My Life in Reverse

by Casey Harvell

  I rush into the bathroom just in time to expel the meager contents of my stomach. Wasn’t it enough to tolerate the cheating and the drugs? This is on another level, though.

  This is messing with someone’s soul.

  Never before has self-doubt been an issue for me—self-esteem, sure—but lack of faith in my ability? Never.

  I want to break something…or bang my head against the wall.

  I want to unleash fury with all the might of a woman scorned.

  Instead, I do what I seem to be best at lately.

  I curl up in a ball and cry.

  It all feels so damn helpless. More stuck than ever before, unable to break free—but surely unable to last much longer here in this hell.

  Strength is something I’ve always prided myself on. I come from a long line of strong women. Only now it’s not strength I feel—not even a little. It’s exhaustion. It’s defeat.

  And it’s scary as all fuck.

  The silent treatment is a form of emotional abuse typically employed by people with narcissistic tendencies. It is designed to (1) place the abuser in a position of control; (2) silence the target’s attempts at assertion; (3) avoid conflict resolution/personal responsibility/compromise; or (4) punish the target for a perceived ego slight. Often, the result of the silent treatment is exactly what the person with narcissism wishes to create: a reaction from the target and a sense of control.[5]

  12½ months ago…

  You know how you tell yourself things can’t get any worse?

  It’s a big fat fucking lie.

  His possessiveness grows. He never leaves me alone when he’s not at work—the second job he’s held in almost fourteen years. It’s only been a few weeks since he’s been working and since we’ve ‘gotten back together.’

  And it’s been so much worse.

  He continues all his social media activity like nothing’s changed. It makes me wonder how many times he’s actually strayed over the years. It makes more sense now—knowing he’s a narcissist and craves any form of attention he can get.

  While I try desperately to grasp at any remaining freedom I can, he tries desperately to break me of it. It’s a horrible waltz that exhausts me.

  He wants me to put my wedding and engagement rings back on. I refuse.

  He wants me to unblock him on social media. I refuse.

  He wants me to tell him where I’m going every time I step foot outside.

  I refuse.

  Since we’ve arrived back from the beach, he spends each and every night with his hand firmly clamped on my upper arm—like a warden to a prisoner—or on my thigh. God forbid I have to pee in the middle of the night—even that gets questioned.

  If I can’t sleep?

  Same deal.

  And sleep has become a unicorn to me—something beautiful and elusive. I spend most nights feigning sleep to avoid confrontation. I lay next to someone I fear, someone who’s every touch now hurts me. It’s as though I can feel him suck the life from me…sort of like the bruises his fingers leave me each morning. He grips so tightly—because I better not dare leave his side as he sleeps.

  We argue—fight, really—constantly. Everything I do is wrong, every look I give, every reaction that I have. It’s all wrong to him. He spends days ignoring my very existence, but refuses to leave my side while doing so.

  It leaves me in a constant state of anxiety when I’m in his presence. I never know when the wrongness of my actions will make him switch from ignoring me to yelling at me.

  My friend’s concern for me grows. I spend more time in isolation than ever before. I’m a shadow of my former self physically, my weight-loss now overly dramatic. I can see my ribs. It’s kind of gross.

  He returns home daily and demands to know what I’ve done all day—an actual step-by-step breakdown of my day.

  I begin to ignore him as much as possible. Some nights it works. Other nights he just stares at me while I’m on my computer. It’s incredibly creepy.

  Here I thought the kids would be happy now, but my oldest acts out—barely sleeping and now failing school.

  I grasp at the straws of my sanity—my kids the only savior to my hellish life.

  How long can I keep this up?

  How long until he drags me under for good?

  A few weeks later…

  It’s like now that I know he’s a narcissist, it’s all I can notice. Every sentence he says starts with the word I. Every statement he makes about how he’s better than other people. Every time he says what he wants.

  I feel like the world’s biggest dumb-ass for not seeing it before.

  Ever since Marissa sent me that link, I throw myself into research on the subject. There’s so much information to take in.

  The more I learn, the more tactics I employ to combat his manipulation. The only problem with that is that it really pisses him off.

  On a personal level, I begin to get a handle on my anxiety. Now that I know where it stems from, it makes it easier to control. I’m not panic-attack free yet, but at least I can mentally work through them now.

  My phone pings and it’s my bestie, Judy, texting me just to remind me that I’m a worthy person. She does this daily and I love her hard for it. My new circle is tightly knit, a handful of friends and most of them miles upon miles away—but they’re amazing. They all help me see that I’m not this horrible thing he claims.

  And lately he’s made some claims—all wrong. I can ignore what he says about me to others—that I’m crazy. Or cheating. Or a bad mother, because all I do is work. I refuse to defend myself because I know the truth. Those who know me know what’s really up. And the rest? Well, fuck ‘em.

  It’s what he says to my face that’s hard to ignore. Besides being the worst woman in the world—an evil one at that—he now thinks I need an exorcism.

  You know, because my not wanting to follow his every command must mean I’m possessed by a demon.

  I keep my mouth shut, mostly. For a while it was fun to goad him, until he threw my dog across the room by her throat. That’s when I realized I have to be careful.

  It’s one thing to leave bruises on me—but I refuse to let him hurt anything else I care about.

  I stop before I begin to overthink and have another panic attack. I grab my earbuds and clean, because that’s what I do when I’m upset.

  Later that day…

  There are still a few people who bring a smile to my face. One friend in particular.

  There are warning signs clanging in my brain. They’re loud and hard to ignore. One day I realized that he’s the first person I message in the morning and the last one at night. That we talk all day, every day—about everything and anything and sometimes even nothing at all. That he’s sweet. He gets me—and he thinks I’m awesome.

  And that I depend on him way too much.

  It’s probably not healthy to have an attachment to some guy so far away, that I’ll likely never meet, much less have a chance with.

  He’s too good for me anyway—and a relationship’s the last thing I need. I’m too fucked up for anyone else to deal with.

  I should try to back off a little, but I won’t. It doesn’t matter that I know a world of hurt awaits me. He’s become my favorite adult. I can’t give him up. Not now—not just yet.

  I’m too selfish to stay away.

  In psychoanalytic theory, when an individual is unable to integrate difficult feelings, specific defenses are mobilized to overcome what the individual perceives as an unbearable situation. The defense that helps in this process is called splitting. Splitting is the tendency to view events or people as either all bad or all good.[1] When viewing people as all good, the individual is said to be using the defense mechanism idealization: a mental mechanism in which the person attributes exaggeratedly positive qualities to the self or others. When viewing people as all bad, the individual employs devaluation: attributing exaggeratedly negative qualities to the self or others.[6]

  12 months ago�
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  The clock ticks down to our would-be six year wedding anniversary… It’s yet another battle for my freedom. An unspoken war we both fight.

  I can tell he’s up to something. It pisses me off, because in fourteen years I can count the gifts I received from this man on one hand. Now he wants to do something? And because I know him, I know what he’s going to do.

  The man hasn’t stopped his quest to get my rings back on my finger. He’s even gone so far as to say our youngest asked him why I don’t wear them—like a six year old cares! I know his plan. He’s going to get something I can wear that makes me his again…

  Only I’m going to refuse it. That should be a fun fight.

  Maybe I’m just being crazy. It’s not like he has money ever, even though he’s working. He says that he’s going to start giving me his checks—since I pay all of his bills again…with my money currently. I won’t exactly hold my breath, though.

  No money can only mean no present. No present means no fighting about said present.

  A girl can only hope…

  The following week…

  I can’t fucking believe this shit. A ring—of course it’s a damn ring. He’s so fucking desperate to label me as his again.

  It may as well be a fucking handcuff.

  A chain with no lock, welded shut.

  My anxiety peaks. I know the fight that’ll ensue. This whole anniversary is a sham in my eyes. Why celebrate a year we spent mostly apart?

  Especially when his actions remain the same as before…and his creepiness is at an all-time high.

  I have to figure out how to avoid this confrontation.

  Somehow.

  The following week…

  The UPS truck drives away and I know this is my only chance. The kids are at school, everyone else is gone—and the package from a jewelry store is in my possession.

  So I do the only rational thing. I hide that fucker. I hide that fucker so well even I may not be able to find it again.

  What ring?

  What fight?

  Crisis averted…hopefully.

  A few days later…

  “What the fuck?”

  Oh, he’s mad. He’s really mad. Luckily, it’s not at me—it’s at UPS for saying the package has been delivered. Unfortunately, I’m most certainly stuck with the collateral damage of his rage. It’s a small price to pay for my actions and I’ll accept the bad karma as what it is, because some things are unavoidable.

  Despite my best efforts, our anniversary looms near. There’s no avoiding it. Just like there’s no avoiding the internal shudder I feel every time he touches me, or the feelings of anxiety when he’s around since I never know what’ll set him off.

  There’s no avoiding a lot, apparently.

  I’ve never felt this stuck in my entire life—trapped, unable to escape, unable to scream, barely able to breathe…like I’m drowning slowly because someone has put weights on my ankles. No matter how hard I swim, I can barely keep my head above water.

  Every mark I wake up with, every squeeze or shove that shouldn’t be, every second of being ignored or yelled at or put down—it all begins to take its toll.

  It becomes just too much.

  My insides scream at me to get out. That something is very wrong.

  Only he’ll never let me leave.

  Our “anniversary” (1 year ago)…

  The day is typical (thank God) with everyone out and about. The kids spend time at the park with their friends while I do chores and work. I avoid speaking with him like the plague. He ignores me in person, but wants to text me every three seconds when he’s gone. Likely checking up on me. I’m over caring about it.

  He continues his same social media activity. In his never-ending quest for attention, he continues to do all the same shit. He’s never going to change. I realize this now.

  I can’t say that it doesn’t hurt. It stings. I’ve never been enough for him. I suppose I’ll never be able to be, either. It’s a huge blow to my ego. My stupid ego that stays faithful for fourteen stupid fucking years.

  I have to be the world’s biggest idiot—just have to be.

  In my heart—in my gut—I’ve always known the truth; that things will never change. It’ll always be something with this man. Some excuse or another. I’m supposed to follow his words blindly, despite his actions. Despite the fact that nothing ever changes.

  How long is too long? When is it enough when I can never be?

  What possibly irks me the most is the fact that he won’t let me go. I can’t be enough to satisfy his desires, but he insists on keeping stuck in this hell. He seemingly hates me, criticizes my every move, belittles me, ignores me, yells at me and puts me down. Calls me names…

  But refuses to leave me in peace.

  If I’m so damn horrible, why does he want me still?

  As the day progresses so does my anxiety. They say it’s calmest before the storm, but the anticipation of what’s to come is a tightness in my chest that becomes unbearable.

  It’s inevitable that he’ll return home. It’s inevitable that he’ll make this harder than it has to be—just like always.

  He goes right to the shower when he gets home. Nothing unusual there—so far so good. I begin to think maybe I’ve been making myself crazy over nothing.

  Until he gets out of the shower and places a small box in front of me as I work on my laptop.

  “Happy Anniversary,” He says and kisses the top of my head.

  Internally, I shudder—if he were to see my reaction it’d surely upset him. “Thanks. Happy Anniversary.” I reply. He may expect something, but I didn’t bother to get him anything.

  I’m still not sure what it is exactly that we’re even supposed to be celebrating.

  I place the box aside as I continue working and my heart pounds in my chest. I’m not sure how he pulls it off, but damned if I don’t know the box’s contents.

  This definitely isn’t the reaction that he seeks. The room fills with the tension that rolls off of him. I crank up the music in my earbuds and try to fade into the background.

  A tactic used to desensitize a person to inappropriate or abusive behaviors; manipulating a person to agree or accept something that is in conflict with the law, social norms, or their own basic code of behavior.[7]

  11 ½ months ago…

  The box goes into my underwear drawer, along with my wedding and engagement rings. I sit down and put pen to paper in an attempt to articulate what I feel.

  Writing has always been an easier outlet for me than speaking.

  Especially when I’m speaking to an asshole…

  I explain why I won’t wear the ring—why I don’t even want the ring. Without holding back, I jot down every reason I feel the way that I do. I beg for him to let me go before it’s too late for both of us. This letter holds every part of me that screams inside.

  And when I finish, I fold it delicately, over and over until it’s as small as possible. I place it in the ring box in my drawer and shut it tightly.

  Because just like me, what I want is of no importance.

  That weekend…

  “Is he mad because we said that we didn’t need him today?” Marissa asks.

  “He was pissed, yeah.” I admit.

  “John and I thought you needed a break.”

  “Thanks,” I say sincerely. “I really did.”

  “I’ll be up at the other job and I need you here to run shit. But when it’s done, stop by.”

  “Okay.” I give Marissa a quick hug and get to setting up for the day.

  The fairgrounds are a mostly flat and open space, so it doesn’t take long before the sun begins to bake its contents. Water helps make this more bearable—but it also makes me have to pee.

  On the way to the bathroom, I pass an honest-to-God dinosaur. Okay—not like scaly massive reptiles from B.C. times, but something archaic nonetheless. A pay phone. I haven’t seen one of them in forever.

  I snap a pic because it
amuses me and send it to my favorite adult. He enjoys it as much as I do.

  He told me the other night that his favorite thing in the world is cookies. What he doesn’t know is my plan to send him some. I happen to be a top-notch cookie maker.

  I let him know I have to get back to work. He’s at work too, so we decide to talk later. I wash up and get back to it.

  The following week…

  I get back from the post office with a grin on my face. Package is out. I hope my favorite adult likes chocolate chip cookies…I should’ve asked his favorite kind…

  Oh, well—it’s the thought that counts, right?

  My close friend Judy and I always refer to those mean voices in our head as demons—and fuck are mine screaming lately. Part of me knows that this is exactly what he wants. I’ve done the research. He breaks me down so I’m malleable and compliant to his desires. Only I’m not malleable lately, despite the demons and his best efforts. I’m a rigid bitch, a fucking single Lego on the carpet at night that you step on.

  At least, I like to think I am.

  Even if I’m way tougher inside my head than in real life, I have been holding my own. I refuse to compromise my values for him anymore.

  I refuse to compromise my fucking values for anyone ever again.

  The longer this purgatory continues, the more I realize how contorted my relationship with this man is. This isn’t love. He doesn’t know what that is. There’s no caring, no support—nothing but daily emotional warfare. Warfare designed to fester.

  Most people love the weekends, but not me anymore. The weekends are when he’s around and they seem to last forever. There’s no escape, no room to breathe, nothing.

  There’s hardly any happy left in life. The kids, but they’re either off at school or playing outside. There’s always plenty to do, though. In this house work-from-home translates to oh-you’re-here-you-do-it. So I do, because I’m an asshole—maid and personal assistant to four grown-ups and two children.