never going back again — an abuse story
For context:
https://bettyglo.medium.com/how-to-spot-a-monster-c8078fea5f1a
A month after I wrote ‘How to spot a monster’, my son died. In shock, I contacted my ex. Friends and family warned me that she would use this event to resume our relationship. I stated solemnly that my son had died, and nothing else could hurt me. I was grief-stricken. And wrong.
She said she was in treatment for narcissism, and apologised for her prior treatment of me. This time around, she said she would remove herself when she was feeling distressed. She had strategies and coping mechanisms. She was a whole new woman. But of course, this was a con. And I was just broken enough to fall for it. When she would start to nastily turn, I would call her out on it, and she would smile like someone who had forgotten her manners. But she continued nonetheless; every one to two weeks, she’d create a false narrative or drama, so she could berate me and keep me awake. She would try and provoke supply, by torturing me and disrupting our lives. Would gaslight me about people she had been with, making up fantastical stories which cemented her belief that she was lusted after by the whole town. Would contact people from my work under false names. Would agree to do things with me, then cancel, so I knew that I wasn’t worthy of her time. Would abuse me, and tell me that I ‘wouldn’t understand’. Would scream and cry and say that life was pointless. Would call and harass me to try and get me to unravel, so she could be satiated. She would then ghost me, ensuring that I worried that she would kill herself, as this was an ongoing feature of our relationship. Especially considering my son had just died of an overdose. Although I wasn’t allowed to talk about my son, because she hadn’t ‘processed’ it.
I was back to crying through the night, and overwhelming confusion. When I was younger, I was someone who was dismissive of domestic violence victims — why don’t they just leave? In the case of narcissistic abuse, victims don’t know their own minds.
She would praise her new ‘therapised’ behaviours, suggesting she was reformed. She’d say ‘I listen to you talk now’, as previously she would walk away if I talked about any of my interests. So I had learned to not have interests. I compartmentalised myself so much and was so fearful, that I became nothing. Beige. Narcissists seek body doubles that will give them supply and support their existence. And that is it. She saw anything that couldn’t be considered ‘salt of the earth’, as pretentious. Her public persona was calculated aloofness, a singleted arm hanging out a ute, and drinkin’ beers. And that is it.
Over our last Summer together, I cleaned her filthy house for hours at a time, filled in for her at her job, weeded her garden, cooked every meal, took my daughter out of the house when my partner was laying in bed saying she didn’t know what the point of life was, and watched the OC. Watching that execrable show was the only time things were pleasant, because all of her needs were met. She’d been fed, tended to, doted on, and all she had to do was not abuse me whilst the show was on. That’s it. Five years, for a couple of seasons of the OC. That was the only nice time. Heartbreaking.
I couldn’t believe I’d fallen again for lies. I couldn’t believe that someone would openly lie about undertaking therapy, to a grieving mother. I couldn’t believe all the injustice and bullshit. I couldn’t believe that people supported this, that I had supported this. I couldn’t believe that I fell for such a liar. And that I came back to her.
One of my greatest regrets is how I positioned my partner as having such a close relationship with my daughter, in order to try and make my partner soften towards me. On my daughter’s 4th birthday, I’d gotten up at 5:30 and decorated the front yard, in preparation for the party. I’d paid for everything, and gotten everything ready. I called my partner at 7 as planned. She yelled at me because I was too excited, and she was hung over. She hung up the phone. I steeled myself into a position of practical jocularity, as I had no idea what the day would now bring. She came over shortly afterwards and I took photos of her holding my daughter, an image of the kindly, ‘bonus Mum’, to show later on Facebook. Within minutes of the photos being taken, my ex declared that my daughter was too ungrateful and rude, and she wouldn’t be coming to the party. She left. She came back four hours later. She’s in all the photos, seen as the biggest help in the world. My daughter’s 5th birthday was the same — my partner would cause massive distress beforehand, and then swoop in. It’s all incredibly calculated, the intermittent reinforcement. I took photos of them together, photos I had posed, to try and endear the family narrative to her.
My daughter stopped wetting the bed once we left my partner. At five years old, and with ADHD and ASD, she knew to be silent in the mornings because we didn’t want to face the wrath of my partner. My daughter would say she loved my partner, and I was working my arse off to protect and uphold that opinion. I spent thousands of dollars, retreating to motels in other towns when my partner started to turn. We had to wait it out, once she was through the ‘You’ll end up alone’ stage. She was never genuinely repentant, but I knew it was safe when she’d text ‘I’m down and out’. Only then could we return, with me as her caregiver.
No one ever, works harder than a Mum trying to protect her child from witnessing domestic violence. I never considered that I was making my daughter love my partner, in order to protect us both.
After the last break-up, my daughter said she didn’t want to see my ex anymore, because she didn’t want to spend time with someone who ‘hurts my Mum’. My ex called and blamed me, and said that she ‘loved that little girl’. And that she was despondent and thought about her every day. That she and my daughter loved each other, and it was like another time when I ‘hadn’t let her see her’. This was a lie. Even after I knew everything, I was still too frightened to say no to my ex. I had offered to clean her house so my daughter could go there. I had offered various opportunities to see her, so she would not disrupt our lives further. She refused. She now wanted a schedule. And part of me wanted to acquiesce, because I hate being seen as the bad guy. I hate the falseness of it. I hate that her flying monkeys believe it. I hate the potential threats to my safety, and being implicated in her potential suicide attempts. But I told her that she was a DV perpetrator, and that ‘loving’ someone means you don’t lie, gaslight, abuse and torture their mother in front of them. That is not love. Love is care. Love is seeing someone and embracing who they are, and the gloriousness of everything in them. Not trying to reduce them into nothing, so you can reject them for being lesser. Love, isn’t using a child to harm a mother further. Love, isn’t using a child as a prop, to ensure that a small town doesn’t think you’re a failure, or worse, a domestic violence perpetrator. Love, isn’t moving from single mum to single mum, knowing that the affection a child has for you, is going to be a significant reason that a woman will put up with abuse.
I have recurring nightmares, about being caught by a spider who is spinning and spinning me, until I can no longer talk. I wake up frightened, and remember it is real.
