Just because you say goodbye, doesn’t mean the nightmare is over.
“The statistics outline the reality that the most dangerous time for a survivor/victim is when she leaves the abusive partner; 77% of domestic violence-related homicides occur upon separation and there is a 75% increase of violence upon separation for at least two years.” – Battered Women’s Support Services
National Domestic Violence Hotline: Click the red “X” in the upper-right corner or “Escape” button on your keyboard twice at any time to leave TheHotline.org immediately.
Hours: 24/7. Languages: English, Spanish and 200+ through interpretation service – Learn more. Call 800-799-7233 or text START to 88788
Texts and emails always seem to get misread. It is so hard to see the emotion behind the words. How are they feeling? Upset or happy? Excited or anxious? Indifferent or relaxed?
I don’t know about you, but I use emojis in almost every personal message, out of fear that someone may get the wrong idea.
“Are you ready to go!? :)” That smiley face really adds context.
The texts I read between Carl and her didn’t need any context. There was nothing to misunderstand or misinterpret in his texts to her. He was cheating and laughing about it with her.
After I processed for a few days, I felt something in me break.
Just for that moment, I forgot how scared I was and my anger rose. I was so livid I could feel my body shaking. I wanted him out of my life, NOW.
My Mom and brother helped me pack his things during his next disappearing act. I couldn’t wait for my nightmare to be over! As soon as we were done, I text him. I told him that I had seen the text messages and he needed to move out, now.
It wasn’t long before I heard his motorcycle pull in, I felt like jello. That fiery confidence I once felt was draining from my body.
He came through the door almost in tears and yelling. “Why would you look through my phone?” “How could you do this to me?” “Where am I supposed going to go?!” “What do I do with all my stuff?” “How am I going to move it with only a motorcycle?” “I have nowhere else to live!”
I tried to keep my boundaries, to hold on to that anger, but instead I offered him a time frame – he had a month to figure it out. Until then, his things could stay but he was no longer welcome.
Nothing, except moving his boxes inside, was going to help alleviate his anger. The rage was palpable as he walked towards me. This time though, I exploded – something he had never really seen before, adding fuel to his flame. I started screaming out everything I had been screaming in my head.
This time, he was going to know how pathetic I thought he was.
All of the yelling brought my brother and mom down the stairs to intervene. Carl and I had never fought like this. In fact, I hid all of the fights we did have from them. I was so embarrassed and infuriated when his violence turned towards them.
My family is my whole heart in general, but my brother – you just don’t fuck with him – so when Carl got in his face, I blacked out.
I still have no memory of what happened until my feet hit the hot asphalt.
I was running as fast as I could down our street, barefoot, until I reached a dead end with a grass field. My lungs were filled with fire and my ears with the thumping of my heart. I sat on a tree stump and sobbed, trying to catch my breath. My neighbors were far away from my worries, I was listening for the motorcycle.
I looked up and through my tear-filled eyes and saw a family of deer heading up the hillside. It felt like a sign, telling me it was time to go back up my own hill to get home.
When I got home, he was gone and for a moment I was relieved. However, like most abuse stories, choosing to leave was not the end. I couldn’t wake up from my nightmare.
He was constantly trying to smear the boundary lines I had so meekly put up. He refused to let my attention go, to let me go.
“I miss you, I am so sorry.” “I only want you.” “You’re the only one who really understands me.” “We need each other.” “I know I messed up, but you aren’t an angel either.” “Can’t I come see you? I love you so much.” “Please come outside, I’m coming over.” “I am close to your work, will you come talk to me.” “I’ll be around when you get off, can I come pick you up?” “We both have things we need to work on, we can do it together.”
I pled for him to leave me alone. I told him I didn’t have anything left, but he didn’t care. He would build up the idea of us and tear it down. He would beg for my love and call me worthless in the same breath.
I wanted so badly to stop everything but there was a compulsion to respond to his messages, to be available no matter what. Like flicking a light on and off 13 times, or washing your hands until they are raw, my skin would crawl if I didn’t respond.
If I missed a message, my heart would race and my hands turn cold. Full panic set in. I felt responsible for his well-being. His sadness and anger, it was always my fault. I always gave in, like I needed to, like I had no other option. I was stuck in a cycle of abuse.
He knew what my car looked like, where I lived and where I worked.
If I wouldn’t respond, he would circle my work or drive by my house, revving his motorcycle engine. He made sure to make his presence known, as if to say “We will talk either way.” We lived together for almost three years, for goodness sake. He knew my favorite hikes, restaurants, and lookout points. Nowhere was safe and finding me was easy. I felt trapped.
Even work became a prison cell. I used to want morning and weekday shifts so I could cater to his needs and now I want them to help minimize his terror. Instead of trying to help him live his life, I was trying to survive my own.
He couldn’t stalk me if he was working too.
Morning shifts felt easier. I didn’t have time to think or worry and I was too tired to cry. I could move through my morning on auto-pilot. Best of all, I knew that he was working also and I could relax.
Night shifts were unavoidable unfortunately and those days were completely lost. I slept as long as my anxiety would allow. When I was awake, I was as disassociated as possible. My entire shift was filled with fear, I can still feel the sting in my heart.
My “silver lining” to those evening shifts? They came with thirty-minute breaks and I spent them drinking.
Those days went a little like this.. it starts with coffee in the morning, continuing with another coffee on my first break, shots for lunch and every once in a while I would eat what my mom cooked for dinner, but for dessert? Xanax.
I became a broken person. I had zero self-confidence in my appearance, my judgment, and my life and he was there reminding me every day how miserable I would always be. He had convinced me that both of us were going to be sad, miserable people our whole lives and we needed each other. I still couldn’t see another reality.
“You don’t know how to be happy.” “No one else that will put up with you.” “You will always be a miserable bitch.” —
Even though he “moved out”, he was taking full occupancy in my life. Until I met Sara and got the fuck out of Santa Cruz.