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xwomanscornedx · 6 years ago

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TW: domestic violence, assault, gas-lighting, trauma

I officially “met” my ex fall of Sophomore year. We knew “of” each other before hand, but had not really had any reason to hang out or talk prior. We had both won lead roles in our high school play, and ended up having a few scenes together. During the several months of rehearsal, we learned we had a lot in common and were “sympatico” in many ways. He would start a joke, and I would finish it. In improv, one of us would begin a scene and the other could pick it up perfectly. We both sang and played guitar. He started a band. I started an entertainment company, ect. At the time, he was dating a friend of mine so obviously we never went past casual acquaintances because I’m not the type to interfere in a relationship – but I did develop a light crush. After high school we stayed in contact. Sometimes he would stop over, have a beer, and watch something stupid or play video games. Other times, we just shared memes on Facebook. Two years ago, we reconnected while we were both going through hard times. We had hung out before, so I didn’t think anything of him inviting me over to hang out and have a beer. We walked to the store, and on the way back he gently held my hand. We got back to his place, and he pushed me against his van and kissed me hard. From then on, we were inseparable. After only a few months, we officially moved in together and for a while, everything was great. Honestly, the best relationship I’ve ever had.

We were intense. He confessed that he’d had his eye on me for quite some time, and it was like all the pent up feelings between us were coming out in full force. Being with him felt so good, almost intoxicating. We had plans to buy an RV when we both retired and travel the country. Hell, we were even at the point where we were looking at houses together. He wanted his own shop, and the plan was for him to take care of the technical aspects (lead mechanic, hiring, orders) and I would handle the business aspects (payroll, customer service, bookkeeping). I truly believed that we were each other’s happy ending. Sadly, this was temporary.

The abuse began gradually. I have compared it several times to a frog in boiling water. If you put a frog directly in boiling water, it will jump out and run. However, if you put a frog in luke warm water and slowly turn up the heat, it will eventually boil to death before it realizes it’s in danger. Things started small: Little comments about my weight or abilities, drinking more and more, taking the change from my change jar, ect. Over the next year and a half, things got worse. Eventually, he was breaking things and punching walls. He would get so drunk that he couldn’t form complete sentences. During this time, I was trying desperately to help him. I had known him for so long and truly believed that if he just quit drinking, everything would be fine.

Then the physical abuse began. He broke my rib trying to crack my back, even though I begged him to stop. He tried to set me on fire in our bathroom. He would wake me up by pissing on my face when he was angry with me. Once, he got so mad at me for taking too long in the bathroom that he busted the door open, grabbed me by my hair, and threw me out. I landed on my tailbone and cracked it. To this day, I still have issues. I performed in the Vagina Monologues with two black eyes because he was mad I was acting again and he wasn’t. By our two year anniversary, I had quietly accepted that I would die in this apartment. My friends had all but stopped talking to me, he cost me every job I had either by forcing me to quit, making it impossible for me to sleep, or showing up drunk and causing a scene so I couldn’t afford to leave him.

This next paragraph is very triggering. If you are sensitive to topics of violent rape, please don’t read this Move on. Scroll down. Because yes, he did. Sometimes, it wasn’t that “bad” I guess. He wouldn’t allow me to sleep on the bed if I wouldn’t perform for him. He would throw my pillow on the floor and make me sleep there, and sometimes if I was lucky I could just opt for the couch instead. One thing was for sure, when he was in those moods it was my choice to either have sex with him or find somewhere else to sleep in my own home. Other times, I wasn’t so lucky. The worst one I only have vague clips of memory from. I can’t even remember how we got to this point. But I do remember him on top of me, spitting in my face, and screaming how much he hated me. I started to cry because it hurt. I was bleeding. I was begging him to stop and praying for it to be over quick if he didn’t. And he just hawked a loogie in my eye and put a pillow over my head so he “wouldn’t have to look at that (my) ugly face”. I cried so hard I eventually just went out of my head. I wasn’t there, mentally, and honestly don’t remember much after that moment. I know he was eventually tired of me and pushed himself away from me to sleep. In the morning I was so sore it was hard to walk. Hard to pee. Hard to wear underwear. I wanted to die.

Honestly, there’s more abuse than even this. Some things, however, are still too painful to discuss and some I am remembering slowly. As anyone who has worked with trauma victims before will tell you, our brain blocks out some things that are just too much for it do deal with. It’s known as cognitive dissidence.

On July 25th, we had another fight. I wanted to go to bed early because I had a 9am interview. He wanted to stay up, listen to music loudly, and have sex. One thing you may or may not know, I am sterile. I can’t have kids. I tried to sleep through him, but about an hour after I laid down he barged into the bedroom, turned on all the lights, and began grabbing at me and telling me how he was going to “breed” me. I pushed him off of me, which made him very angry. He was already close to two six packs in by this point. He immediately jumped on the bed and began punching me repeatedly. Somehow I managed to grab my mace and sprayed him with it. All this seemed to do was make him angrier. He jumped me again and rubbed the mace on my eyes and inner thighs before finally collapsing from pain by the back door. I managed to force my eyes open enough through the pain to reach the kitchen, grab the milk, and lock myself in the bathroom where I called 911.

The entire time I was waiting for the cops, he was pounding on the door threatening to bash my head in with a hammer. Since he had used a hammer multiple times to beat down the back door or put holes in the ceiling, I 100% believed that if he got that door open before the cops got there, he was going to kill me. Thank God the cops got there quickly and he was arrested.

Between that day and his trial at the end of October, he broke the no contact order repeatedly with phone calls, voice mails, texts, and even emails. Hearing him tell me time and again that he loved me and wanted to change for me was heartbreaking, because I was (and still am) madly in love with him. But trauma bonding is real. I managed to stay strong and move forward. It was hard. The first few months I didn’t even know where rent would come from. But my friends and family came together and kept me afloat enough that I made it through.

Money issues aside, I started playing Minecraft while watching PewDiePie Minecraft videos. It may seem dumb to some, but it made it feel like I was playing games with someone. Like there was someone always with me so I wasn’t so alone. I slowly fixed all the holes and broken things in my apartment, and even repainted some of the furniture to make it my own style. I called my mom daily (Mom, I’m so sorry. I know how annoying I was) and slowly went out more to see people who cared about me. I even managed to get a job in the warehouse of [REDACTED] and found solace in the manual labor I did there. I became the second best truck thrower in the building – second only to my boss’s boss.

I’m also still learning just how deep this has broken me. A friend recently asked everyone to comment one of their talents, and I honestly couldn’t come up with anything. I feel like I have no talents or anything special that makes me worthy of existing. I still say things like “I know I’m not a catch or anything...” and think that when guys are nice to me, it’s because they pity me. It’s like this constant self doubt – even self hate – that taints every aspect of my life.

So that’s it. That’s why I’ve been so quiet. He took a plea deal and will have to complete intense addiction therapy, and be on probation so strict he won’t even be able to fart without [REDACTED] County’s permission. But as for me, I’m damaged right now, but filling my cracks with gold one day at a time. I’m in therapy and planning my first vacation since being free. I’m getting my entertainment company back up and running. But every day I fight his voice in my head telling me I’m not smart enough. Not pretty enough. Not thin enough. Wondering what I did to make him so mad? Wondering why he stopped calling me his “sweet girl”. He used to ask me to get him coffee in the morning before work. I would smile and say jokingly “And what makes you think I’ll do that?” and he would reply “Because you’re a sweet girl” and kiss me on my forehead. I miss that, but not enough to go back to a place where I looked at death as my only escape from him.

#shareyourstory domesticviolence domesticviolencesurvivor triggerwarning

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