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 remain 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.
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
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 remain 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.
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
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