My Life in Reverse Page 6

  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 re
main 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.

  A psychological defense mechanism where a person “projects” their own undesirable thoughts, feelings, or actions onto someone else in order to seek acquittal from their own conscience; example: accusing the victim of cheating when the accuser is actually the one cheating.[9]

  8 months ago…

  It seems anymore that my life has become a carefully-crafted dance. One where I must navigate through landmines on my tip-toes…

  And my coordination isn’t that great to begin with.

  I say something, I piss him off. I say nothing and I piss him off because I’m ignoring him. Apparently even my facial expressions are wrong, as that also aggravates him. At times it scares me to breathe. You know, in case my existing pisses him off, too.

  To say it’s hard barely scratches the surface. It’s damn near impossible. No matter what I do, I’m wrong. I’m a horrible woman, the worst woman in the world. At least that’s what he tells me.

  I refuse to get physical with him—for months now. He can’t comprehend my reasons and tries to guilt me into it every chance he gets. It’s all about sex—every other sentence a crappy innuendo.

  He tries, I resist. It seems to be the story of my life anymore. I can’t sleep with someone I don’t trust. That’s just how I’m wired. He takes it personally, but doesn’t do a damn thing to rebuild said trust.

  In fact, he hasn’t changed a damn thing about his behavior. Lately there’ve been little things I’ve found—a cut up straw (usually used for something like cocaine) and cotton swabs missing the tip (used when shooting heroin.) I’m a little proud of myself because I give no fucks this go. I honestly don’t care what the fuck he does, as long as it’s not around me or my kids.

  He still hemorrhages money like there’s no tomorrow. For a few months I’d tried to get him to pay his own bills. He didn’t like that and began to give me his paycheck to do it. Only that also entailed him asking for more money back than he gave me to begin with. It took him yelling at me in the middle of a crowded store for me to tell him to fuck off. He can shove his paycheck up his fucking ass—and learn to pay bills on his own like a big boy. I’m done.

  The look on his face when he tried to hand me his next check was priceless.

  Our finances have been separate for months now. While I may have brought him up to date on his bills after the beach trip (seriously depleting my own funds) business has been good lately. I don’t even bother transferring it to my bank and manage to save up quickly.

  I hold tightly onto the pipe-dream that maybe I can escape. I long for it, spend most of my waking hours dreaming about it.

  My favorite adult suggests a visit—a much-needed vacation. It’s incredibly tempting.

  I send out another package (cookie-free this go.) It’s nothing too major—just a wristband. It may or may not match mine. I’m a little cheesy like that.

  Despite my best efforts, my youngest gets thrown again. It’s scarier this time because it almost snaps a forearm. I want to break his fucking face over it, but I can’t. It’s too dangerous—especially when he’s in his Mr. Hyde mood.

  Regardless, he’s angry with me. I lie in the dark next to him when he gets up in a huff and goes to sleep in the living room. Instead of trying to stop him, I call my dog up on the bed—something I actually want to snuggle with. It even works. We fall asleep, until he abruptly interrupts us by throwing her off the bed.

  Asshole.

  The next day…

  His social media posts are crazy lately. Constantly looking for sympathy over how cold his wife is. If only they knew the truth, how different they’d react. I’d care, but the people who matter know the truth. Everyone else can believe what they want to. Fuck ‘em.

  All of my anger from the past year begins to fester. All of the mind-games, lies, violence, manipulation—the fact that he makes himself out to be the damn victim—it finally gets to me.

  I go on the back porch and bide my time. When he gets home and showers, he eventually finds me out there in the cold.

  The fight begins like all others, only this time I don’t sugar-coat a damn thing. I ask for a divorce and he laughs at me. But this time I don’t let that stop me. I press on.

  “Fine—you go do whatever you want—fuck whoever you want.” He throws at me.

  I take this as it’s meant—in a literal way.

  It’s finally over.

  A week or so later…

  My verbal freedom ends up being just that—verbal. Again he changes none of his expectations or action.

  It’s not over.

  It’ll never be over.

  Regardless, I stand by the last words spoken. He may want to live in denial, but I won’t.

  I’ll live in fear, I’ll live under enormous stress—but I sure as fuck won’t live in denial.

  Lord knows I did that shit for long enough.

  I shuffle laundry around when my messenger pings. My favorite adult got his wristband. He sends me a pic of him rocking it, so I snap a pic of mine and send it back.

  Moments later another ping comes through. “Look, on my phone it looks like we’re holding hands.”

  It really does, too. In that moment something clenches in my chest and it dawns on me what it is.

  I fell for my favorite adult. Without my ever intending it to, this man found his way into my heart. It scares the fuck out of me—and pisses me off. The idea of giving someone my heart petrifies me. The idea of being hurt overwhelms me.

  Besides, my favorite adult deserves the best—someone far better than me. I’m too broken—every flaw duly noted and cataloged after years of them being pointed out and shoved down my throat. And this wasn’t in my plans, dammit! I was going to break hearts, not have mine broken again.

  Fuck my life hard in the ass with a spiked-dildo.

  A narcissist’s insatiable need to gain the attention and adoration of others for the purpose of building them up and confirming their false sense of superiority and entitlement.[10]

  7½ months ago…

  “You really want me there cramping your style?” I ask.

  “Shit, doing my dishes ain’t cramping no one’s style,” my favorite adult teases. “Roll out, be back in a week.”

  “It’s like a sixteen hour drive.” I tell him. “I’ll look into alternatives, though.”

  “Okay,” he replies quickly.

  It amazes me that he really seems to want to see me. Blows my fucking mind. I don’t think it’s just for a booty-call, either—which is good because I’ve never done that before.

  It doesn’t take long for me to find flight information. It’ll take some doing, but it’s manageable. Fuck it. Before I lose my nerve I book the flight. It’s been over a decade since I’ve flown anywhere, but he’s worth it.

  Now the nervousness kicks in. I send him a quick message with the dates.

  “Nice! I’ll pick you up. How are you getting to the airport there?”

  “I have to take a train and then a bus lol.” I explain. “That means I’ll literally be taking planes, trains and automobiles to see you, you know.”

  “Lol, awesome.”

  I grin. At least there’s something to look forward to.

  A couple weeks later…

  I
’m a freaking wreck. I want to go, but the idea scares me. I really care about this guy…but I know I’m nothing special. Is it worth the pain that’s likely to ensue?

  Fuck yeah, MFA’s definitely worth it.

  I try to recognize that it’s my own inner demons that hold me back. Of course, the fact that the douchecanoe still won’t leave me be doesn’t help any. Now I’ve become his personal assistant, too. I swear he makes me bring him shit daily just to keep tabs on me. And what’s worse? I do it like the asshole I am.

  My trip gets closer and I continue to waiver back and forth about going. There’s also the factor of how dangerous it’ll be if he catches me. Despite his words declaring my freedom, once again his actions seem to negate it. Well, fuck that. I consider myself free of him whether he does or not. Nothing more has been said. It’s the pink elephant in the room that we both ignore.

  My phone goes off. “So I guess we’re doing a whole dinner at mom’s Sat. Shrimp boil. My whole fam will be there. I didn’t tell them we have a visitor, lol.”

  “I’m going to meet the original Super-Mom?” I reply. “Now I’m nervous AF.”

  “This nervousness shall pass. Where do you think I get all my chill from?”

  “It’s good nervousness,” I explain. “Don’t worry, I know the difference.”

  “Good lol.”

  It’s hard not to overthink. MFA wants me to meet his mom—hell, his whole family. It astounds me.

  The hardest part of this is that I have to lie. I tell him and my mom that I’m going to see Judy (whose excitement shadows my own and is more than happy to cover for me.) I hate lying and liars in general. I’m always as honest as possible, but the reality is he’d kill me if he found out. So a lie to save my life to a liar doesn’t seem so bad. Besides, frankly I don’t owe that motherfucker a single explanation.

  I’m free whether he likes it or not…that choice isn’t his to make.