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
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
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