I hoped that my words weren't lies to myself. They were. I always knew. Some days, it was an easier pill to swallow. Those days were the good ones. Those were the days that I believed that he had changed. He hadn't. He still hasn't. Some days, I'm still afraid of what may come.
I'm going to tell you my story. Truly. Honestly. It will be raw, and you'll think I'm an asshole. I'm okay with that. Sometimes I am, and there are times that I have deserved a much harsher designation. However, like any person, man, woman or child, in any relationship, I never deserved much of what I went through. There were times I thought that I did. There were days that I thought that I had found the best I would be able to find, and that at least Scout would have her dad around. Pippi and Huck never had that.
Hold on. I don't want to talk about why I should or shouldn't regret standing up for myself. I should never regret that. I deserve to love without fear. I deserve to move forward without feeling like my past is embarrassing. It isn't any more. I deserve better. I survived, and came through stronger. And I'm going to tell you about it.
Let me tell you about my last week in our "family" home. It was terrible.
On a Thursday, I was working late, and Sev was supposed to pick me up after work (we shared the car). He wasn't there when he was supposed to be, and wasn't answering the phone, so, rather than have anyone wait for me, I walked to the 24-hour coffee shop, and called a couple more times. After about a half hour, I was beginning to lose hope quickly. No texts, No phone calls. Friends didn't know where he was. Great. So, at 1:30 AM, I started calling for cabs. Left a couple of messages, waited some more. No one was willing to drive that far. I called all of the surrounding fire departments to be sure that there wasn't an accident. There wasn't. I didn't want anyone else to know what a dick he was, so I did the only thing I thought I could. I started walking. And I walked. All together, I walked over 6 miles.
He fell asleep. Fine. Whatever. People get tired, I get that. But for fuck's sake, set an alarm. And to show up at 3:30, while I'm walking home, and begin yelling because he "thought you were intelligent." We picked up Scout, and got home by 4. I hopped right into bed, just to be yelled at until 5 because I'm so stupid. Scout got up at 545. A half hour later, he takes her for a little bit, then goes to bed. When I wake him for work, he starts screaming again, says he's leaving, and I should have thought about that before I acted like such a moron. So he left. And I found rides for a couple days.
I had rides to work for the next couple of days, and Scout and I walked a lot. On Saturday he kicked me out again, "but don't touch the baby. You go, she doesn't." The hell you say. I stayed. Again.
The next few days were dreadfully volatile, but sadly quite ordinary for me at that point.
The turning point came when the kids spent the night at their grandparents' house, so that i could spent the next morning "supporting" Sev at court. We fought the whole night. When I suggested that I go pick up Scout, and head somewhere else, I was told that I would never get her from his mother, I would never get custody, and generally how terrible I was. It's worst when you just start to believe it.
So, I apologized. For whatever slight may have occurred. For whatever made him angry. I comforted him, when I was desperate for a savior. I let him use my body as a means to end the fight.
The next morning, something set it off again. There was more yelling. I walked away and got in the shower. He followed. And yelled. I ignored him, and told him to leave. That didn't go well. He was furious. He ripped the shower curtain off, and cocked his fist back in my face. He never hit me.
That was the day that I refused to accept my reality any more.
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