Reclamation

It began like any other twenty-somethings fling. By that, I mean it was well thought out and all possible endings carefully considered. I totally knew what I was getting into. It was not a cliche. I thought I had found someone special, someone who could deliver me from the echoes of an adolescence marred by dysfunction and disconnection- someone to rely on. My truest friend. I distinctly remember feeling like there was no other person in the world who could possibly understand me- not in the same way, not to the same depth. You’ve never heard this story before, right? For over a decade now, I’ve known just how flawed my thinking was from the start, how guided by pain I was. I want to write about this chapter of my life, because to be honest, I still feel threatened by it. Despite talk therapy, sound baths, meditation, podcasts, literature, YouTube videos, and a myriad of other kinds of self-improvement/healing modalities, I sometimes feel like the beast is right at my door, and if I don’t keep running, I’ll be doomed.

It’s true, of course, all the increasingly available discourse on the importance of healing your inner-child. At that bizarre and lonely point in my life, I was subconsciously searching for romance, for love, for attention. I guess I thought if I could earn someone’s adoration, I wouldn’t have to feel anything else- I could exist in that lovely little paradigm where all that’s real is you and your beloved. Untouchable. With a childhood I wanted to forget, and a family torn apart, I caused myself more and more damage through denial. I ran away from friendships. I wasn’t equipped. I was never taught repair.

The problem was that just when I should have been focused on myself and all the possibilities for my future, I mistakenly thought romantic love was quintessential, the conduit to any successful or full life. Ah, life really does kick your ass, doesn’t it? The novelty of dating a musician was enthralling at age 23. Up until that point, I had dated the “perfect on paper” type of guy. The straight-laced, type-A, has-a-plan type of guy. The kind of guy who found me appealing until I played too much indie rock, or talked too openly about…insert topic. All at once, I had love, and by proxy, I felt part of a community. My life had momentum.

In retrospect, I existed in a bubble of naivety. I didn’t pause to think of how small my life really was, how I was cutting myself off from the world- I couldn’t see where my life was heading. I thought I’d always have time to course-correct. I closed my eyes to his addictions. I never cashed in on any of my own dreams. I stopped taking risks. My mind was slowly poisoned, as psychological abuse will insidiously do, convinced I had to surrender all thoughts of self in the name of loyalty to family. And since I had been a self-abandoning people-pleaser starting at about age 5, life got more and more insular. Especially after the birth of my daughter. Enablers gave me advice on how to live with the abuse instead of escape it. I needed to get over it. If I could just be better, life would get better. My true friends tried to help me have courage enough to leave. Years removed, I can confidently say NPD and domestic abuse are one in the same. I don’t think I’ll ever feel comfortable using the word abuse either, because I know countless others have experienced far worse, but I am learning to accept that I did live through these things and I am allowed to be angry. And, what’s more, I don’t have to forgive to be able to move on.

I will never forget when I asked him to work on his anger, gingerly requesting for him to be less reactive and critical of me, which inevitably resulted in him casting insults at me and inconspicuously turn a conversation about my need for boundaries into a laundry list of all my deep-seated character flaws and wrongdoings. I did what instinct told me to in the moment, I grabbed my keys, and drove away. He called repeatedly and I didn’t answer. Not until he sent me a recording of our infant daughter crying, with a text saying he would let her do that - cry - until I came back. That night, I realized life with him would always be this way. I would be stuck in a cycle of abuse where he would say hateful things, yell at me, stalking me from room to room, then be apologetic and make assurances that he cared about me and things wouldn’t escalate like that again. Over the following weeks, he would slowly untangle his false apology, until I was left with the true account of “what happened” and what I could do differently in the future to avoid such an incident. And the next time I was knocked down, I would be reminded of how I had agreed to the last false narrative. He would convince me to trust in a tomorrow that would never come to fruition, only to condescend and attack in a more spiteful way than the time before. He would tell me things like how I am just a sad person, will always be, and that no one could ever love me like he did. And for a girl who has always struggled with depression, it wasn’t totally inconceivable that he might see me in a way I couldn’t see myself. Maybe I was too damaged and needed to live life with more gratitude. Between walking on eggshells to determine his mood, and regularly apologizing to him for the ways he had hurt me, I was confused and my confidence was dissipating.

I remember when we went on a beach vacation to Destin, Florida. My daughter was five years old. We had met another couple who had a young daughter as well, and so the two girls played with their sand-toys, while we talked and got to know one another. The sun was going down, and after a peaceful afternoon, we said “goodbye” and parted ways. He and I found a nice spot for dinner right on the beach, with rave reviews for their oysters and cocktails. The wait was an hour, but that wouldn’t be a problem, with the ocean view and the cabana bar downstairs. I ordered some appetizers and drinks for us, but as usual, my audacious daughter made fast friends with another little girl sitting close by. We looked on as the two girls did cartwheels in the sand, her parents at a nearby table. After our first round of drinks, he had another. And another. Soon enough, he was passed out under the outdoor shower by the bar. The water was pouring on him, as he lay there. Families sitting on picnic tables close by were gawking. I nudged him awake, telling him it was time to go. And suddenly he was cackling at me, sarcastically spewing “why are you so angry?” and “Look at your face…you’re such a sweetie. You’re the sweetest, aren’t you?” This was his latest trend. He would use sardonic comments like this, building into a crescendo of humiliation, until I broke. He would call me “sweet” or “an angel” to make it clear he felt I was the opposite. Even on “good days,” if I didn’t laugh at his jokes with the right kind of enthusiasm, I would be mocked with a “Nice fake laugh.”

My physiological response was always the same in these moments- heart pounding, hands shaking, throat tightening. I was trying not to cry, desperate to keep my daughter from witnessing this tirade. Her new friend had gone with her family to be seated for dinner by that time. I can’t remember everything he said after that, or recall what the root cause of the “argument” was, only one question still rings in my ears- “You don’t even know what’s wrong with you, do you?” With a seething look of hatred on his face like I hadn’t seen before. A snarl. And then the husband of the nice woman I had chatted with earlier, the couple we had met on the beach, were approaching us. I tried to exhale, to keep the tears that were welling up in my eyes from falling. He asked if I needed help, to which I unfortunately replied “No, thank you.” I walked to the car with my daughter on my hip, and him trailing behind, ready to continue the fight.

Years later, after I recounted the story of yet another vacation that had resulted in him passing out drunk, and an even more intense fight, my therapist would wake me up with - “And how do you think your daughter felt seeing you be abused like that?” She used the word abuse. It was simultaneously devastating and liberating. Of course I had known that all along, but I wouldn’t allow myself to feel the weight of it. I was gaslit to the point I could no longer make even the simplest decisions. I wouldn’t have survived without my friends. And ever since I gained the courage to leave years ago, to start anew, I’ve been trying to re-discover the creativity that used to flow so easily through me. I still find myself going into fight-or-flight at the slightest provocation from him. I suppose I might always be working on it. Especially now that I realize he will always try to control me, even from a distance. He will weaponize her, manipulate her, control her, use her for narcissistic supply. He will never stop, simply because I exist. What’s at stake now is my relationship with my child.

It’s wild what fear can do to you. It’s hollowed me out, completely transformed me, over and over again. I guess that’s the human condition- I battle (like we all do) between my mind and heart, love vs fear, ego vs universal oneness. I’m grateful to my very core I am Mom to such a beautiful, bright, insightful child. She is what keeps me going. I’m amazed that of all the avenues life could have taken me down, I get to exist as Mom to her. What’s impossible to articulate is the pain that comes with the realization parenthood is a slow fading out and a call for your own growth in being okay with that. The realization you will be a witness to their human experience, and with that, there will be more suffering you cannot prevent. I can’t save her. All I can do is be a loving presence, and have faith that the words & experiences I share with her are enough that she always knows hope. I don’t know what my goal is here, but it feels ever more necessary to chronicle my life, my feelings, my truth. And I hope in doing so, I’ll help shine a light on your truth.