The Road That Has Risen To Meet Me

The other day, I was snuggled safely in the arms of my beautiful husband while laying on my super comfortable couch in my beautiful home, and we began an episode of Dateline.  Within the first 10 minutes, I was zapped back to a time where love was a mirage and safety was relative. 

You see, I was in an abusive relationship.

Almost 25 years ago, I was dating a boy whom I knew from school.  He was gorgeous with beautiful green eyes and sandy blonde hair.  He was popular in a "bad boy" kind of way who had a million friends and pushed every envelope.  He was the singer in a punk band and had a following of girls who wanted to be next to him.  He was a year older and much more world wise than I.  From the minute we met, we connected.  It wasn't until a year later that we actually fell in love.  We joined lives like only soul-mates could and we started a journey that intensely lasted a few years.

A journey that left not just a scar on my heart, but left an eternally open, bleeding wound. 

With him, everything was intense.  We loved hard and we fought hard.  It started slowly, with him telling me that he loved me so much that he needed to know where I was at every second.  This was before cell phones (imagine that!) and I found myself checking in wherever I was, if I wasn't with him.  He was jealous of anyone that held my attention, which meant that he didn't like my girlfriends (and they didn't like him) and certainly didn't like my guy friends.  Bit by bit, I pulled away from my social circle and found myself in his company all of the time.  Yet, this is where I wanted to be. 

That's the funny thing.....  how much I believed our relationship to be what *I* wanted.

It progressed quickly.  He dropped out of high school, so I found myself ditching school and getting suspended.  My family grew to hate him and I was becoming angry at everyone for not seeing how great our love was.  We partied hard and were very reckless with drugs and our sex life.  We had so much fun together...until the fun ended, and sometimes it didn't just end, but the ugliness would really begin. 

I remember the first time he called me a fucking cunt.
I remember the first time he pushed me.
I remember the first time he pulled my hair.
I remember the first time he burned me.
I remember the first time he punched me.
I remember the first time he left me, and the second, third, and 1,456th.

I remember the first time he cheated on me.
I remember the first time he called my 115lb.  body fat.
I remember the first time he told me I was stupid.
I remember the first time he kissed another girl in front of me.
I remember him telling me how worthless I was.
I remember him stalking me when I wasn't with him showing up at church, school, bowling alley, friends house.
I remember him showing up at a dear friends funeral (whom he hated) and I remember the hateful stare as he watched me cry.

I didn't see anything wrong with the relationship we had, because after each one of those things, we made up....and making up was so much fun.  And, because sometimes I would say hateful things, I felt I was just as much to blame.  He made me feel so special because he chose to be with me and would remind me often that if he wanted to leave, he could. 

I remember the time that he grabbed the wheel as I was driving and we crashed.
I remember getting arrested.
I remember going to court and swearing that he had nothing to do with it.
I remember that my Dad and I had to attend alcohol classes cause I was a minor.
I remember begging my family to like him and my Dad telling me that he never would.
I remember my sister going to his house to fight for my honor.
I remember being ashamed of my family.

I remember stealing money to give him what he wanted.  I remember sacrificing myself for whatever he asked me to do.  I would have sex when he asked for it and leave him alone when he wanted to be without me.  We lasted another year before the big blowup happened.  Another year of trying to be who he wanted me to be when he wanted me to be it.

I remember the day I found out I was pregnant. 
I remember the moment he told me to figure out how to make our baby disappear.
I remember the abortion.
I remember the pain of him thrusting inside me that same day.
I remember the taste of my tears.

I just wanted him to be happy.  I would have done anything in my power to prove my love enough for him to believe me.  I loved him more and more the harder he pushed and louder he yelled.  I tiptoed around him until I knew what mood he was in.  And the more I loved him, the worse it got.  He knew my every move and every thought.  He knew every button to push, everything to say to hurt, or to get me back.  And, I always went back.

I remember the night I fought back.
I remember the ripping of my shirt.
I remember the brutal sex, the biting, the slapping.
I remember the taste of blood while I screamed back.
I remember the sting of his fist and the flash of black.
I remember running away and calling my Dad for help.

I never went back to the relationship.  But, I'm no hero.  He simply moved away.  And even yet, I drove hours to go and visit him.  And although months would go by at a time, I would spend hours on the phone when he called to catch up, often cancelling plans.  I would cringe at his stories of new adventures and new girls and assure him that my adventures and relationships were never close to what we shared.  He would always end the conversation telling me that I will never find someone quite like him....to which I respond, "I never would want to."

I remember thinking of him when I married my first husband.
I remember the excitement in my fast beating heart when he surprisingly found my work number even though I was 2000 miles away.
I remember being back at home and sneaking out to see him...as an adult..
I remember his touch and his promise that we will be together again one day.
I remember his Christmas card, signed only with the name of the baby we never had.

I don't know what's happened since then.  My life has changed and so have I.  I got a divorce which allowed me to spend some time with him again.  It was one of the last nights that I realized how sick to my stomach I was and how much anxiety was bubbling in my belly when I was with him.  He drove me to the mall and bought me a shirt because he said I needed to learn how to dress for success.  He turned quickly to look at something while we were driving and I flinched so hard that my head banged into the window. Yet, I went to dinner with him, in my new shirt and I had sex with him that night even though my head was throbbing.  We talked about our past.  He said we should have had the baby.  He remembers the last fight, but claims it was just as much my fault and reiterated the fact that he was so good to me.  That next morning, I said "goodbye" and I meant it.  Then he grabbed my ass and told me to think about getting a gym membership.

I remember sobbing when I got into the car to leave.
I remember my heart just breaking in the thought of not holding him again.
I remember burning the shirt.
I remember staring at myself in the mirror for a long time at wondering how I lost myself so long ago and wondering who I was meant to be.
I remember wanting to find who I was again.
I remember making a cognitive decision to never talk to him again.

He is married now.  How do I know?  Because I do keep up with him through friends.....and I'm told he asks about me. We live in the same city.  There are still sometimes that I still would love to stop time and just spend one more day with him.  But it is then that I have to remind myself of that sickening feeling.  I am reminded of it by the scars physically on my body and the scars in my mind.   I am reminded of it with a million songs on the radio. I am reminded of it every time I overreact about certain things and I am reminded of it because I have an intense fear of people walking away.  I am reminded of it 25 years later while sitting on the couch watching TV with my husband. 

Truth is, he will never really go away.

Yes, I know that what we had wasn't love.
I know that what he did and what he said wasn't right.
I know that I deserve better.
I know that I forgive him and I know that I've asked for forgiveness.
I know I can't live in the past.

...nor will I get past it. 

This is who I am, these are the scars that I will not hide.