In his footsteps

Trigger warning.

Domestic abuse, addiction, mentions of suicide and self harm.

Originally posted 3rd November 2021.

I am desperate to write this piece, I keep starting and stopping, starting over and hating each sentence.

I can’t write this sort of thing in my standard style. Not this time. I’ve spent too many years creating false idols and romanticised representations of the hatred and years of nightmare I have suffered.

I have no idea how it began, I’m sure someone with a a certification could tell me in a second but its unimportant to this. The point is, I was susceptible as hell.

My self esteem was outwardly at it highest, and inward at its lowest. I had left a 3 year relationship that had no real issues except my boredom and curiosity. I lost a large amount of weight, 19 years old and coming out in society a second time but this time in the ecstasy scene.

I was the queen of the town I lived in, or so it felt, all eyes were on me and my friends as we danced the night away and most of the morning. Parties were a 4 day affair, Thursday to Sunday night for those hard-core enough.

I was embracing my new found confidence by being very loose, I’d take my pick of who to take home and I would enjoy the ego trip of the evening and send them home.

The void was growing. Three years of a committed relationship had left a hole that grew and grew.

I craved that someone special, a feeling which had been the whole host of issues in my teenage years.

And then I met him, a wolf in sheep’s clothing. (Please reference my writing ‘Doppelganger’ to view an artistic writing of events Here )

The definition of insanity. Keep doing the same thing and expect different results. I was certain that if I provided a safe and warm loving home for this broken soul, that I would somehow redeem it for good, and the fairy tale is won.

After all that had come before, I have no idea how I was so naïve. Heavy drug fuelled parties and questionable mental health perhaps.

I was the perfect person for him, if he was hungry, I would cook, if he was annoyed at failing a video game level I would search the results to help, I was a shell. If he needed weed, or alcohol, I would buy it. (I still don’t know how I normalised the consumption of a large bottle of Jack Daniels a day as standard. Him not me.)

In the three years we were together, he never worked a job. His closest family paid a meagre amount to him and he saw it as sufficient. He spent his days meticulously planning what he would do with his rich families money when he inherited it. Even going so far as to estimate how long it would take.

When we first got together we argued a lot, to the point my best friend at the time called the police because she thought he was hitting me at the wails and volume of tears I was sobbing.

He only ever laid a finger on me once. I went to leave the house and he pushed me back into a wall and I dropped to the floor. Because this violence only happened once I was certain I wasn’t getting abused. I didn’t see the obvious signs. The things he would say when we argued, how no one else would want me, how I was a dirty used up slut who needed him, how he needed me, because we were stronger together.

As time went on he became more and more irritable. It took less and less to cause full blown shouting matches for hours, 18 hours was the longest. I would walk out the room and sit downstairs, crying and clutching myself in true pain of emotion. For hours. He would call me every name under sun, he would accuse me of saying things, or tell me something I’d said but twisting it unrecognisably.

The hours would wear down, the lack of food, dehydration and chain smoking would make me sick, I can’t count the amount of times I threw up from emotion, or from these arguments. I was weak, defeated, and needed sleep, he iterated very early on that he “never went to bed angry” and how that came to haunt me, as I wasn’t allowed to sleep until the conflict was resolved, I.e. I had submitted and admitted fault.

It was my best and worst idea to move away from our hometown, I knew I needed a fresh start, and in a way, I knew I wouldn’t get as good a chance without him, which regrettably, is true. We moved 2 hours away to a city on the coast, it was a small, grotty flat, but it was ours, away from it all.

I soon got a job at a tech company. I loved it and quickly excelled. I was shy at the interview, and they gave me simple tasks, I wasn’t selling as I was too timid and it was unlikely to be fruitful, however as I continued to work there, and have small interactions with people, gaining confidence and having a well deserved time away from the hell that was home.

The pattern occurred. I would wake up at 6, leaving for work to start at 8:45. I left him asleep, he slept in no doubt from the drinking, and when he woke up he would switch on the console, and start gaming. During work I had a few friends, they enjoyed the stories of my past debauchery, and although they were at uni and me in my mid twenties we got on like a house on fire. I slowly began coming out of my shell. But everyday the shift would end and although disheartened I would remain cheery and head home on the bus, shop for something for dinner, go home and cook dinner, then wash up and see what he wanted to do. Day in, day out.

There are things I haven’t mentioned, which are still all too prevalent in traditional relationships to date. No male friends, no lifts home or to work from co-workers. I will answer the phone immediately when he phones or texts, I will not speak about my relationship to friends or family to prevent weighted bias.

The rules were vast, but I kept to them, happy to have friends, even if they were secret. Not entirely, just the male ones. One of my friends from work was at uni, and enjoyed partying, drinking and socials. I wasn’t allowed to see her outside of work because she was deemed immoral. I had another friend who was deemed acceptable, she would pick me up at my house and we would drive somewhere with a beautiful view and share a smoke, and both vent about the awful home situations we had, hers a lot worse and complex than mine. (Happy to note that she is safe and away)

But none of this masked the fact that the arguments had never ceased, nor lessened, the small moments I had away were the only ones I truly remembered. I spent so much of the arguments straining my mind to remember the exact words I’d used, so I may defend myself when things were fabricated, only to be gaslighted into thinking I was mad, and damn I looked it. At times I would tear out my hair, force myself to starve and thrown up as a consequence to level the pain I felt inside. I pulled out my eyelashes, cut myself and went hysterical with the lack of understanding as to what was the problem.

By day I was the perfect sales woman, smiling, knowledgeable and helpful, with a good rapport with the managers and a great banter with the staff, I gained confidence, my personality shone through the cracks and people became aware of it. None of them knew the hell I went home to. By night I was a sobbing wreck, shaking, being sick and fearful.

“One thing I’ve always wanted? A colt peacemaker.”

When we moved to the city, he gained a deep interest in guns, well, air guns. Even now it is seen as a glorified bb gun, but from my experience it’s quite different. He bought his first one, a Smith and Wesson M629. He hung it proudly on the wall above the box of magnum pellets, spiked at the ends. He used to enjoy letting off rounds out the back window into the courtyard. Then came the peacemaker, again pride of place on the wall. Then came a Winchester. A rifle. Then finally, an MP40, only sold in semi automatic state, yet a simple YouTube videos showed him the minute piece of plastic he had to remove to make it fully automatic. This was a machine. They all took these spiked pellets, and he blasted holes straight through old cans.

This is important as when we argued, things began to be broken in his rage. Always my possessions, always my fault for angering him. It started with pint glasses, our kitchen floor and hallways littered with tiny shards of glass. My parents had gifted me a dinner set that had been the set I grew up with, so many were thrown and shattered. Books torn, discs snapped. The boxes I kept my clothes in became target practice, and even now when I’m away, I’ve kept one of the boxes as a reminder.

When arguments started, I wanted to be anywhere else, but had nowhere to go, so I would move to a room to be alone and cry, or process emotions. This would cause him to lock himself in the bedroom, the sips of whiskey turning to gulps, loud music would blare through the amplifier, music meant to hurt me, music he knew would manipulate my mind. He then took on the act of suicidal romantic willing to die because of love. Or that’s as I perceived it.

The number of times he threatened and play act attempted to unalive himself was many. I remembered kicking down the bathroom door because he’d locked himself in with a full bottle of whiskey and some pills.

I have written much, and I feel this has been a fantastic turning point for me to be able to finally put some of this into words

It may make no sense at all, it may be more telling than I imagine. The point is, it’s been said now.

This isn’t the full story, so I feel a follow up will be written at some point.

Thank you for bearing with this twisted tale, I wish I were crazy, or that it was fiction.

It’s not.