and cupboards. 

I have tried to talk about this, and very well meaning people, tell me  “It’s a small price to pay.”   “You’re lucky you got out.”    “It could be so much worse.”

Listen, no one feels my mortality or how “so much worse” it could have been more than me.  You weren’t there when he was threatening me with kitchen knives, putting pillows over my face, smashing my head against walls, pushing me down stairs, or threatening me with tools.

You weren’t there. I was. I know. I get the fucking flashbacks that remind me any time I’m feeling too comfortable.  Do you really think the other stuff is  “a small price to pay?”  You have no idea.  

I know, they mean well, and they’re trying to make me feel better, but they aren’t. They’re trivializing my loss, and making me feel as though I should feel guilty for being angry.

I’m entitled to my rage; I will take it and let it wash over me.

The anniversary of the day he decided to cut me loose is this month. It allowed me to finally wake up.

Hahaha