My Life in Reverse

by Casey Harvell

  Just like me.

  I tell Marissa the scariest thing I’ve ever said earlier that day. I tell her if I disappear, who’s behind it.

  My anxiety peaks. I self-medicate again to get some much-needed rest.

  And I pray like hell that I see the light of tomorrow.

  7 ½ months ago…

  Fear.

  Have you ever spent every day living in it—actual fear for your life? Not knowing what move might be your last?

  I have.

  Fuck, I am.

  I’d hid his shank the night I found it, but that doesn’t give me much peace. Especially when he doesn’t know I have it. Since that night he’s spent a lot of time in the garage, undoubtedly trying to find the thing.

  At some point he’ll give up and make another.

  Of that I have no doubt.

  I’ve organized and packed everything possible (that won’t be noticed) at my mom’s. She’s aware of my plan now. I’m a crappy liar. She’s not happy. She provides alternatives while I explain exactly how dangerous he is and why I need to go so far. Eventually she admits it’s more important that the kids and I are safe. She wants to help.

  My favorite adult has found me a place. I send the application in and wait.

  So much rides on their approval. I want to leave as soon as possible—for obvious reasons—but even more importantly before my mom leaves for vacation. The alternative is to be stuck here alone with him.

  You know, with no witnesses.

  In the interim I ask Marissa’s daughter for some help in the storage unit. It’s a mess and I need to be able to grab and go when the time comes.

  My plan is hectic. It’s also dangerous. If he shows up while I’m leaving, it’s going to be very, very bad. I plan to grab everything from the storage unit the day before that I need and get it into the moving truck. I’ll stash the truck nearby overnight. When he leaves for work the next morning, I’ll pack everything that has to wait until the last minute. Get it onto the truck. Grab the kids from school and be out.

  My mom’s taking the cat in the truck with her. The kids, dog, and parakeets will be in the car with me. The drive is over sixteen hours. I just hope that’s far enough.

  Marissa’s daughter, Liza, is happy to help me. Together, us two small chicks manage to move boxes and furniture that way more than both of us combined. It’s about halfway through that she stops me.

  “Have you seen this?”

  It’s some of my oldest’s schoolwork from a few years ago. It’s a book and it’s seriously disturbing.

  “No, I’ve never seen this before.” I tell her. “It must’ve come home when I was working full-time.”

  The book very plainly shows a fearful child being yelled at by a tall dark man. I place it in my bag because I can’t look at it any more.

  “We should finish, it’s getting late.”

  “Yeah,” Liza agrees. We’re both nervous he might show up.

  It doesn’t take us too much longer. We even manage to make it look similar to how it did before we began—just in case he stops there before it’s time to go.

  Now all that’s left to do is wait on that application.

  Wait and hope.

  The next week…

  My phone rings. I don’t recognize the area code and answer quickly.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, I’m calling to let you know we’ve completed your application. Congratulations! It’s yours on the first of next month.”

  I let out a whoop—thank goodness I’m home alone. “Thank you! Thank you so much!” I say and disconnect.

  The first! That’s at the end of this week.

  That means it’s time to act.

  Deep breath.

  I shoot a message to my favorite adult first. He’s as happy as I am.

  “I guess I’ll see you Saturday night!” I tell him.

  “I’ll have a team of people set to unpack Sunday. You just get here safely.”

  “I’ll do my best.” I promise.

  6 months ago, Thursday…

  My girl Tammy gives me a ride to pick up the moving truck. From there we’ll go to storage (with the help of John and Marissa) and then stash it in the back of the apartment parking lot at Tammy’s across from my mom’s. It’s a ballsy move, but people move in and out of there all the time. Plus it gives us easier access to it tomorrow morning. That’s going to be the hard part. I have to pack up all the things the kids and I will need and want as quickly as possible. While I hope like hell that he doesn’t leave work for any reason.

  The same danger lurks as we move stuff from the storage unit into the moving truck. Somehow we manage. I thank them all and follow Tammy to hide the truck.

  I’m all nerves. Forget eating—that’s so not happening. My oldest knows what’s happening and is all for it. That was the first thing I did before I made my plan. If my kid wasn’t okay with it, I wouldn’t be doing it. Even at the ripe age of eleven the situation was unmistakable.

  My youngest knows nothing. Six is too young to worry about this. All I said is we may go on an adventure soon.

  Thank God I wasn’t lying.

  There’s nothing left that I can accomplish today. Everything else has to be saved for the morning. As if I needed some form of confirmation from the universe about my decision, I watch my oldest get thrown across my bedroom. The knee is the victim this time, getting bashed onto the bedframe. I get ice.

  And swear that this will never fucking happen again.

  I do my best to get through my last day and night of hell, all the while praying that I make it through it with my life.

  6 months ago, Friday morning…

  I lay in bed awake, feigning sleep until he leaves. At six forty-five a.m. his car pulls out of the driveway and I spring into action.

  It’s a whirlwind. Pack this, shove that into a bag. What’ll fit on the truck?

  I send my youngest off to school. My oldest wants to stay home. I see no reason to fight it.

  John and Marissa show up to help. We move the big furniture first, then follow with random bags of clothes and toys. We manage to finish before the noon deadline I set. Just in case he decides to come home for lunch. He never has before, but irony is a bitch.

  I give them the biggest hugs goodbye. My mom takes the cat with her in the truck to wait for me. We figure it’s best to get it out of there as soon as possible. I take one last look around. I don’t think I forgot anything. I don’t really think I care if I did right now, anyway.

  I take the ring box, the letter he tore up and I pasted back together—and a new letter in case he doesn’t take the hint about what just happened and leave them. The new note gets taped to the front door. The rest I leave on his dresser.

  I take a moment to change my cell phone number. Just because.

  My car is almost at capacity. There’s just enough room left in the back to fit a six year old. I tell the school the bare minimum—that there’s a family emergency and my kids will be out for a while. It seems safer than the alternative. This is a small town and if he gets wind of this before we’re safely away, it won’t be pretty.

  I secure everything in the car. “Hey, ready to go on that adventure?” I ask the kids. They nod excitedly.

  We drive. We meet my mom and drive some more. We stop to eat, feed the animals, and refuel. Then we drive. Sometime after dark we decide to stop for the night. My mom and I lug the kids and animals into the pet-friendly hotel.

  Once they’re asleep I get into the shower. As I wash, I cry. I cry tears of relief. I cry the tears of a mother who should’ve found the strength to do this a long time ago.

  In my relief I also find power. I never would’ve thought I could’ve done this. He certainly never thought me capable. There’s more to me than I realized before. There’s strength in me I haven’t been aware of. There’s a part of me willing to fight to the death for what I believe is right. There’s something inside me that will fucking kill anyone who tries to hurt what�
��s mine again.

  So I cry, yes. But I cry more to cleanse than anything—like an internal baptism. I say goodbye to impossible expectations and trying to conform. I say goodbye to that weak woman he tried to make me into.

  Confession? I have no idea what I’m doing. I kind of like it that way. From here on out, I’m taking life one fucking moment at a time.

  And loving every fucking second of it.

  The next morning…

  It doesn’t take long to repack everyone, eat and hit the road.

  The day consists of more driving, stopping, and driving still. It’s well after dark when my GPS tells me I’ve reached my destination.

  My favorite adult waits there. I’m so happy to see him. I introduce my kids, my mom and my dog. Despite the fact that our hug is brief it fills me with warmth.

  I did it. I made it. I escaped with my life.

  Thank fucking goodness.

  In the end

  After the raging storm

  Through all the pain

  Of being beaten down

  A sea of tears

  Fear all around me

  Here I stand

  The victor of your

  Malicious games

  My eyes are dry

  My broken heart

  Beats strong again

  I am living life

  With love and happiness

  I am no longer

  That weak girl

  I am thriving

  Following my dreams

  Even when my resolve falters

  From years of abuse

  A gentle hand

  With kind words

  Lifts me up

  Reminding me

  That I am loved

  That I matter

  That I am special

  I once thought love

  Would be my demise

  Now I know

  Love will be

  My rebirth

  My freedom

  My life in reverse

  ~Julz~

  (c) JMM 16

  6 months ago (continued)…

  Because it’s so late and we don’t really have a moving team until tomorrow, my mom takes the boys to a hotel for the night. I drop the cat and parakeets off in the empty apartment with food and water, while me and the dog go with my favorite adult.

  We’re both a little nervous because we have no idea if our dogs will get along.

  I follow him to his place. I’ve never been so happy to see a damn driveway before. Parts of me thought I’d never make it back here. At least not in a physical capacity—because my heart sure never left.

  It takes a few sniffs (his dog) and a few barks (my dog) but they seem to do okay.

  My favorite adult looks at me. “There are clean towels—I just washed them—and sheets in the dryer. You want to take a shower?”

  He knows I’ve been on the road all day. “Yes, please.”

  I swear he’s perfect for me. People don’t usually take care of me…it’s the other way around. It’s not a bad thing in the least. It’s just going to take some getting used to.

  The hot water is therapeutic. The shower is familiar to me now. He even has my shampoo and conditioner from my visit. My note is still scribbled on his bathroom mirror. I dress in PJ’s because all I want is comfort.

  After some food we go lie down. He holds me close for a while. Soon gentle strokes grow more urgent.

  And we celebrate our reunion in ways only lovers can.

  Later that week…

  It doesn’t take me too long to unpack. My mom helps a lot before she has to go home. The night before she leaves we have a really long talk. We both cry and apologize for different reasons, but in the end we grow closer.

  The dogs get along well. So do our kids, thankfully. Despite every fear that lurks in my head, MFA never lets me down. What’s better? He does this with actions and not words.

  It’s exactly what I need.

  The moments of self-doubt are still ever present. They make me overthink and question everything. Does MFA really want to be around me this much, or does he just feel an obligation to do so? I really hope it’s the former—but I remember how annoying I’ve been told I am for so long. It’s likely the latter.

  I get the kids registered for school. Next comes setting up health insurance. I want to get them into therapy, so it’s a necessity.

  The asshole reaches out to me through email. It’s the only thing I couldn’t change so I sort of anticipated it. He starts off as nice, but that’s his M.O. Likely he still thinks he can get me back. He has no idea I’m halfway across the country and well out of his reach. I reply with few words, just to let him know the kids are okay. Nothing more, nothing less. Even that’s likely more than he deserves, but I do it as a kindness…for now.

  The best thing for me is to stay busy, which isn’t hard because there’s plenty to get done every day. Most nights MFA either comes to spend the night or we all go over there.

  My oldest and his kid are into the same shit, so they get along well. My youngest has always been easily adaptable, though I do notice some behavior we have to work on. It’s my hopes that with some time and patience we can work through it.

  Despite a few hurdles, we’re all more relaxed now—even my poor dog. My kids begin to sleep normally again. They’re actually excited to begin school.

  Sleep is still hard for me, but it’s easier next to MFA. He holds me close and I listen to his heartbeat. The sound comforts me through the flashbacks and nightmares, lulling me to sleep. When I wake up scared, his warmth reminds me that I’m not there anymore.

  Slowly—but surely—I know we’ll all get better.

  4 months ago…

  MFA and I have been kind of inseparable. Still every time I question whether he really wants me around, he negates my thoughts with his actions.

  Have I mentioned how much I love actions over words? Because I really do.

  It’s the little things I pick up on that keeps my faith at the forefront of my mind. The texts I get all day. When he said he always has time for me. I asked him if he was sick of me yet and he just laughs. I told him I’m scared he’s going to and he assured me I’m way too sweet for that to happen.

  One night we went out and my flailing hands knock his drink out of his hand. My reaction was to freeze. Not only did I feel stupid, I regressed into waiting to be yelled at. But MFA did nothing of the sort. He said it was okay—even gave the cleanup guy lip when he said something after I apologized.

  I’ve met his friends, his family now. It’s weird to be included and not hidden away, but I really like it. I really like all of them, too.

  Tonight I sit on his front porch. It’s Saturday and I sip on a drink to unwind while I smoke a cigarette. MFA joins me. We stargaze and bullshit when he pulls me in front of him. When he sits and I stand I’m almost half a head taller. When he stands? Not so much.

  “I think I’m in love with you.” He tells me.

  My heart swells. “I love you, too.” I tell him. “Been for a while now.”

  He holds me close, his head on my chest.

  “Say it again?” I ask.

  “I love you.”

  I almost cry, but I don’t. I feel the caring this man has for me. I feel it in spades.

  And I hope to give it back a thousand times over.

  “And I love your kids,” he adds, “I’ll always be here for all of you.”

  This. These feels. This is what life should be like.

  This is what love is. Real love.

  I know—now I know.

  3 months ago…

  All actions have consequences. Every last one. So it’s no surprise to me when mine do.

  My close friends have been keeping an eye on the asshole’s social media pages. So I know right away when he finds out where we are.

  My first instinct is to panic. I know this man better than anyone. Despite whatever mask he may be showing the outside world, inside he rages. He thinks I belon
g to him, that I’m some object. He also thinks I took what’s his.

  Every word he ever uttered about what he’d do to me races through my mind.

  Yeah, panic seems rational at this point.

  MFA seems a little excited at the possibility of kicking his ass. It’s certainly something we’ve touched on before. If he comes here and tries to hurt me or the kids, he’s likely going to get his ass handed to him.

  Even though it’d probably be hella-satisfying and fun to watch, I don’t want him causing any problems for anyone. I refuse to let him complicate one more second of my life than absolutely necessary.

  I have to tell my oldest just to be safe. Awareness is key. The look I receive in response breaks my heart. The fear is present there. And I know that feel too well.

  As a mother, I feel like a failure in that aspect. I should’ve done more, sooner. I thought I shielded them better than that, but I know now that it was impossible. All I can do now is try to make up for it. Try to show them the right way to go about things.

  Try to make it better.

  2½ months ago…

  “Hey! There’s a sheriff here looking for you,” A friend and neighbor texts me.

  Fuck.

  We’ve been staying at MFA’s place because the kids have more access to the outdoors. In addition, my place turns out to be kind of ghetto. Beautiful apartment? Yes. Secure building like they claim? Not so much. Not unless two chick fights outside my door and a shit-ton of blood in the lobby equal secure. They sure as fuck don’t in my book.

  “Thanks for telling me.” I answer.

  I’m sure that I know what it’s about. My inner circle has kept me up to date on his posts. Bragging about court has been a thing lately—that and seeking as much sympathy as possible. It’s better than in the beginning when he kept insinuating I lost my marbles.

  Better, but scarier.

  Ten to one, this motherfucker is trying to have me served. Well, they can’t serve me if they can’t find me. Good luck with that.