My Life in Reverse (10 page)

11 ½ months ago…

The box goes into my underwear drawer, along with my wedding and engagement rings. I sit down and put pen to paper in an attempt to articulate what I feel.

Writing has always been an easier outlet for me than speaking.

Especially when I’m speaking to an asshole…

I explain why I won’t wear the ring—why I don’t even
want
the ring. Without holding back, I jot down every reason I feel the way that I do. I beg for him to let me go before it’s too late for both of us. This letter holds every part of me that screams inside.

And when I finish, I fold it delicately, over and over until it’s as small as possible. I place it in the ring box in my drawer and shut it tightly.

Because just like me, what I want is of no importance.

That weekend…

“Is he mad because we said that we didn’t need him today?” Marissa asks.

“He was pissed, yeah.” I admit.

“John and I thought you needed a break.”

“Thanks,” I say sincerely. “I really did.”

“I’ll be up at the other job and I need you here to run shit. But when it’s done, stop by.”

“Okay.” I give Marissa a quick hug and get to setting up for the day.

The fairgrounds are a mostly flat and open space, so it doesn’t take long before the sun begins to bake its contents. Water helps make this more bearable—but it also makes me have to pee.

On the way to the bathroom, I pass an honest-to-God dinosaur. Okay—not like scaly massive reptiles from B.C. times, but something archaic nonetheless. A pay phone. I haven’t seen one of them in forever.

I snap a pic because it amuses me and send it to my favorite adult. He enjoys it as much as I do.

He told me the other night that his favorite thing in the world is cookies. What he doesn’t know is my plan to send him some. I happen to be a top-notch cookie maker.

I let him know I have to get back to work. He’s at work too, so we decide to talk later. I wash up and get back to it.

The following week…

I get back from the post office with a grin on my face.  Package is out. I hope my favorite adult likes chocolate chip cookies…I should’ve asked his favorite kind…

Oh, well—it’s the thought that counts, right?

My close friend Judy and I always refer to those mean voices in our head as demons—and fuck are mine screaming lately. Part of me knows that this is exactly what
he
wants. I’ve done the research. He breaks me down so I’m malleable and compliant to his desires. Only I’m not malleable lately, despite the demons and his best efforts. I’m a rigid bitch, a fucking single Lego on the carpet at night that you step on.

At least, I like to think I am.

Even if I’m way tougher inside my head than in real life, I have been holding my own. I refuse to compromise my values for him anymore.

I refuse to compromise my fucking values for
anyone
ever again.

The longer this purgatory continues, the more I realize how contorted my relationship with this man is. This isn’t love. He doesn’t know what that is. There’s no caring, no support—nothing but daily emotional warfare. Warfare designed to fester.

Most people love the weekends, but not me anymore. The weekends are when he’s around and they seem to last forever. There’s no escape, no room to breathe, nothing.

There’s hardly any happy left in life. The kids, but they’re either off at school or playing outside. There’s always plenty to do, though. In this house work-from-home translates to oh-you’re-here-you-do-it. So I do, because I’m an asshole—maid and personal assistant to four grown-ups and two children.

And they wonder why I pull all-nighters.

My phone goes off and I stifle an eye roll.

“Hey.” I answer, trying to keep the deadpan out of my voice so I don’t make him mad.

“Hey. I got stung by a bunch of wasps. I need you to take me to the emergency room. I’m on my way home now.”

I glance down at myself. “How far away are you? I was going to take a shower, but it can wait.”

“Go ahead, I’ll be a little bit. Plus I’ve been working on it, it’s just really swollen.”

“Okay, see you soon.”

Usually showers and I take our time together. Being a girl sucks sometimes, I’ll tell you what. I rush through this one. It’s not until I get out that I overhear it.

“She had to take a shower first? She’s such a spoiled bitch sometimes.”

Ouch.

It’s at that moment—that painful moment—I realize that nobody’s going to save me.

No. Fuck that. I don’t want anybody to save me.

I’m going to save my fucking selfish, spoiled-ass self.

11½ months ago

“You. I heart you.” The message reads.

“Yay! Sorry they took so long to get there.”

“No idea why—and they got beat to hell—but they still taste good.”

I grin.

My favorite adult likes my cookies.

A car pulls into the driveway and my grin falls fast.

“Talk to you later.”

“K.”

I sigh more loudly than I intend to. My stomach ties itself in knots. This is the reaction I have every time I see him now. Anticipation of being ignored, belittled, or screamed at.

Because that’s my reality.

The stealthy, subtle, underground currents of maltreatment that sometimes go unnoticed even by the victims themselves until it is too late; the fostering and enhancement of an atmosphere of intimidation, fear, and instability; often viewed as the most dangerous type of abuse.
[8]

11 months ago…

There are certain aspects in life that I excel at. For example, procrastinating when I don’t want to do something? I can procrastinate like a fucking champ.

Unfortunately, sometimes I have to deal with the consequences of that procrastination as well.

So when I decide to try to leave this man (again) and dawdle on doing the actuality of it, I pay the price. Is it silly that I need to build up my nerve? Because I do. You’d think it’d be a simple task…if someone no longer wanted to be with me, I wouldn’t want them to stay. It’d hurt, sure, but I only want someone to be with me if they’re in love with me. I just don’t get it.

The fact that I fear the impending confrontation speaks volumes in and of itself. The idea of even conversing with this man sets my anxiety into overdrive. An argument? I hope I’m strong enough to deal.

I don’t like to hurt people. In ways, I’m too empathetic for my own good. Always too nice, always putting others first, it goes against my nature to be stern or callous. There’s so much pain in the world, why be mean if it’s unnecessary?

Sometimes, though, you have no choice.

I begin to plan my words. I take my time doing so, carefully crafting them so they can’t be twisted against me. They likely will be anyway, but I can do my best to prevent it. With my fear also comes something else—a small sense of hope.

A hope that maybe I can finally be free.

A few weeks later…

Playing by his rules exhausts me, but it’s better than the alternative. I stay compliant as I can be, biding my time until I can stand up to him again. I need to find something to get angry about, something to set me off…

The only thing I seem to feel anymore is exhaustion. I can’t use that against him. So much of me just wants to just give up. I’m not just tired—I’m soul weary. I want to crawl into a hole somewhere and forget that I exist. Only I can’t.

Because that’s just not me.

He comes home in a mood. Sometimes it doesn’t matter how careful I am—not when he’s like this. My youngest runs into our room and jumps on the bed, an everyday occurrence and nothing new. Only he’s mad already and this pisses him off further.

He flings my youngest off the bed. The poor kid lands with a thud and a look of confusion and pain. The way my kid’s arm sticks out, I worry it’s been dislocated. I shoot a glare at the asshole and scoop up my smallest to go to the other room and assess any damages.

This. This is not okay. It’s one thing to be rough with me, but not this. Not this.

There are some tears, but besides that everything seems okay.

Once the kids are settled-in for the night, I resume my work. I don’t bother saying anything about the child-throwing incident. Anything I say will result in a fight. Instead I use it as fuel. I know this has to end. It’s getting too dangerous now.

You can fuck with me all you want—but don’t fuck with my kids. That’s a line you just don’t cross.

10 months ago…

When my kid gets thrown for a second time, I damn near lose my shit. I do say something this time and of course a fight ensues. He didn’t mean it—it was an accident, fuck off. And just like that, he dismisses and ignores me.

Internally I rage. I rage and plan. I’ve been starting to save money and I’ll continue to do so until I have enough to break free from this asshole.

I just have to bide my time.

9 months ago…

I take a deep breath. I’m out of excuses and running out of time. It’s now or never.

I get the letter I’d written, along with the ring box and leave them on his nightstand. Then I wait.

My options may be somewhat limited, but I do manage to save a decent chunk of money now that I refuse to pay any of his bills. I’ll have more money coming in—hopefully. There’s the matter of making him leave my mother’s house, but there’s a bigger matter at hand.

Every bit of research tells me that something called ‘no contact’ is the best way to remove a narcissist. Eventually, I’m going to need to attempt this—at least as much as possible.

The sound of a car in the driveway snaps me from my thoughts. Reality sets back in, along with the tightness in my chest. This is it. It’s time to be free.

Despite the cold weather I remain on the deck outside. The open space feels good and hopefully will help keep my head straight through what’s sure to be a tough fight. Inside the walls can close in on me, trap me as badly as his words do. Outside there’s at least a small semblance of peace…and the possibility of escape.

It takes a while, but he does come outside with the letter in his hand. “What’s this?” He asks. “Is this for real?”

I nod my head, avoiding any eye contact. “You tell me I never say what I feel,” I motion to the letter in his hand. “Well, there you go.”

He laughs at me.

Laughs.

At.

Me.

And goes back inside.

This throws me. It’s not the reaction I’m expecting. It’s a mockery of my feelings, my desires. I want to scream, but I can’t.

Time passes and eventually I can’t feel my toes. Inside my letter lays on the bed, torn to pieces. I gather them up while a tear slides down my face.

So much for Plan-B.

The following week…

The tension that coils between us can be cut with a knife. He knows exactly how I feel, yet refuses to acknowledge it at all.

Sleep still doesn’t come easily. It’s hard to lie next to someone who holds such animosity towards you. It’s even more difficult when that person grasps your arm or leg tightly.

Or when every touch they give you seems to suck the light from your soul.

No, sleep is hard for me. So as I just about fall asleep in the early morning hours, it scares me when a hand clamps around my throat and begins to squeeze. My first instinct is panic. I can’t breathe. The pressure increases and now I fight the urge to struggle. Instead I remain completely stiff while he continues to squeeze and my vision clouds.

Then he does something even more disturbing. He forces me to kiss him. We both know I don’t want to, but I’m a little helpless at the moment.

Just as I almost lose consciousness, he releases me and rolls back over like nothing happened. I wait while I quietly catch my breath. Then I wait some more.

Regaining my composure, I slip my phone of the nightstand and go into the bathroom. With the door locked, I inspect the damage in the mirror. There are visible marks all around my throat. I snap some pictures to remind myself I’m not crazy.

The violence is escalating. This is becoming dangerous. I know what this man’s capable of now.

And it scares the ever-loving fuck out of me.