She's probably one of the most beautiful women I've ever had the pleasure of knowing.
Soft features contrast her true nature.
She represents many stories, an unplanned blog, unexpected healing...
Simple words grouped together, describing the most complex form of art my mind has ever developed.
Creative therapy.
No woman ever plans to marry an abusive man, a life only for the broken spirit.
Strong women don't have that problem.
Strong women wouldn't allow someone to waltz in and take over their life.
Strong women laugh at the thought.
Until they fall for a fucking psychopath.
Of course the tell tale signs aren't always evident at first. For the most part anybody can pass for a genuinely compassionate individual, as long as there's an audience, and when the audience is a strong woman, the show could go on for months. Until one day the audience isn't as much of a challenge, until the audience is a real life person with thoughts and feelings of their own.
Until that audience requires more from the performer than just a show.
Suddenly the performer becomes the director, the narrator, and the crew. Before she realizes the show has taken a drastic turn, she's alone, a captive audience?
For the most part I count myself lucky. I got away quickly, with the help of some angels...a few audience members themselves. No longer captives. Wiser women, who saw what was happening and offered up advice, guided me through the guise of a fucking mastermind.
My freedom angels.
As I'm not inherently religious, I still thank whomever for their presence, for the AppleBees off of Western Boulevard in Jacksonville, North Carolina.
The months following my escape aren't ones I'm proud of, normally I wouldn't admit to anything until that woman possessing such contrasting beauty wrote me a very compelling message. She opened up her life to me. I scrolled down the page on my phone at 5:00 AM reading only what I could describe as my potential story had those aforementioned angels not intervened.
I was the lucky one.
She described those following months as self medication. Only aiding in further self hatred, breaking a spirit once whole.
My heart ached. The lump inside my throat grew larger and I cried out, "You're not! Those things he told you..."
She never shared.
I knew so well the words he spilled on her like acid, because I too had felt the sting of a hateful love.
She spoke of her first love since she left.
She described him as just what she needed, "However it works out."
I could feel the hope she has inside of her, to see her child bond with the heart of a good man, perhaps not the right man, but a really good man.
I didn't want to tell her how it may turn out, how much she'd put on him, how no man could ever carry that burden and how ultimately the only peace she'd find after all of this is within herself.
I couldn't tell her because I'm still searching for that peace. I don't know if I'll ever find it. Perhaps I'm not meant to.
Perhaps I've still got some more writing to do.
Friday, April 17, 2015
Sunday, April 12, 2015
Ptsd isn't just for soldiers of war
Last night I was triggered.
"Maybe you should check your meds."
A simple text, sent from my ex husband who decided it was time to pick a fight over the lack of a relationship he has with our son due to him living out of state, that and strained phone calls by two people with nothing in common other than one's intense desire to bond and feel love, and another's to exploit for notoriety.
This was his favorite thing to say to people, that I was crazy, to discredit me, or any statements I may potentially make about the abuse I suffered while with him. This was the most offensive part, that I couldn't verbalize how he'd hurt me without stooping to his level. The amount of mind fucking that went on is unbelievable. I actually believed the shit he came up with. That I was crazy. That nobody else would be willing to deal with me. That he was the one for me, at eighteen, pregnant before I graduated high school, thrown out of my home for being a "slut" and shoved into his father's house while he went off to serve our country, my fault of course, I was the pregnant wife he had to take care of and this was his only choice, the abuse he endured was all for me, I was ungrateful, I was selfish, I was the crazy one to ever question his motive.
I never realized he used sex as a way to demean me. As a way to control me and make me feel unworthy. A way to cheapen me. To devalue me.
A road trip across country to our new home in Camp Lejeune, brand new baby in the back seat, he insisted we have a quickie over the front console sometime after our son fell asleep. I developed a bladder infection the next day because I couldn't use the bathroom immediately afterwards. We spent 3 hours driving around a piece of shit town looking for an emergency room/pharmacy because I had no way of knowing how to handle a bladder infection without a doctor's prescription and was in an extreme amount of pain. He screamed at me the whole time, called me a pussy, told me I was holding us up. Drove like a maniac going 50 in a 25 mile an hour street. I kept crying and blaming my bladder, but the truth is he made me feel like I didn't deserve medical treatment. He made me feel like I'd done this on purpose to gain some type of attention. Both are untrue. I realize now that was his own selfish nature, he wanted the quickie and couldn't be bothered to pull over so his wife could use a restroom to clean up afterwards, then was furious with her for getting an infection. Kind of like when an owner beats his dog for peeing on the carpet, after refusing to let it outside to go potty. When people would ask about our trip he made sure to tell them every time that I'd held us up for 2 days(6 hours) somewhere in Kansas because I was a whimp. This story was told countless times. I see now that regardless if he intended to or not, his story made me feel like a weak inconvenience.
I felt like that our whole marriage.
The stories I have like the one above are endless. I was with him for 2 years, lived with him for 7 months(off and on) and the entire time he succeeded in tearing me down.
Nearly 10 years later he still fucks with me.
My therapist Don told me once he felt like I had developed ptsd over time, through various emotional abuse/psychological war fare that Brad had waged. He felt it was important I handle it, or at least be aware that I've been put through the ringer, and that healing would take time.
So what did I do? I ran into the arms of someone who was bigger, and safe. I then unleashed my crazy on him, jealousy stemming from a weak self esteem, emotional outbursts, mood swings. It took me until now to realize that. We're married. We have a daughter, and even still I'm crying in the shower overcome with rage, at the man who'd hurt me past my ability to verbalize how. My kids are scared. There's nothing they can do but watch me deal with this. Which is why I keep the crying to the shower.
All because of a text.
"Maybe you should check your meds."
A simple text, sent from my ex husband who decided it was time to pick a fight over the lack of a relationship he has with our son due to him living out of state, that and strained phone calls by two people with nothing in common other than one's intense desire to bond and feel love, and another's to exploit for notoriety.
This was his favorite thing to say to people, that I was crazy, to discredit me, or any statements I may potentially make about the abuse I suffered while with him. This was the most offensive part, that I couldn't verbalize how he'd hurt me without stooping to his level. The amount of mind fucking that went on is unbelievable. I actually believed the shit he came up with. That I was crazy. That nobody else would be willing to deal with me. That he was the one for me, at eighteen, pregnant before I graduated high school, thrown out of my home for being a "slut" and shoved into his father's house while he went off to serve our country, my fault of course, I was the pregnant wife he had to take care of and this was his only choice, the abuse he endured was all for me, I was ungrateful, I was selfish, I was the crazy one to ever question his motive.
I never realized he used sex as a way to demean me. As a way to control me and make me feel unworthy. A way to cheapen me. To devalue me.
A road trip across country to our new home in Camp Lejeune, brand new baby in the back seat, he insisted we have a quickie over the front console sometime after our son fell asleep. I developed a bladder infection the next day because I couldn't use the bathroom immediately afterwards. We spent 3 hours driving around a piece of shit town looking for an emergency room/pharmacy because I had no way of knowing how to handle a bladder infection without a doctor's prescription and was in an extreme amount of pain. He screamed at me the whole time, called me a pussy, told me I was holding us up. Drove like a maniac going 50 in a 25 mile an hour street. I kept crying and blaming my bladder, but the truth is he made me feel like I didn't deserve medical treatment. He made me feel like I'd done this on purpose to gain some type of attention. Both are untrue. I realize now that was his own selfish nature, he wanted the quickie and couldn't be bothered to pull over so his wife could use a restroom to clean up afterwards, then was furious with her for getting an infection. Kind of like when an owner beats his dog for peeing on the carpet, after refusing to let it outside to go potty. When people would ask about our trip he made sure to tell them every time that I'd held us up for 2 days(6 hours) somewhere in Kansas because I was a whimp. This story was told countless times. I see now that regardless if he intended to or not, his story made me feel like a weak inconvenience.
I felt like that our whole marriage.
The stories I have like the one above are endless. I was with him for 2 years, lived with him for 7 months(off and on) and the entire time he succeeded in tearing me down.
Nearly 10 years later he still fucks with me.
My therapist Don told me once he felt like I had developed ptsd over time, through various emotional abuse/psychological war fare that Brad had waged. He felt it was important I handle it, or at least be aware that I've been put through the ringer, and that healing would take time.
So what did I do? I ran into the arms of someone who was bigger, and safe. I then unleashed my crazy on him, jealousy stemming from a weak self esteem, emotional outbursts, mood swings. It took me until now to realize that. We're married. We have a daughter, and even still I'm crying in the shower overcome with rage, at the man who'd hurt me past my ability to verbalize how. My kids are scared. There's nothing they can do but watch me deal with this. Which is why I keep the crying to the shower.
All because of a text.
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