My Life in Reverse (8 page)

13 months ago…

Things are worse. So very much so.

My momentary lapse of judgement has become my own personal hell. I grasp at the shirttails of my almost freedom regardless. I refuse to put my wedding ring back on. I refuse to get into his box.

It drives him crazy.

I put laundry away when I find his iPad. The kids have been looking for it to play on. It’s not unusual for them to do so. I turn it on to make sure they don’t see anything inappropriate, but what I find chills me to my very core.
It couldn’t just be porn?

Even though I can see it, it still baffles me. To be sure I place the iPad back where I found it. I line it up.
Motherfucker.

I pluck it out again and hit play on the first video.

The first video of me sleeping.

He’s been hiding his iPad and using it to spy on me. There are at least six videos here. My stomach twists in knots.

This is not normal.

And this is not okay.

To say it freaks me out is the fucking understatement of the year. It scares me, because it’s creepy as fuck.
Who fucking does that?

Yes, things are worse…much, much worse…

A few weeks later…

“I’m going to send something to you.” Marissa tells me over the phone. “I want you to read the whole thing and call me back.”

“Okay.” I agree. I don’t really argue when it comes to reading.

Messenger pings and I follow the link she sends. It’s a good thing I’m home alone, because it immediately has my full attention. The more I read, the sicker I feel.

My life. This is my life to a T.

Holy fuckballs.

My stomach clenches. My breathing becomes shallow.
This is it. This is what he does to me.

This is what I allow him to do to me.

I take a few deep breaths.
Knowledge is power, right?

Then I read it again. And again.

I read it until it’s practically memorized word-for-word.

Love-bombing, gaslighting, the silent treatment, hoovering, disassociation—all of it. The manipulation—oh fuck, the awful manipulation.

This is an actual thing. My entire fucked-up existence has a label: Narcissistic Victims Syndrome.

The panic attacks, feeling like I’m crazy…the constant battle between what my gut and heart tell me versus my brain’s response.

This self-absorbed fucktard basically brainwashes me into doing his bidding, preying on my empathy and sense of loyalty.

I rush into the bathroom just in time to expel the meager contents of my stomach. Wasn’t it enough to tolerate the cheating and the drugs? This is on another level, though.

This is messing with someone’s soul.

Never before has self-doubt been an issue for me—self-esteem, sure—but lack of faith in my ability? Never.

I want to break something…or bang my head against the wall.

I want to unleash fury with all the might of a woman scorned.

Instead, I do what I seem to be best at lately.

I curl up in a ball and cry.

It all feels so damn helpless. More stuck than ever before, unable to break free—but surely unable to last much longer here in this hell.

Strength is something I’ve always prided myself on. I come from a long line of strong women. Only now it’s not strength I feel—not even a little. It’s exhaustion. It’s defeat.

And it’s scary as all fuck.

The silent treatment is a form of emotional abuse typically employed by people with narcissistic tendencies. It is designed to (1) place the abuser in a position of control; (2) silence the target’s attempts at assertion; (3) avoid conflict resolution/personal responsibility/compromise; or (4) punish the target for a perceived ego slight. Often, the result of the silent treatment is exactly what the person with narcissism wishes to create: a reaction from the target and a sense of control.
[5]

12½ months ago…

You know how you tell yourself things can’t get any worse?

It’s a big fat fucking lie.

His possessiveness grows. He never leaves me alone when he’s not at work—the second job he’s held in almost fourteen years. It’s only been a few weeks since he’s been working and since we’ve ‘gotten back together.’

And it’s been so much worse.

He continues all his social media activity like nothing’s changed. It makes me wonder how many times he’s actually strayed over the years. It makes more sense now—knowing he’s a narcissist and craves any form of attention he can get.

While I try desperately to grasp at any remaining freedom I can, he tries desperately to break me of it. It’s a horrible waltz that exhausts me.

He wants me to put my wedding and engagement rings back on. I refuse.

He wants me to unblock him on social media. I refuse.

He wants me to tell him where I’m going every time I step foot outside.

I refuse.

Since we’ve arrived back from the beach, he spends each and every night with his hand firmly clamped on my upper arm—like a warden to a prisoner—or on my thigh. God forbid I have to pee in the middle of the night—even that gets questioned.

If I can’t sleep?

Same deal.

And sleep has become a unicorn to me—something beautiful and elusive. I spend most nights feigning sleep to avoid confrontation. I lay next to someone I fear, someone who’s every touch now hurts me. It’s as though I can feel him suck the life from me…sort of like the bruises his fingers leave me each morning. He grips so tightly—because I better not dare leave his side as he sleeps.

We argue—fight, really—constantly. Everything I do is wrong, every look I give, every reaction that I have. It’s all wrong to him. He spends days ignoring my very existence, but refuses to leave my side while doing so.

It leaves me in a constant state of anxiety when I’m in his presence. I never know when the wrongness of my actions will make him switch from ignoring me to yelling at me.

My friend’s concern for me grows. I spend more time in isolation than ever before. I’m a shadow of my former self physically, my weight-loss now overly dramatic. I can see my ribs. It’s kind of gross.

He returns home daily and demands to know what I’ve done all day—an actual step-by-step breakdown of my day.

I begin to ignore him as much as possible. Some nights it works. Other nights he just stares at me while I’m on my computer. It’s incredibly creepy.

Here I thought the kids would be happy now, but my oldest acts out—barely sleeping and now failing school.

I grasp at the straws of my sanity—my kids the only savior to my hellish life.

How long can I keep this up?

How long until he drags me under for good?

A few weeks later…

It’s like now that I know he’s a narcissist, it’s all I can notice. Every sentence he says starts with the word I. Every statement he makes about how he’s better than other people. Every time he says what
he
wants.

I feel like the world’s biggest dumb-ass for not seeing it before.

Ever since Marissa sent me that link, I throw myself into research on the subject. There’s so much information to take in.

The more I learn, the more tactics I employ to combat his manipulation. The only problem with that is that it really pisses him off.

On a personal level, I begin to get a handle on my anxiety. Now that I know where it stems from, it makes it easier to control. I’m not panic-attack free yet, but at least I can mentally work through them now.

My phone pings and it’s my bestie, Judy, texting me just to remind me that I’m a worthy person. She does this daily and I love her hard for it. My new circle is tightly knit, a handful of friends and most of them miles upon miles away—but they’re amazing. They all help me see that I’m not this horrible thing he claims.

And lately he’s made some claims—all wrong. I can ignore what he says about me to others—that I’m crazy. Or cheating. Or a bad mother, because all I do is work. I refuse to defend myself because I know the truth. Those who know me know what’s really up. And the rest? Well, fuck ‘em.

It’s what he says to my face that’s hard to ignore. Besides being the worst woman in the world—an evil one at that—he now thinks I need an exorcism.

You know, because my not wanting to follow his every command must mean I’m possessed by a demon.

I keep my mouth shut, mostly. For a while it was fun to goad him, until he threw my dog across the room by her throat. That’s when I realized I have to be careful.

It’s one thing to leave bruises on me—but I refuse to let him hurt anything else I care about.

I stop before I begin to overthink and have another panic attack. I grab my earbuds and clean, because that’s what I do when I’m upset.

Later that day…

There are still a few people who bring a smile to my face. One friend in particular.

There are warning signs clanging in my brain. They’re loud and hard to ignore. One day I realized that he’s the first person I message in the morning and the last one at night. That we talk all day, every day—about everything and anything and sometimes even nothing at all. That he’s sweet. He gets me—and he thinks I’m awesome.

And that I depend on him way too much.

It’s probably not healthy to have an attachment to some guy so far away, that I’ll likely never meet, much less have a chance with.

He’s too good for me anyway—and a relationship’s the last thing I need. I’m too fucked up for anyone else to deal with.

I should try to back off a little, but I won’t. It doesn’t matter that I know a world of hurt awaits me. He’s become my favorite adult. I can’t give him up. Not now—not just yet.

I’m too selfish to stay away.