I had really hoped – and moderately anticipated – that, knowing I’m leaving Sunday, they’d leave me alone-ish this weekend. Instead, Jax’s behavior is second in brutality only to the 1st weekend, when this long assault began. He’s relentless.
This morning, I had a friend coming over to pick up and store some large items I hope to sell, or move to a roomier place in the future. Jax decided I had done property damage to a cheap door with an even cheaper coat of paint. I damaged a chair, too, which belongs to him, he yelled, and I’m “not to remove any property from the premises.”
“You wanted to donate that chair when I moved in, and I gave you $20 for it.”
I don’t have a receipt. It never happened. Fine, keep your chair. Fewer reminders.
But he wasn’t done screaming. I should have just paid him when he offered a “deal” on future utility bills, because now the heat is going to be ridiculous. “You leave it running at [blanking] 80 degrees when you’re not even home!”
“I had the heat below 70 all night and turned it to 76,” I answered calmly, “so it would stay on during my shower and get a jump on the house temp.”
He knows how low I run it overnight, even in winter. I had gone for 5 minutes to get coffee for my friend and me, and forgotten to turn it down. He was home when I got back, and he’d found something “real” to fault.
I took the bait. I lost it. I told him to go ahead and sue me for the utilities. I’d counter-sue for half my medical costs when I was sick, and full civil punitive for pain and suffering. I screamed at him all over again for intentionally inflicting mental duress. I don’t know that I’ve ever screamed like that. I wish I hadn’t, but I just lost it!
LEAVE ME ALONE.
He knew how sick I was. The look in his eyes at every confrontation over the last 4 weekends haunts me. He loves it!
The thing is, he knew I was suicidal, wrestled a pill bottle out of my hands this spring. It’s much worse, in my heart, than kicking a woman when she’s down. It’s getting her down, and then dealing the death blow while she’s down there. That’s how this has felt to me. And he just keeps doing it, weekend after weekend.
He knew his behavior could kill me. He could see, that first attack, that I was more frantic and terrified than I’d ever been before, even more than when I started swallowing a handful of pills that day in April and went to the hospital.
And he keeps at it. Every weekend. Cursing, mocking, utter hatred. Delight.
He loves it! His face, the sadistic delight. I can’t unsee it. And I just lost it.
I screamed today. I don’t remember yelling like that, ever. Even in my violent childhood.
He laughed and laughed. I’ve been in my room bawling. I haven’t eaten all day.
I tried so hard to stay above this. I cannot believe what a sick, cruel, petty man he is.
Jax spent the rest of a beautiful late season day to… stick around and keep me stuck in my room? Every time I walk out, he starts again. Last year, this was his busiest time.
I threw some things in my car and drove to work to donate them, just to get out of the house. I thought about grabbing fast food, but it’s making me sick again. I was excited on my day off to make a yummy, healthy dish – and hoping he’d have gone home to his loving family by the time I returned. Instead, she had joined him here. With the kid.
I’m starving, and terrified that they’re going to spend the night tonight AND tomorrow, just to stick it to me as hard as they can before I go.
I’ll never be the same. I know I’ll be alright. The biggest improvement will come on Sunday, just getting away from the fear of “What/When/How bad/How long…?” The rest will be continued healing, but I’ll never be the same. I’m changed.
Something broke this time, deep inside. I’m not the same.
I never thought I could feel regret like this again. After each relationship – good or bad – I’ve been able to appreciate and enjoy them, able to remember the love or the learning. Except one, who nearly killed me when I was 22. (My only physically abusive relationship since childhood.) 22 years later, Jax has proven worse than the man half my life ago. (Same is true of childhood. Bruises heal. Mental abuse sticks.)
Two men. At 22, and 22 years later.
When I realized it, I cried and cried. “Please don’t take my beloved 222!” I begged the angels. “Please, I can’t! Don’t poison my 222. I love my 222! I need my 222.”
Near suicide after each relationship.
The scary difference is that suicide is sad when a person is young. “She had so much promise, intelligence, beauty, talent. If only she’d held on. It gets better…”
When mental illness kills a middle-aged woman, it was a tragic, noble effort (at best). I tried. I found out. I have an illness that kills people.
Why is it okay when a person dies of diabetes, heart disease, or cancer, but not mental illness? We all have something. With my disease, I might decide someday when I’m done, and it’s still just an illness. We all die.
Not today, but I don’t have delusions about the danger. Neither do I believe anymore that my condition improves over time. I’m worse now than I was 22 years ago, with no hope, fewer options, less money, faded beauty, and now serious, chronic physical pain.
I joke that I’m far too spiteful to kill myself. “I’ll die before suicide kills me!”
It’s probably still true. I am a Taurus, and there simply isn’t stubbornness like that in another sign. “I’ll be damned if…” is a very Taurean motivation. Little can threaten my determination to get through it, by god, but I don’t know the future.
I don’t want to kill myself. I don’t want to hurt anyone. But I don’t want this pain.
It took time but I was able, at last, to put my spin on that devastating perversion of my beloved 222. Now, I see it a wake up call to appreciate my vulnerability, and understand that I must always take care. It’s not enough to coast along in moderate health, or delude myself that I’m fine because “I’m not a tortured kid anymore.”
I have an illness that requires maintenance and vigilance, all my life. Okay is no longer good enough. The Universal Smackdown came to tell me: The time is now to choose optimum, and do the work to achieve it.
First, I have to get out of here.
I really believe the angels are telling me that it’s now or never. For years, I’ve been feeling the shift, the urgency of the work. DO IT, CHRISTIE. That’s what I started this blog for. What I’ve done instead is catalog years of repeating the dynamic of my childhood in nearly every relationship and experience. It isn’t up to me what happened in my youth. It’s only up to me what happens now.
I must figure out how to flip that switch, and stop attracting and creating such ugliness.
I’m in so much pain.
I just can’t believe what Jax can do and say to a woman whose health is so precarious, when he shares 50/50 responsibility for risking that health, and 100% responsibility for abandoning her when she got sick.
Worse, he brutalized me before my meds could take full effect, knowing exactly where I was on that timeline. We were still “friends.” I thought he cared about my recovery. He helped me fall; It followed logic and love to lean on him.
Jax has known all along that his behavior had more power to do damage, precisely because of where I am mentally and emotionally. Further, he knows the layers of family trauma that coat every nerve he’s pounced on.
He knows what he’s doing. My meds might have kicked in by now, if not for constant abuse. He knows I’ve been having panic attacks, and crying for months. He enjoys it.
I just don’t understand.
Four For Four … 444 … 44 … Sturdy and built-to-last, solid, strong … 2×22 … 2222222222222222 … The first angelic hello I heard. “We’ve got you.”
Oh fucking kay.