It wasn’t enough that he had taken who I was, at my core, and destroyed me. The abuse didn’t start physically. The emotional and mental abuse was subtle enough for me to not even realize it was happening. It began nearly immediately. I remember so many times that I would sit back and think to myself how crazy I was, just from the way he would twist everything. Even when I KNEW I was right about something, he would manipulate the situation so much that I didn’t know what was right or wrong anymore. I’d lost my ability to stand up for myself. I was so worried about losing him, and he knew that. In the beginning of our relationship, I found out he had been talking with his ex-girlfriend. The way he turned the situation around on me was award-worthy. That I was being crazy and jealous, that I was wrong, that he wasn’t talking to her. And even when I presented proof that he was, he still managed to weasel out and point the finger at me. That’s the first time I could remember him manipulating a situation to make me be the one crawling and begging for an apology when I had done nothing wrong. Next up, he isolated me from my friends. He didn’t like them, see. He had always been antisocial in a way that I had found endearing at one point. He wanted to stay in with me and watch movies and play video games. It made me feel important, that I was all he needed to be happy. I didn’t see that it was just another way to control me.
The first time he physically harmed me was on the 4th of July in 2006. We had been dating for 5 months at this point, and I was deeply in love with him. Irreversibly so. I can’t remember what we had argued about, but we were in his mother’s laundry room. There was a laundry basket between us. We were shouting. He charged me, knocking the basket out of the way, and rammed me with his chest & shoulder. I stumbled and fell against the washer and dryer. He then told me that never happened. That I tripped stepping backwards and he was trying to stop me from falling. I let it go, didn’t force the issue, because I didn’t want him to be mad at me or god forbid, break up with me. That’s how most of his physically abusive encounters happened. Like the time we were drinking in his friend’s basement and started arguing. I was sitting on the stairs and he purposefully stepped on my arm and tried to kick me. That never happened, you’re crazy. In the process of insisting it did and beginning a screaming match, he began to choke me on the couch. I was seeing spots. I grabbed his balls hard so he would stop. No, no. See, he choked me because I was grabbing his balls. I had attacked him. See? I had it all wrong.
Numerous other encounters, him tripping me down the stairs and saying I had tripped over my own feet because I’m klutzy. Or tackling me onto his bed and holding my wrists above my head while he screamed in my face because I got angry during a fight and threw a basket of candy off the bed that hit the wall. See, what had actually happened was I had tried to throw it at his head. He was just restraining me because I had tried to hurt him, See? I had it all wrong. It got worse when we moved out together for the first time.
Now, you may be thinking to yourself, “Why the fuck did you move out with him?” If you’ve been paying attention, you’ll realize it’s because it was all in my head. I was crazy, remember? He had to put up with ME. The first major fight we had in our new place ended up with me being choked up against the refrigerator, my feet dangling, and him moving me around like a ragdoll to bang my head against the cabinets. I can’t remember what instigated that one, but it was probably my fault, right? I remember one fight where I threatened to break his TV. I was close to having enough at this point. He grabbed me by my arms, picked me up and threw me down on the floor. It knocked the wind out of me. I had enormous bruises on my arms. I remember clearly standing in the bathroom looking at myself in the mirror where the t-shirt came down on my arms and it clearly not being long enough to cover the bruises. I saw him standing behind me in the mirror. He looked so sad. He always looked sad when he would see the bruises he left. I then said something along the lines of how the t-shirt was too short. And he recommended that I wear long sleeves. It was summer time. But I wore long sleeves that whole week.
My mom and his mother were coming for dinner that week so we could all go look at a puppy we were interested in adopting. I forgot and wore a t-shirt. My mom asked me about the bruises. I told her I fell up the stairs while I was bringing groceries in. I saw the look on her face. She knew I was lying. She told me later she knew I was lying. We ended up getting the puppy that night. I remember thinking to myself at one point, before the bruises, that if ever left a bruise on me, I’d leave him. That changed to well, if he ever breaks skin, I’ll leave him. That changed to well, if he ever makes me bleed I’ll leave him. When I started telling myself that if he ever broke one of my bones I’d leave, I knew something was terribly wrong. He’d broken my will and my self-worth.
During this time of living together, I stayed by my mom’s house a few times, just to get away from the fights. She had an idea of what was going on, but I never admitted to it. I remember one argument where we were arguing on the balcony and I knocked over one of our ashtrays in frustration, spilling rainwater and cigarette on his feet. He threw his shoe at my face and gave me a fat lip. None of that compared to what I was in for.
The final fight was the worst of them all. We were talking and he would shut off and ignore me, give me the cold shoulder, like he always would. He would say what he needed to say, and then make me seem crazy for trying to talk after. I wasn’t allowed to have thoughts that needed to be expressed. All that mattered is if he won the fight or not. This night, he was sleeping on the couch because we were arguing. I had had enough of being ignored, standing by the coffee table. I needed to get my hands on something to throw it, to get my frustration out. I never picked up anything valuable or fragile. I’d usually throw pillows, or pens. Just something to help the anxiety. So I stepped forward and grabbed the paper towel roll. See, he thought I was going to attack him with the paper towel. That’s why he did what he did next. He leapt off the couch, pushed me hard enough to get me on the floor. He then grabbed my ankles and dragged me into the bedroom. I, of course, was kicking and screaming. Our dog was barking and following. I remember how upset our poor pup was, poor thing didn’t understand what was about to happen.
He pulled me up onto the bed and kept trying to pin my knees against my chest and choke me. I managed to squirm away and fall onto the floor. He followed and kicked me twice in the ribs and stomach. He also grabbed our pup by the muzzle when he tried to get in between us and shoved him hard enough that he yelped. I sat up and called him an asshole, I remember specifically saying that. “You’re an asshole.” It felt good. I never usually talked back when he would hurt me. I would stay quiet so it would stop. He turned to me and slapped me across the face. I moved out shortly afterwards. I told my family what was going on. He and I broke up for 6 months. I took him back. He had gotten therapy, after all. And he was back on his anti-depressants which he had stopped taking a while before. We stayed together for many more years. I didn’t see the mental and emotional abuse that was going on. Because, like he said, he had promised he’d not lay a hand on me again. And he didn’t. So he wasn’t being abusive anymore. Silly me, I’m wrong. See? There were a couple instances of him pushing me around but he had kept his promise. So when we moved to a new state for his work, I thought we had a fresh start. I was willing to do anything to keep him. Now, he’s engaged to the girl he knocked up while he was cheating on me and I moved down south to start a new life with my current boyfriend.
I’m looking back, now, because Valentine’s Day would have been our 9 year anniversary. Last year, I was in another state, making a fool of myself and trying to win him over so he would leave this girl he was seeing. This year? I spent it with a guy who loves me and treats me like I am the sun, moon, and stars. Last year, I was crying alone in bed. This year, I was lying in bed with my pup, smelling cinnamon apple pancakes that were being prepared for me. I just wanted to share some of my story (trust me, this doesn’t even touch the depth of crazy shit that happened) in case any of you are going through or have gone through something similar. You are not alone. You are strong. And you’re worth all the suns, moons, and stars in the sky to someone who is just waiting for you to find the strength to leave and be free. I’m not saying you need to be with someone to be worth someone. But you are wasting time that you could be happy by staying with someone who is draining you of what’s most important – you. Don’t let someone take you away from you.
Submitted February 23, 2015 at 08:48AM by Lyslyssa http://ift.tt/1EGLMXy TwoXChromosomes
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