Sitting in a room meant for clinical waste and broken furniture, (The only place in Brighton I fit in real well). It’s a Sunday. I’m hungover. And sick. Possibly pluracy, but probably a cold.
Look, I’m not a writer, I don’t even know about grammar. I used to write poems when I was a self harming little goth kid and songs before that when I wanted to be Dolly Parton. And they were all shit. How do you go from Dolly to Morticia? Child abuse, that’s how. Also, I’m not very funny. I haven’t made a joke yet. I also go off on tangents. I have no idea how to put my story together. It’s ongoing. My memory is terrible.
Sunday. There’s an alcoholic Scottish man who walks up and down the street outside. Sometimes he settles with a corona on a bench for sale outside Robert Dyas. He always has a kind word and a sexual remark for me. I could hear him from the room singing one of my favourite Dean Martin songs, “Everybody loves somebody sometimes” I joined in, harmonising amongst boxes containing my life and smaller greasier boxes containing fried chicken. I’m a terrible vegetarian, please don’t talk to me about it, I am aware.
After our short duet, I heard a scream “well nobody fucking loves me anymore!”
Was that him or me?
Must have been him, I’m not Scottish.
I have to remind myself daily of this. You should too. Stand in front of a mirror or a full bath tub holding a toaster and tell yourself you are loved.
This was the day I decided to write things down. All the things. Every single ridiculous thought because my brain is full of fuck and I need to release it. I need to vomit. I have a very serious case of fool poisoning.
Also if just one person reads this blog and it helps them to leave a violent relationship then that’s a fucking great thing. I want you to go, walk out that door, just turn around now. Please. I never thought it would happen to me either.
Different Sunday. (insert Wayne’s world dream sequence doodly do doodle doo) It was the first time I knew I was going to leave him, instead of dreaming about it. He was so close to me, he could see my body shaking, he could probably feel it. It made him smile. It made him laugh. He harvested so much joy from my pain. He used to tell me that when I cried it turned him on.
I stood over that fucking sink and scrubbed the shine out of it like he scrubbed the fucking shine out of me. I would always go into a trance when he was like this. A robot. A rag doll. A black hole. Anywhere but here. Take my soul away and come back later.
If I fought back it would only satisfy him. Give him the green light to scream so loud in my face it would make my ears ring, or grab me, push me, pin me down, throw me into furniture. Be careful not to bruise me baby, then they’ll be able to see what you are and who I am.
I stopped fighting back a long time ago. Occasionally I would, because I wanted him to follow through on his weekly threats and just fucking kill me. Get it over with.
I’m going to slit your throat
I’ll throw acid in your face
I will kill you
I will kill you and the cats
You’ll never leave me because you’ll be dead
I will torture you and keep you forever
Who was I then? I don’t recognise myself. Physically or mentally now. But it was me. All of this happened. This wasn’t a prolonged psychotic episode. He exists. Unfortunately. He is still living a life. He still eats, breathes, and shits. But then, that’s all he’s ever going to do.
Sometimes I have to force myself to go over every little detail, every event, every word, every feeling, because he made me feel like I made the whole fucking thing up. He told me I was crazy, fucked up, had so many issues, I needed help. He told me I was the reason he was the way he was.
Women had always pushed him to this, damaged him, and now I’m just another woman tearing him down when I should be helping him through this instead of making him worse.
I didn’t even know what gaslighting meant until a few months ago.
He would prey upon any and all of my vulnerabilities. I wish I never told him anything about myself, but I was in love, and that’s what you do. He was so perfect in the beginning. Gave me everything I wanted, said all the right things. Fucking worshipped my fat ass. All I ever wanted to do was love him and build a life together.
It all changed as soon as we moved away. 50 miles away from family and friends he switched over night.
When I think back over it all I can see myself now in the top corner of the screen (because I watch it in my mind like a film) screaming “Run bitch! Get out now!” Just like I fucking do when I watch a horror film.
There were so many warning signs, I feel stupid. I feel like a dumb bitch for staying, of course I do. I’m not a meek and mild little bird. I can be a moody opinionated bitch with a dirty mouth. I have a bad temper. Maybe I deserved this. I needed to be put in my place.
Nobody deserves to be treated the way I was. I might be a pain in the ass sometimes, but who isn’t? I’m a fucking human. I think he saw my strength as a challenge.
I told him my deepest and darkest secrets. I was groomed from the age of 13 and raped when I was 15. During the next big argument he told me that I deserved to be raped. He then pinned me to the sofa and threatened to rape me, laughing at my terror and getting hard from the tears that he licked off my face. Shortly after he collapsed into tears and begged for forgiveness. His tears didn’t flood my basement, but I stayed. He promised to get help. He told me he had mental health issues and autism, that he was raped in prison by a gang of men.
I FELT BAD. He was a pathological liar by the way, although he obviously does suffer from some mental health problems. I don’t think that excuses the behaviour though. I am always so conscious of my behaviour and actions. I hate the thought of my problems hurting other people.
He knew that my dads mental health was bad, and had been since I was a kid and I think he used that. He knew I would always be sympathetic to mental illness and he knew how resilient I was with dealing with it. He also knew how fearful I was of becoming ill like my dad and he did everything he could to induce madness.
He pretended the flat we shared was haunted. For months.
It’s ok, I would laugh too.
This all began because I did something TERRIBLE. After a night out, I took off my false lashes and I threw them at him whilst screaming “oh nooooo a spider”
I know, I know. I’m a fucking monster.
He had no concept of scale. If I stepped on his toe, he would bludgeon me to death with a brick. That never happened, but you get what I mean.
He went to extreme lengths to scare me. He set up a whole wire system in the bedroom connected to the lampshade, figures, ornaments. He came up with a whole story about the hauntings. The building we lived in used to be an orphanage where many children died. He would send me videos of the lights swinging furiously. I often went to bed before him and he sneaked into the room on a couple of occasions and pulled the duvet from me or make a loud bang or scratching noise. Objects would fly off of shelves and bookcases.
I started having nightmares. I was on the verge of tears telling him I wanted to move. He knew I was scared of ghosts. I know, I know, I’m a 32 year old woman with a thirst for gore but I’m scared of ghosts ok? Ever since that poltergeist case in Enfield, that horrible fucking ghost Bill. Traumatised. HE KNEW THIS.
When I was at the end of my tether, when I couldn’t sleep by myself or had to leave a light on, that’s when he told me “ ha ha got you back for the eyelash spider!”
What
The
Everlasting
Fuck
I stayed. I didn’t laugh.
For the first time, I was frightened. Of him, not the fucking phantom phantom. If he goes to this much effort to do something like that, what else was he capable of? He had already been violent at this stage. I started to think anything was possible. I was also ashamed. Ashamed that I had been reduced to a crying child wanting to crawl into my parents bed after a nightmare. By a little joke.
He told me “ This is what happens when you fuck with me. I will get you back far worse than you ever could.”
And he was right. He did. Several more times.
Listen, I told you I’m not a writer. I just type as I think. Bear with me. I might be a little all over the place but that’s who I am so just stay with me. And if anybody who reads this hears bells ringing GETTHEFUCKOUT. There are people out there who will help you. Your family and friends love you no matter how many times you are told they don’t. It’s hard, it feels impossible. But nothing is. You can have your life back. Your soul can buy a return ticket to your tired body.
I will be posting so much more of my story, hopefully it will have a happy ending. This is just the beginning. I have so many more horrible things to share with you because I need to exorcise this cunt of a demon. Positive things will be shared too, because there is always light in the darkness.
