Why Didn't I Leave - Tumblr Posts

I cannot help but feel I have betrayed feminism, and all the strong women in my life. A better woman would have left.  I am a disgrace.

Shame

I want to tell my mom that I'm so sorry for all this. I feel like she raised a better woman than how I've turned out.

The ultimate.

He didn't think the way I masturbated was the right way to do it. He expected me to change my methods.

Yep.  I would love to say with confidence that I’d be here if he hadn’t left me, but I don’t think I would.

The phrase “you don’t know what you have until it’s gone” can apply to terrible things too. You may not realize the amount of pain, depression, or abuse you are living through until you experience what life can be without it

Experienced.

He wanted more experiences.  He felt that I had cheated him out of a good life.

His experiences were based on decisions he’d made: he bought a motorcycle instead of travelling.  He played paintball every weekend in the summer instead of trying different things.  He insisted we needed to “stay home and clean this shithole up” (of course meaning I had to clean the house - which I generally kept quite orderly, in spite of him) if he ever did have a weekend off paintball instead of taking day trips. He was excessively conservative financially when it came to leisure activities with me.  If he wasn’t spending money on his bike or paintball, then he argued that we ought to be doing something for the house.

So things got dull, but he made it impossible for me to improve upon these circumstances.  He’d isolated me from my friends, and then complained that I never invited anyone over.  He told me I didn’t love him because I never bought him things or planned outings for us, but also insisted I should not be spending any money as I made so little and didn’t have the choice to be spontaneous.  He’d be furious that I never surprised him, but reminded me all the time that he hated surprises (unless they were really really good).  I never let us go anywhere because the house was always “filthy” and we couldn’t leave it in that state, athough he never had a problem leaving it to me.

I was the cause of him never getting to have any fun. If you count out all the paintball, going to the gun range, the strip clubs and bars he went to with his buddies*, zipping around on his motorcycle, and overdosing on video games while I cooked/cleaned/laundered/fixed drinks.

So after we had broken up, he looked to me to give him all the joys life had to offer that he never got to have.  It was one of the requirements on My List.  It was only fair as I was the architect of his misery.

I delivered on these experiences at great personal cost, financially and otherwise.

*Another story

WOW

This red flag just smacked me in the face.

The reason I moved in with him in the first place was because his mother had kicked him out of his house. He had been attempting to help his sister, who was visibly frustrated, with something on her new laptop.  She got a bit snippy with him and he lost his temper.  He punched a chair which hit the wall and left a hole.

I was present for this event.  I saw it unfold.  I watched him punch something because his sister said “I knoowwww!” 

A running theme was that he didn’t like when people were “ungrateful” or didn’t acknowledge him when he was trying to help them.

Funny parallel:  I moved out with him so we could combine our measly incomes at the time and prevent him from having to live in utter squalor.  I was not ready to move out; I was still trying to finish my degree and school full time.  I had to pick up more shifts at my retail job and worked nearly full time.  My grades suffered as I was now a full time student, employee and abuse victim.

I sacrificed a lot for him to have a better life but that’s never a story that got told. Or a thank you I received.

He’s going back on some parts of our separation agreement, so I have been looking for texts in case I need to submit evidence. It’s not relevant to our  agreement, but I found this.

Context:  I told him that I was going to be participating in my local Take Back the Night event. I was raped when I was 19, so it is close to my heart.

He sent me this message after kicking me out of the house again after I visited him. It happened a lot.  My memories can be foggy at times so I am not completely certain why I was vacated this time.  However an educated guess is it was one of the times I protested him telling other people about my assault. He used it to garner sympathy from the girls he wanted to sleep with - I was a monster and this was one of the reasons.  He wanted so much to help me, but I was a lost cause.  

With the event so close, the feelings were raw. I may have gotten a bit sassy.  I told him it wasn’t his story to tell.   So he’d shove me violently toward the door and tell me to “Leave!!”  Then proceed to spam me with hate for the following hour.

I haven’t had one of these nights for a while now.  But reading this again punched me in the gut.  The worst part is, later on in the conversation I excuse him because I knew he “only denied [or doubted that I was raped] when [he] was really hurt.”

This one hurt really bad then; I remember driving home and being worried I’d crash my car because I couldn’t see through my tears. Or my misery. I’m ashamed that it still hurts now.

Texts on deck

I’m still going through old texts; I have a ton to share.

I have avoided capturing my responses thus far.  In all frankness, they are humiliating. I wish it wasn’t me.  It doesn’t really feel like me. However, it was me. Part of healing is forgiving yourself (mon dieu), and I don’t think I’ll be able to do that unless I release them.

Depresh has consumed me since looking through these things, so I am barely keeping up with essentials.  I can’t release anything right now.  But I will, periodically.

This is me being brave.

They’ll never know.

I have a concealer arsenal of greens, yellows and purples. I’m good to go.

The propensity for self doubt.

I wrote about this in a message to someone, but I thought it may be an interesting thing to note about my mindset at this time.

When the texts were ramping up last week I went to a woman’s shelter again to get some information on legal and safety options. I brought two friends with me, as in my brain fog I can easily miss some information.

I spoke to a social worker who was really welcoming and understanding.  However, unknowingly, she said something that put me in a tailspin.  It was in her phrasing:

“Do your have records on file from your hospital visits?”

With a clear mind I can guarantee this assumptive question was a simple error, and my friends, who were present, have reaffirmed this. However the floor in my head dropped out.  

I don’t have records because he never put me in the hospital.  

My injuries were never severe enough to send me there, and I never wanted any of this on file.  So I immediately felt as though my circumstances didn’t warrant help and I was being a burden to her, my friends and the system from which I was using resources.

I wanted to leave at that very moment and these thoughts plagued me for days.  All from one sentence.

Jesus has a place for me, a life of sin and infamy

When I met him, I was certain I had found my soulmate.

I was a miserable teenager; I was always unhappy and never understood why.  I think I understand better now, but that’s a post for another day or blog.

He presented himself as exactly what I needed. He had a shaved head, with piercings all over his face, a leather motorcycle jacket and chain on his wallet. When he found me I was in ripped fishnets and my catholic school skirt at a bar underage.  We were wasted, and convinced it was fate.

He introduced me to ‘real’ punk: Dead Kennedy’s, Choking Victim/Leftover Crack, F-Minus, Pistolgrip, etc.  He told me he found solace in punk when his home life turned sour in his early teens. This music aligned with everything I was feeling (angst, restlessness, anger) and hated everything I hated: in short, boo discrimination and establishment, yay liberty from the reign of old white men. 

I felt I had hit the jackpot.  I had met a handsome bad boy who was just my type at the time.  He was a rebel who’s views mirrored mine (so I thought), who stood for something.  And he was absolutely mad about me. He spent his last $10 on me. He would send me songs that he knew would tug at my heart  - “Who wouldn’t be the one you love” from the Pumpkins - and draw us bubble baths.  He scraped together what little money he had and bought me a ring - the one I just recently took off - and told me that one day he’d marry me. He wanted us to live for one another.  He called me his saving grace, “the one”, his beauty, his reason. 

I remember distinctly thinking that I would take a bullet for him.  I was inconsolably in love.

The first incident occurred within the first two months of us being together officially.  However, I chalked it up to a stressful home life, and with the stuff above, found it easy to ignore him screaming at me.

He was testing my boundaries.

Little by little it all ebbed away. All of it.  The kindness, the rebellious spirit, the spontaneity, the love, even the values I thought he and I shared.  

This all seems… so long ago, but I put on a song today that I haven’t heard in years.  It took me back.  Back to when I didn’t see him as a monster.

He told me write out all the things I deserved to reference any time I deigned to feel good.  I kept it under my mouse pad at work up until yesterday when I brought it home.

I can’t date this specifically, but I’m thinking Fall 2016.  I remember writing it.

Excuse the handwriting.

I forgot, people under 30 in NA can’t read cursive at the best of times:

All the Things I Deserve According to {HIM}:

- to be gang raped - to have acid thrown in my face - to be murdered - various forms - the be gang raped (to death) by my exes and buried in a shallow grave bc that’s what shitty people deserve. - to get Aids and die - to get cervical cancer and rot from the inside out alone in my 1 bedroom apt after my parents have given up on me. - to be punched in the face - to be miserable forever - to have multiple kids w/ multiple dads and have the world know how much of a slut and loser I am. - to always wonder if {HE} sticks w/ me bc he can’t do better or if he actually loves me. 

He told me write out all the things I deserved to reference any time I deigned to feel good.  I kept it under my mouse pad at work up until yesterday when I brought it home.

I can’t date this specifically, but I’m thinking Fall 2016.  I remember writing it.

Excuse the handwriting.

Ammo #2 - TW sex. assualt

Hi - graphic and horrible below, sexual in nature. TW - sexual abuse, assault/rape.

For context:  I don’t like anal penetration.  I’ve been able to get to the point where it doesn’t hurt, but it’s never felt good.  So between that, the prep, stress, ridiculous amount of lube required, and clean up, I just don’t want to do it.  I have no moral objection - If it’s your thing, great - but it’s definitely not mine.

At 19, I had tried anal sex, but it still hurt. So I really didn't like it then. 

My ex had broken up with me.  At that time I was devastated, as I didn’t know it was temporary, which was compounded when he told me he was actively dating.

So, my go to coping method was self destruction. And I had a knack for seeking company with the absolute worst humans with air in their lungs.

That’s how I met Rapist.  And he and I had a whirlwind fuckfest that did absolutely nothing to heal me, or make me feel better, but it did allow me to detach from my reality further and just stop feeling altogether.

Make no mistake, I knew within 5 minutes that Rapist was human garbage - he’d been to jail for violence, pushed drugs on people he knew couldn’t help themselves, regularly snorted cocaine to be aggressive, was violent with women and was harassing his ex.  He treated his mother, who I suspect survived Rapist’s dad’s abuse, terribly, and tried to control his sister.  He seemed proud of all of this.

He was also super aggressive with a cat and dog he owned because he wanted to make them “mean.” That doggie was so sweet - Hooch was his name. He used to hide behind me when Rapist was picking on him. I hope he got away.

Rapist invited me to a party at his house. There were 20+ people there, but I didn’t know anyone but his sister, who I’d met a few days prior.  She turned out to not be an ally anyway - story another time.  He and I were exchanging sexy talk most of the evening and I was content with it until he said “I’m going to take your ass tonight.”  My demeanor dropped immediately and I said “ Not you’re not.”   He responded with “Yes, I am” and walked away.

Why I did not leave at this very instant I’ll never be able to explain.  I don’t really know. It was cold out, and dark, and the walk home was about an hour. And I guess I’d hoped he was kidding?

So, when the time came to shove me into his bedroom, I was about -105% turned on because I thought he was going to try to fuck me anally. He was aggressive undressing me and pushed me onto the bed.  There was half a second of relief when I realized he was aiming for my vagina but that ended very quickly.  There was no warm up, and my fluids were definitely not flowing naturally. Furthermore my muscles were so clamped down that I’m surprised he succeeded (He remarked later that he loved how tight I was - now a trigger).

When he pushed violently in, I yelped. Not a sexy yelp.  Like an animal caught in a bear trap kind of yelp.  He proceeded roughly as if nothing had happened.  

I, somewhat mercifully, don’t remember a lot.  I remember saying “No, stop, you’re hurting me” at lease twice, likely three times.  Rapist didn’t even acknowledge that I had spoken.  He choked me a little and slapped me.  After I had realized that this was going to happen anyways, I remember trying to think of ways to make it end quicker.  I tried to please Rapist.  Mostly though, I just laid there, stunned.

After he finished and rolled off, I cried.  Rapist didn’t understand and I did not attempt to explain.  I layed there until it was morning enough to leave.  I never contacted him again.

I have always been active and I am a formidable woman. I hate myself for not fighting back. It prevented me from acknowledging it as rape. It took me 8 years to get the courage to go and talk to someone about it.

He found out about this experience two years ago when he was snooping through my things.  He found a letter I had written “to Rapist” that was part of my therapy with my social worker at the time.

When he found it at the beginning, he told me that I should do the world a favour and kill myself.

As time went on he used this experience to torture me in other ways.

Pita Bread

I had a flashback yesterday as I was putting some take out in the fridge.

He threw me out of the house (physically) onto our concrete steps one night without my shoes, keys, wallet or cell because I had put pita in the fridge.

He didn’t like it cold - it got too stiff.

Some people are so good at putting impossible things into words.

- from Rose Colored Glasses, Chloe Dykstra’s powerful piece about her hellish emotionally abusive relationship with Chris Hardwick

Man of his word. When it suited him.

It was early days, so the movie thing made me angry.  He knew I was looking forward to something and he took it away from me.  And did said thing with his ex.  And then lied about it. Twice.

When I am angry, I need time to calm down.  He never understood this.

While I was at work the next day, he bought me flowers when he went grocery shopping.  He did that periodically at the beginning, but it was never for me.  It was so I would shower him with praise for doing something so sweet.

I still wasn’t in the praising mood.

He called me a bitch and he told me he’d never buy me flowers again.  If memory serves correctly, he stuck to his guns.

This was nine years ago.

No Joy 2

He stole even the simplest joys. This is so trivial, but when I'm sitting in the passenger side of a car, I like to have my hand out of the window. The wind against my skin feels nice.

He often closed my window on me because he didn't like it. Claimed it blocked his rearview mirror on the passenger side.

In actuality it was because I enjoyed it. And he couldn't have that.

This is really humiliating.

And slightly disgusting.

I have a hang up with seeing people on the toilet and vice versa. I know it’s not common for someone to really like that, but often couples or close friends sort of ‘get over it’ and do it if the situation demands.  

I can’t.  It makes my skin crawl.  Multiply it by 1000 if they are pooping.

He took every possible opportunity to force me to come in to the bathroom while he was taking a dump.  Be it he was out of tp or he just wanted to tell me something.  

He walked in on me a handful of times. I felt vulnerable and powerless most of the time, but never so much as those moments.

He knew this.  He knew I hated it so much.  He knew it would drive me to drink and that it actually made me cry once.   Even now I’m having to break to pace the floor.  But he thought it was funny.  He also liked that I’d have to smell his shit.

I am so angry.

I have been close to being murdered a lot more than one person ought to be.