My Story: Part 001

WARNING: The following entry deals with abuse of various kinds, as well as a brief mention of eating disorders.

When I told my ex husband, “I don’t love you anymore and I want a divorce,” he immediately began to cry.

“This isn’t happening,” he wailed, and begged me to change my mind.

I remember I was sitting on the bed, looking down at him sobbing uncontrollably on the floor. I felt nothing but disgust.

Part of me wondered if perhaps I should be crying, but I only held that thought for a moment before realizing I was done with it. I had been with this person for thirteen years, most of it involving being subjected to constant outbursts of anger, threats of physical and sexual violence, and emotional abuse and manipulation so bad that I was terrified of coming home at night.

I was done being afraid. If telling him that I was leaving was going to end with my life being extinguished, at least I would die having told him to fuck off. I would die knowing that I had at last spoken the truth, had finally confronted him and told him how I felt. I had looked him in the eye, and with no quaver in my voice, no tears in my eyes, had said, “I. DON’T. LOVE YOU.”

I didn’t care. After he had finally crossed the line several months prior and hit me (because the sex position we were in hurt me), refusing to so much as look at the mark he had left for hours on my body, I knew I had to leave. I had to and I would. That or I would die trying.

I waited for months, trusting that the right opportunity would present itself. Some kind of sign would make itself known, telling me that the time to ask for a divorce was now.

It took roughly five months. Five months after he hit me to get to that place. In those five months, I had become hardened and bitter, spending as much time away from home as I possibly could. Some nights, I would sleep in my car in the parking lot just so I wouldn’t have to walk upstairs and face him.

I knew when the time was right.

I was working a shitty job, doing my best not to collapse from a then undiagnosed case of anorexia brought on by my shitty marriage and my inability to eat without wanting to throw up from stress.

I came home one day, absolutely exhausted. I had just worked a full shift after only sleeping for a few hours, and all I wanted to do was go to bed and escape reality. My husband, however, instantly got on my case. He had been home all day, sitting on his ass, watching TV after playing golf with his buddies. I had barely walked through the door and hadn’t even taken my shoes off when he began laying into me.

“I’m hungry and thirsty. Go get me a drink,” he demanded.

“I just got home. I barely slept last night and I really just need to go to bed.”


I met his gaze and knew this was It. This was The Moment.

“No. You’ve been home all day. I’m tired. Go get it yourself,” I said, walking to the bedroom, closing the door behind me.

As I crawled into bed, I heard him get off the couch.

Then I heard the sounds of his fists hitting anything they could make contact with. The thud of the plaster walls, the hollow sound of our cheap chipboard doors splintering, and the metallic clang of our dryer door being assaulted.

At least it wasn’t me.

At least it wasn’t me.

As he screamed death threats at me, his fists continuing to pummel every surface they could find, I locked myself in our bedroom closet. I was too short to reach the pull chain for the light, so I stayed in the dark.

Alone and afraid, I turned on my cell phone. I was too scared to call the police, knowing if the cops showed up my ex might do something completely insane. So I did what any grown woman afraid for her life would do…

I texted my parents.

I begged them to come get me.

I told them I was afraid, that he was being physically violent, that he had recently hit me, and that I needed them to drive up and take me away.

“You two just need to work out your differences and maybe get counseling.”

My heart broke into absolute shatters.

My parents were not coming to get me.

I texted my best friend and sometimes lover.

“I never liked him. Leave him. You deserve better.”

She was not coming to save me.

I texted my sibling, who gave me a vague response and then silence.

No one was coming.

I was alone.

First Post: 000

Across the room, my cat smacks her lips (do cats have lips?) hungrily, although I fed her a couple hours ago. Part of me wonders if she forgets that she’s eaten, if perhaps senility is creeping into her sixteen-year-old brain. I hope not, but if so, I’ve already made peace with the fact that I will never let her suffer actually going insane. I would save her from that as I know she would save me.

I think the worst thing about getting older for me is that I’m starting to slowly see those around me getting older as well. When I look in the mirror, I see an ever-increasing number of gray hairs on my head and more wrinkles on my face. Those things are so much easier for me to deal with than seeing my cat slowing down, or realizing how much older my parents look every time I see them.

Sometimes this pandemic makes me worried that I’ll never see them again, or that by the time I do see them again, they will have aged so much I no longer recognize them. It seems as though my dad went from salt and pepper hair to white in the span of just a few years. My mom, too, seems to have more wrinkles every time I see her. I wonder if she knows, really knows, that every wrinkle, every gray hair, every part of her is beautiful to me.

I look so much like my parents.

I don’t really see it when I look at my reflection, but when I see certain photos of myself, they’re there. I wonder if someday this will make me smile or cry.

I’ve been sleeping too much during quarantine, though I hear that’s been a lot of people’s experience. I haven’t been practicing my guitar nearly enough, and I’ve definitely been playing an embarrassing amount of Animal Crossing. I’m alive, though, and that must count for something.

I’m also, all things considered, pretty freaking happy lately. I mean, I get depressed and anxious and have the weekly panic attack, but since this is me we’re talking about, I’m actually pretty proud of myself. I haven’t given up, I keep finding reasons to laugh, and my heart is full of a ridiculous amount of love.

After my marriage ended (that’s a topic I’ll definitely be talking at length about in future posts), I accidentally fell into realizing I’m polyamorous (though two partners is surely my limit). No matter which of them I spend time with, it always trips me up a bit to realize they love me. Me. And I’m, like, kind of a mess? I’m getting better, but there have definitely been times when I’ve cried with joy when I think about all the shit I escaped from, only to find myself in a place full of more love than I ever could have dreamed of*.

I plan on talking a bit here and there about love and sex, though I have chosen to keep any and all identifying details off the internet. It’s not about having a name and face to go with these words, it’s the mind and heart behind them that I hope speaks to people. Mostly, I want this experience to help me get things out off my head, where I spend way too much time, and if I can help someone else in the process, that’s fucking rad.

I don’t have all the answers to things I’ll be writing about. Topics such as emotional abuse, failed marriage, anxiety, depression, sex, deep thoughts and epiphanies. All I have are my life experiences to share and hopefully glean some kind of lesson from that I can share with the world.

I just want to help people. I want people to know that it’s okay to be scared and feel negative emotions. I want to take bad things I’ve experienced and make something good out of them. I want people to know that they matter. That they aren’t alone.

The only way I know how to help is by doing what I always do, which is open up, wear my heart on my sleeve, and let people know that I’m here. I’m going to let you in, reader, and in the process, I want you to know it can get better. I want you to learn more about what it’s like to be human, to be this human, and maybe not feel so alone.

It’s going to be full of triggers, which I’ll try to warn people of, but hopefully have some nerdy, awkward humor thrown in too. I make myself laugh until I cry sometimes, and though my sense of humor is pretty dumb, I do hope I make people laugh along the way as well.

To be…


*Can you end a sentence with “of”? I feel like that’s one of those rules you aren’t supposed to break. You know what? My blog, my rules. I’ll let my natural way of talking come through, and sincerest apologies to my English teachers for trying their best.