It's Been 105 Weeks Since I Last Contacted Him.

It's been 105 weeks since I last contacted him.

Play dead.

“Emotional abuse works like this: You are screamed at, and then, not knowing any better, you stand up for yourself. You think this is a way of being strong. You think this is a defense tactic.But this only provokes more screaming. Going silent provokes more screaming too, but usually it keeps the threats to the minimum. It keeps it just at screaming and not: a shove down the stairs, or order to pack your stuff and get out. So you learn how to go silent. How to play dead. How to cry without making a noise. How to swallow noise. How to wipe your cheeks, get out of the car, and go about your day. You learn. And when the screaming has stopped, when the two of you are in the car or out to dinner and they’re all smiles, all asking for favors, all questions, you are still hurt and annoyed and want to ask them, how? How can you speak to me like that? How can you pretend you did not say those things? How can you have forgotten? But you’ve learned. So you listen to, “Can I borrow your key”s and “how was your day”s and you play dead. You swallow the noise. And sometimes it doesn’t matter who is speaking to you, it doesn’t matter if they’re a friend, it doesn’t matter if their criticism is constructive, it doesn’t matter. You’ve learned. Any sort of speaking, any raising of the voice, any insult and you play dead.”

— Good Girl, Lora Mathis (via lora-mathis)

Find you a partner who, knowing you love them, will make oatmeal peanut butter cookies despite hating both peanut butter and oatmeal themselves.

There were so many examples of this. No matter what I chose, it was always wrong. I questioned the rationality of all my decisions all the time. And I was wrong every time.

It wasn't long before my mind went blank when it came to decision making. And then he'd start screaming at me for not being able to make decisions.

Food was always a Thing

He'd tell me he was bored with the food I made so I'd find a new recipe. He would criticise everything about it, say it looked disgusting and ask why I was so stupid.

So he'd give me one to try, I'd make it and he'd love it. If I made it again, it was never as good as the first time. If I made it again he hated it. If I never made it again he would tell me that he loved it and I was withholding it because I was lazy/a cunt.

Class

Abuse survivors become experts in damage control. I can handle a lot of tough, semi-humiliating situations with a cool head and a lot more grace and humour than I knew I was capable of. At least on the outside.

I guess people call that class. I called it survival.

Driving in a snowstorm last night I came to a realization.

My sense of self preservation is returning.