He still tries to manipulate me. He uses the kids, too. Filling their heads with notions a six and ten year old have no business worrying about. He pushes for me to stay every night.
My reactions confuse me. I’ve never been this weak person I am now. I’ve never been so…so broken. Not over him—no—because of him.
I wish I understood what the fuck was going on…
Gaslighting (or gas-lighting) is a form of mental abuse in which a victim is manipulated into doubting their own memory, perception, and sanity. Instances may range from the denial by an abuser that previous abusive incidents ever occurred, up to the staging of bizarre events by the abuser with the intention of disorienting the victim.
14 months ago…
I sit on my mother’s back deck in the cool night air, trying like all hell to get ahold of this panic attack. I can’t seem to stop it. My phone goes off and I jump. It’s him. I check it because the kids are with him. They’re fine, though. He just ‘misses’ me.
I tell him I can’t right now.
He asks why.
I tell him I’m having an attack. He already knows about them. He offers to try and find something to calm me down. It takes a bit for me to agree, but eventually I relent.
I can’t seem to stop it on my own.
Minutes later I’m back there again. It certainly doesn’t help the feeling of my heart about to explode. He leaves and I feel slightly better—but only slightly.
He’s not gone for as long as I thought he’d be. He meets me on the small porch, where I’ve been chain-smoking cigarettes.
“These’ll help. Dan gave them to me. They’re muscle relaxers, but there what the doctor gave him for his anxiety.” He hands me a bottle. It’s labeled and seems legit. “He says take two and lay down.”
Fuck it. I can’t keep feeling like this. “Okay,” I go to get up.
“Stay here?” He begs. “I’ll stay on the couch—just don’t go.”
My head shakes. “I don’t think that’s a good idea…”
“Please? I’m worried about you.”
“I—” Words fail me. “I just can’t deal with like, anything.” I say honestly.
“I want you to know something.” He presses on. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I put everything on you all the time. I’m sorry that I pushed you into these attacks. I know it’s my fault and I’m sorry.”
If his plan’s to disarm me, it works. Exhaustion rips through my body. In a moment of clarity I realize it is all his fault. A person can only take so much. The fact that he admits it damn near floors me.
“Please stay?” He asks again.
“Only if you stay on the couch.” I finally agree. I sway a bit when I stand. Those pills work quickly.
“I will.” He agrees too quickly. “Let’s get you in bed.”
The covers are familiar and in moments I feel myself drifting off to sleep.
Later that night…
Something wakes me up. I’m out of it—very much so—but not enough where I’m incoherent. I feel the covers slide down my legs. There’s a hand on my ankle. Immediately I try to sit up.
That’s when I hear him, “Shhh. You’ll like it.” He whispers.
I almost can’t believe my ears. “Are you fucking serious right now?” I say back as loudly as I dare. “Do you have any idea how creepy that sounds?”
His hand clamps down on my thigh now, on where the top of the covers now sits. “Come on, you know you want to.”
I can’t sit up fully and begin to panic. “No, I don’t want to. If you don’t get off me I’ll scream and wake up the kids.” I’m not bluffing and he knows it.
“Fine.” His voice is cold. “Way to make me feel like shit.”
He goes back out towards the living room.
I get up and for second time ever shut and lock the bedroom door.
Even with the pills still in effect, the fear is very much present. Eventually I let them take over and fall into a troubled sleep.
The next day…
“You should hear the things he says about you when you’re not around. It pisses me off.” My friend tells me. Marissa doesn’t take shit from anyone. It’s one of the reasons I love her.
“It’s not worth arguing about.” I tell her.
“I don’t know how you put up with it.”
“Why even acknowledge it?” I point out. “When doing so adds fuel to his fire? Just ignore it.”
She shakes her head. “If that’s what you want.”
“It is.” I glance at my phone. “I should get going. What time do you need us tomorrow?”
“I’m thinking ten. You still going out tonight?”
“Yeah, my mom’s going to watch the boys. I’m going to see if Tammy wants to come with to see the band.”
“Have fun—and be safe.” Marissa warns. She worries about me, hard.
“I will.” I promise and give her a hug. “See you tomorrow morning.”
Tammy’s down to go out, so I pick her up. She also lives in the apartments across from my mom’s. It’s how we met actually, as neighbors.
“Hey!” She says as she climbs into the car.
“Hey! You ready to have some fun?” I grin. This is my first time going out since everything has gone down. I’m excited to see my friend’s band—and that I got Tammy out of the house to go with me.
“I am!” She grins back.
We get to the bar and find a decent crowd. I introduce Tammy to my girl Danielle and some other friends who are around. The band’s already playing so I give my friends a wave as they rock out.
“Want a drink?” I ask Tammy over the music. She nods her head. “Follow me!”
We make our way to the bar and order when Tammy nudges my arm. “Look who’s here.” She says in my ear.
I follow her line of sight across the bar. Of course he’s here. They are our mutual friends, so I anticipated this. “Don’t worry about it.” I tell Tammy. “I’m not.”
The night progresses and I stop after one more drink—I have to drive home, after all. Tammy keeps drinking with my insistence. He keeps me in his vision all night, trying to goad me as he flirts with waitresses, bartenders—basically anyone that’ll give him attention. I ignore it all—it’s nothing new. It certainly doesn’t bother me. A couple guys try to flirt with me, but I’m completely not interested. They give up after they realize it. Right now, guys are kind of a pain in my ass.
The band finishes their sets and it’s getting late. Tammy finishes her last drink and I ask her if she’s ready to go.
“Yeah!” She says. I grin. I’m glad she had a fun night.
“Hey,” He says as he walks up. His voice slurs and I know he had too much to drink. “Can you follow me back to the apartment since you’re dropping Tammy off anyway? I don’t want to get pulled over.”
Internally, I shake my head. He’s already on probation—he shouldn’t be out drinking at all, much less drinking and driving. I want to say no—fuck off…but he’s still the father of my kids and God forbid he kills someone on the road tonight, I’d never forgive myself. “Fine.” I agree. “But take it slow, don’t drive like an asshole.”
We all make it back to the apartments in one piece.
“Are you going to be okay?” Tammy asks me.
“Yeah, I’ll be fine.” I assure her, though it’s me I try to convince.
“Alright, thanks for taking me out. You know where to find me if you need anything.”
“I do.” I tell her. “Thanks for coming with me. I’m glad you had fun.”
Moments after Tammy heads upstairs, he walks up to the car. “Why don’t you come in? Mom has the kids, they’re all asleep. We can watch movies and talk.”
I want to say no. I should say no, but I hesitate to answer. He’s drunk.
“C’mon—plus it’ll be easier to leave tomorrow morning.”
We both help Marissa and her husband John with catering and have an event tomorrow…well, today I guess. “I guess. Bu
t you’re sleeping on the couch.” I suppress the shudder that comes with the memory of the last time he was supposed to stay in the living room.
“I promise.” He says.
I don’t really believe him.
We go inside and I regret it the second I cross the threshold. This is a mistake. I shouldn’t be here. This is dangerous. All the warnings run through my head, but I try to contain them.
He’s not going to hurt me…right?
In mere minutes, he has me in the bedroom—under him.
“No.” I say firmly. “I don’t want to do this.”
“Shhh.” He says.
There are no kids to scream for now. There’s nobody to scream for.
Nothing to do.
He continues with his quest, despite my words which I repeat, again and again. I begin to cry halfway through. This is exactly what I didn’t want.
He doesn’t care as he takes. When he’s done, he asks me why I’m crying.
“I told you I didn’t want to.”
“You’re just saying that.”
I wait for the anger, but I feel nothing but numb. “You should go to the couch now.” I tell him.
He shakes his head, but listens.
I shut the door, but I don’t lock it.
The worst has already happened.
I curl up in a ball, fully dressed once more, on top of the covers.
And as the numbness subsides, the sadness takes over…and I cry myself to sleep.
The day after…
“You look like shit.” Marissa tells me.
“I feel like shit.” I confirm.
“How’d it go last night?” She doesn’t try to hide her concern.
“He got exactly what he wanted out of me.” I give her a level look.
“Aw, babe.” She wraps me into a hug. “Are you okay?”
“Not really,” I admit as she lets me go.
“You should tell someone.”
“Here? In Hickville, USA? I can’t see that going over well. Excuse me, Sheriff—but my husband raped me. No…”
Marissa sighs. “You’re right, I guess.”
“Besides, anything I do—restraining order, anything—violates his probation and sends him away for up to ten years. I know it seems like an easy fix, but I won’t have that on my conscience.”
Marissa just shakes her head.
“I’m going to get to work.” I tell her. “Keep busy.”
“I’m here if you need anything.”
“I know.”
Masks of a Narcissist: Refers to the different “faces” that the Narcissist shows in public as well as to the victim. These different masks are often socially acceptable, or even desirable masks. They are often the persona of the great parent, the church-goer, the volunteer, the world’s best spouse, the charming and funny person. However, those close to the Narcissist knows that many times their actions are very different than those of the people that they pretend to be.
Mask (of a Narcissist) slipping: When a Narcissist’s mask slips, it is usually only the victim that sees this–although others may from time-to-time see it too, (they just don’t know what they are seeing, and often chalk it up to the abuser having a bad day). It is during this time that the Narcissist’s true self, which is composed of deception, manipulation, and cold, calloused, calculating behavior is revealed. Many victims are terrified of the person they really see when the mask slips, and often describe them as “pure evil”.[2]
14 months ago (a few days later)…
“If I can’t have you, nobody will.” His eyes are dead serious.
A chill runs through me despite the sheer volume of people around us. “Do you hear yourself? So what, if I won’t be with you, I can’t be with anyone?”
“Yes.”
I shake my head. Luckily the waitress comes to take our order.
I knew coming out with him was a bad idea.
“None of my friends will fuck with you.” He says smugly.
“I wouldn’t fuck with any of your friends to begin with.” I point out. “Ew.” I know way too much about where they’ve been.
His head twitches to one side for a split second. The movement concerns me.
“You should just stop it and take me back.”
“No.” I say firmly. “In fact, how’s that roommate and apartment search going?”
“I’m still looking. You know I have to save up.”
My escape to my mom’s is short-lived. He follows me there. Now he takes one of the two bedrooms over while I share a smaller room with the kids. Every night he tries to convince me to sleep in his bed. Every night I decline.
He’s been just insane since I’ve tried to separate from him. He’s sent his friend’s to spy on me when I meet my friends for lunch or dinner. He even knew I left the house one morning (to go to the freaking eye doctor) without my telling him—while he was at work. That’s some creepy shit, right there.
Don’t get me started on social media. He’s so pissed I blocked him after he decided to use my FB wall to fight with me, that he keeps making new accounts…new accounts that I keep blocking.
The whole situation exhausts me.
He exhausts me—and not in a good way.
It feels hopeless. Inescapable.
It feels like the end of me.
I come to some harsh realizations. I don’t matter to him. I’m just a thing. His object. My feelings, thoughts, hopes, and dreams mean nothing because I’m not a valid person. Not in his eyes.
It’s all about what he wants.
Not about what I can survive.
A few weeks later…
I have no space. No personal space whatsoever. He’s always here, in my face—spouting words that sound like static, but still manage to cut me deeply.
I keep losing weight. It’s the stress and what’s likely an ulcer in my gut that aches every time I get too freaked out…which is way too often.
I’m literally wasting away, mentally, physically—and nobody around me cares, or at least cares enough to notice.
Everyone ignores the huge pink elephant in the room that I’ve become.
I wish I could say my spirits are high, but it’s really quite the opposite. I’ve hit an all-time low, instead. The only thing keeping me going are those kids.
It’s not the first time they’ve saved me, nor do I doubt will it be the last…
12 years ago…
I can’t believe it. He swore he’d stop using—swore it. I can look at him and tell he’s high as a kite. It’s hard to call him on it—even when I find an empty heroin bag or needle—because he gets so mad…so adamant that it’s not his.
We have a baby on the way.
A whole new life of responsibility.
There’s no time to shoot dope! There’s no fucking money for it, either.
He goes to work—sporadically—but all his money is long gone before I see any of it.
I don’t know what to do…I don’t even know if there’s anything to do…
Other than hope for the best…and prepare for the worst.
11 years ago…
“Who’s shit is this?” I ask him. I just found a ring and earrings in the back seat of the SUV. I’d say ‘our’ SUV, but that would imply that I get to drive it.
I don’t.
Even though I’m the one with the license, car insurance, and the titleholder…
“I don’t know.” He blows off my question. “Probably one of my friend’s girl’s shit.”
Never mind the fact that I struggle to feed us while he can drive friends around. “Hmm.” I say and slip the jewelry into my pocket. It’s silver (and I kind of like the ring.) Maybe I’ll just wear it until someone claims it.
I tell the nagging voice in my head to shut up. It tells me not to be stupid—that you don’t find jewelry in the back seat for nothing.
Unfortunately, I don’t have time to overthink anything.
I have a kid to care for.
10 years a
go…
“We have no fucking food!” The words come out full of exasperation. I’d even gone and applied for food stamps, but they haven’t kicked in yet. “He’s been eating ramen noodles for a week straight and we can’t even afford anything for us!”
He hasn’t given me any money for rent or bills. Nada. Zilch. Zip. Much less for food. Fuck, I’ve been hand-washing laundry in the bathtub, because we can’t even afford the laundromat.
“They’re going to want the rent soon, too!” I add.
The anger in him grows. His pupils are small as fuck. Apparently he can’t pay rent or buy food—but he can still buy heroin and shoot it up. Awesome.
I don’t know if it’s because he’s high, mad, or both. He slams the door on his way out.
I look for something to feed my kid.
8 years ago
“You got what?” I ask, incredously.
“I got arrested.” He says. “It’s not a big deal.”
“Arrested for what?”
“Drugs—but don’t freak out. Brian asked me to get him some blow, but I got nabbed. They’re not going to prosecute as long as I help them.”
“Help them how?” I can’t wrap my head around what he’s telling me.
“Give them the bigger fish to fry.” He explains.
Oh. My head begins to shake slowly. I have a really bad feeling about this.
7½ years ago…
I pull out three empty dope bags and two needles. I’m not even snooping, just doing laundry. We moved back in with my mom for six months, staying in the room in the garage. All of us. Even the kid and dog.
I’m pregnant again—kind of far along, now. Still, I work over forty hours a week at a restaurant, waitressing and bartending.
I come to the realization that I can’t live like this anymore. He denies his drug use left and right, but I find shit everywhere that disproves his claims.
My Life in Reverse Page 2