From the Vault: July 21, 2024
July 21st
Five days until our anniversary.
One day since you said I was mud on your boots.
My logical brain and my hopeless heart are at war inside my body, half of me thankful that you made it so easy, half of me helpless as I struggle against missing you terribly as I try to enjoy a family evening at Fritz Farm.
I don’t want to do this alone, but I didn’t choose you for companionship.
I don’t want to do this the way you demand it, and you are getting much worse.
You have put so much effort into hurting me, breaking me down, and devaluing me.
I can’t relate.
I have outbursts, raw pain, uninhibited rants. But this is sustained, calculated, and cruel.
Your insecurity and weakness are on full display, woven into a massive red flag that blocks out the sun.
And here I sit, searching for stars in the dark, wondering when the moon will rise…
“You’re MY bitch”
No, I’m not.
I’m your wife, at least for now.
But I am no man’s bitch.
I hold my head high, even as tears stream down my cheeks.
You didn’t make us a family, and you can’t break our family.
You can slink away, kicking dust as you go.
You can surrender to your darkness and your wounds. You can be this sick, desperate, disgusting version of yourself.
I’m not walking this path with you, existing at your mercy.
~~~~~~~
One thought haunts me, and will until I die…
Who are you?
Who are you, really?
Do you get to choose? Is this chosen?
Are you trapped, helpless?
I don’t think you are. I think you choose.
But I also think you are compelled to certain choices.
I have no idea why I have such empathy for you. Why I ache for you. Perhaps because it’s hard to believe anyone would freely choose this.
Maybe I’ll be better off if I believe you can’t help it AND I can’t be part of it.
If I felt you had a choice, I’d want to influence you to be better; stronger. That’s not a healthy or productive endeavor. This cannot continue. You haven’t been better. You’ve gotten worse. More erratic. More cutting.
I have too. I’m beyond the end of my rope. I feel wild, tortured…I lash out and break down much easier. But I don’t want to cause you pain. I’m always trying to explain to you how you are causing me pain and why you need to stop.
You never stop.
You’re awful.
The way you hurt my hand in Berea.
Blaming me for everything.
Your outright lies.
Bringing up your sister and mother and my mother and…Gina?
It’s gross. It’s sick. It’s all meant to harm me but it just makes you look like a monster.
I am strong, and beautiful, and smart, and kind, and tough, and sweet, and hardworking, and unselfish, and loving.
I am not beneath you, and I would never say you are beneath me, even now. Your behavior is - but a person’s worth is not determined by the way another views them.
You will never determine my worth, or my place, or my value, or my quality.
I am amazing.
I am incredible.
I never deserved this.
I don’t believe you intended to be this horrible.
I’m not sure I believe you will ever change…
I have to make peace with the past, which was not pretty.
The present, which is not easy.
And the future, which is not possible and likely never probable.
I believed you, and maybe you believed you too.
But I don’t anymore.
It’s a tool to get me back, and I will be merciful enough to not allow you to be this monster toward me again.
My grace is stronger than your chains.
I will not repeat this cycle. I will set you free from your own dizzying dance.
You’ll find someone else to prey on, perhaps.
But I’ll give you the chance to say “enough”.
It’s the only thing about you I have power over. The only power I remotely consider pursuing.
I will be merciful, and strong, and gracious.
I will not return.
It is finished.
(It takes survivors several attempts to leave for good. This was written just weeks before an attack intended to be lethal.)