You Did What?

cat-564202_640I will bow down the therapy gods, I take my almost bruised ego and say they are more right than wrong with the domestic abuse theory. Sprinkle in a touch of my defiant and maladaptive behaviors from a wonderfully dysfunctional childhood and it’s a match made in heaven.

I’ve fought this, but wouldn’t that be classic victim of domestic abuse cycle anyway?

Last week during a session where it’s two of the pain in my ass therapists vs me, we spent some time going over my base line for situations that any normal person would deem a risk/unsafe.

For what it’s worth, something that I made a conscious choice to do when this all started – I’m transparent with them.  For a vast majority of the well-adjusted population, it may not seem like a big deal.  As a child of an alcoholic, doing something you don’t know how to do and then doing it anyway when every fiber of your being says not to.  Someone needs to buy me a cookie for that, chocolate, always chocolate.

I’m not easy.  I’m an asshole, in fact, I think that could be a clinical diagnosis because it flew from the mouth of a therapist to me… I don’t think that’s in the current DSM but there is always the next version to hope for.

My base line for safe is totally fucking off the mark, I agree with them on that point.  I did tell them I have spent time alone with Kleo during this 9 months, not a lot but I have. Very few people knew I had, I’m letting my secrets go. It wasn’t well received – I get that, I get why it wasn’t.

He could have killed me, yes, yes he could have.  My over inflated self knew for that bit of time, he wouldn’t.  Few will get how instinctively I knew that.  I know it doesn’t align with the monster he presented himself to be on 10/19.  I know theoretically to any sane person I put myself in a dangerous place.  I know instincts are not absolutes.

They looked at me like I should be in a locked ward beside my husband and his unstable replacement toddler.  Obviously I lost my fucking shit, I thought I was safe with the very person who tried to kill me and the only thing I have to rely on is my instinct. I’m a hot mess, a therapist wet dream.

I’m shedding the legacy my mother gave me.  I’m seeing and believing I was just a little girl – a child who should have been loved and protected.  Not the childhood my mother gave me.

I’m not looking for affirmation that spending a few nights with him was a-ok, wise or prudent for the novel idea of being alive vs. dead.  I get it wasn’t.

Changing neural wiring which has been laid down over years doesn’t happen overnight.  Hyper-vigilance and the ability to scan, read and survive the intentions of others is an innate ability well-honed from my childhood.

If you got that mad skill, you know it is both a beautiful gift and a horrible curse. Something I’m striving to not be my default because I live in a world where I survive and not live.  I want to live, I’ve paid my due for survival enough.

Over the 9 months of this, I’ve seen him 3 times.  Each time I walked from it with more me than I had going into it, each drastically different than the other.

First it was shame of seeing him, wanting to see him and anxiety – a well landed bitch slap to the face!

I’m admitting it openly now, no more shame of it.  It wasn’t about what I needed from him, it was what I needed to own in myself.

The notion of domestic abuse cycle wasn’t one I wanted to accept as what it was.  I thrust myself right back to black & white, simple survival.  I went back to what I know, what feels like control.

If he was *just* an addict… not an addict and emotionally abusive (not minimizing the psychical abuse) I wouldn’t have to see I’ve been in a domestic abuse cycle for a long time.  Addiction is a known for me, addiction is simple.


Perhaps I was settling a score, an unsettled unknown I wasn’t aware I was doing. Maybe on some level I felt I let this all happen, or I wasn’t good enough to be loved, it was all my fault.  My mother told me I was the reason see drank, the reason my father didn’t want me. The little girl who never felt loved by her mother who always picked the bottle first.

I was a child, she’s been dead longer than I’ve been alive – she died from her addiction but also with the bottle she always chose over me, in her hand.

I’m an adult now, a woman.

Did he ever love me before he became this, or was he this because of me?

It felt good, real and connected on the level that has been primal since we were children.  It felt right when the labels and consequences were briefly cast aside.

He is absolutely without a doubt my person, it takes zero effort to be with him.  It’s a natural and instinctive as breathing – I slept soundly and deeply in his arms and felt safe… the same person who tried to kill me. (like I said, therapists wet dream I am!)

Nothing in the world existed but what has been woven within the two of us since childhood.  That person didn’t leave me, an answer I don’t have with my mother.

That part of him, of us, was just as strong, just as real and just as raw.

It was what it could be.  Should be.  It was empirically not what reality is.  

Addict.  Addict & domestic abuser. Domestic abuser. Addict turned domestic abuser or domestic abuser turned addict?

Today it matters less to me, which came first or if they both were true the entirely of our marriage.  Or what he is today.

I’m tickled pink, validated and vindicated – what I always believed was there, was, and is.  Who the fuck he is as a whole person today… WTF.

As an adult I know I didn’t need to have this question answered, it was probably far less about him than processing an unresolved childhood issue anyway.

He looked like shit, like he gave up on being a living being in this world.  Disheveled, stained clothes he looked like he hadn’t changed out of in weeks.

He wasn’t any resemblance to the man (and child) who exuded humble confidence and kindness.  He looks exactly like what he has become, a 41yo drug addict who lives with his mom because every addict needs someone to sustain their disjointed sense of reality.

Living in the here and now gets easier and easier.  What I thought I needed from him holds me hostage less and less, the only ‘fucking’ I miss from his is getting laid, the mind fucking isn’t worth the sex though.

They have an app for that anyway.

He’s still a violent drug addict vacationing in Disney with a someone half his age he picked up in treatment.  The two of them posting on social media, princess autograph book in in hand.  That’s funny shit. 😉









Not one of the therapists in my life and my children’s would be classified as ‘traditional’ – I will probably need therapy to recovery from my therapy!


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