I must have been the devil incarnate in a previous life. The positive side is it is my shit now has only minor ties to the shit show that has tagged along with hideous bells (shackles?),felonies and incarceration of my one time husband.
Things I’d set in motion way back when now seem hell bent on a trajectory of inconveniencing faliures. I could be bitter and cuddle up with endless opportunities for self loathing. There is a disproportionate amount of struggles that have been almost subsisting entirety on the coattails of my marriage.
You can be both a victim and have responsibility in steps after the fact. I am a victim of domestic violence and drug addiction at the hands of my spouse. I have been thrown directly in the path of all that encompasses and have had at times some fucking pure hell of residual effects. And I’ve learned to live life based on my own choices, not just shitty circumstance.
The emotional impact lingers well past the good intentions of people thinking you ‘look’ ok, so therefore you must be ‘ok’.
He was after all an addict, he said and did horrific things. I’m better off… The infamous they would have left!
It’s ok, we all need the false safety net that we would never find our ownself there. I thought that too. In some ways that mindset plays a hand in the continuation of silencing those of us who ‘talk’, still, even well after the fact. Perpetuating the cycle of silence – it’s best to shut the fuck up and move on.
This archaic ideal of thinking that the victims are somehow better off if we do as non-victims inadvertently think is best.
We didn’t already lose enough, take the voice and the symbolic sense of power we’ve found in that voice and quash it. Fall in line.
If we talk about it all all, we haven’t moved on enough for someone else’s comfort.
Here is an uncomfortable truth. My newer car which I busted my ass to get, on my own, fixing/fighting the demons of credit reporting. Died. It’s not fancy or high end but it was and is mine. A monthly car payment defining me as my own, single person. Mine, to play endless taxi to my offspring. Mine. Not his, not ours – mine.
I still have the payment but funny thing is, no matter how much it’s mine. It doesn’t do me any good needing a 7k transmission. It’s a mine that is sitting in a 3rd shop while I promise never to step on an ant, swat a fly or kill a spider or commit any cruel atrocities to another creature whom I share earth with. God isn’t hearing me.
It hasn’t been working so I brought out the mother fucking Raid and Deet laced bug spray. Keep your self righteousness in check, it’s not Roundup…yet.
My computer that isn’t a luxary, it’s my necessity to make money, died. Tablets suck. Really. No, fucking REALLY.
Uncomfortable You Say….
Aside from the fact my husband sits in jail with his paid off Prius sitting at moms. I am never getting a new transmission, technically I am still married, I could use that Prius about now.
Aside from the fact that before he was this shit, he was a brilliant senior IT professional that could fix my computer woes in his sleep.
Aside from the fact he got the system working in his favor to collect money monthly, had a public defender on record (I think he hired a private attorney now) and I pay mine to deal with the aftermath that is him.
Why uncomfortable? The need for him not to be all of this was in the front of my thoughts. Say that and people get all in a tizzy.
Here’s my voice. There is nothing inherently wrong with that.
It doesn’t mean anything more than what it is.
If I said I missed my mom, no one would cast a concerned eye at me, or question where I am or am not falling in the acceptable spectrum of leaving a domestically violent drug addicted spouse. No one.
However, if I ever dared to say the past couple weeks I’ve wanted the world to stop, to feel what I once believed true, even for a fleeting moment.
Most would be questioning my sanity.
Children don’t choose to be victims of abuse and neglect. To have any degree of love for even the most abhorrent parents, is not seen as a self imposed weakness of not getting over it fast enough. There is nothing deemed socially inappropriate in that.
Love and attachment are primal. Period. They don’t have to be intellectual and logic driven.
If I dare say I missed any part of the man who left scorched earth in his wake, the irony becomes whats wrong with ME?
Nothing is wrong with Me. My car, computer…. Yes. Is that because I’m a victim of DV? No.
A year ago they would have been intimately interwoven and dependent on each polarity of the other. And that was valid and real. Very real.
Today, good things exist and happen just because that is more in line with healthy normalcy. Just the same as shit breaks, plans changes and even high stress points fall in the from of normalcy.
Writing on a tablet however sparks my violent need to throw said tablet out the fucking window…right on the pavement, where my car used to sit!
“What’s the point of a fucking window if you can’t throw yourself out of it?” – Patrick Melrose