Beginning to Heal

In 2020, I ended my 8 years long physically and emotionally abusive marriage. We didn’t have children together, and I ensured that he would never have contact with my children from a previous relationship in court. I thought that after I cut off all contact, sold the house, disappeared so he wouldn’t be able to find me — it would be over. But it’s not. Instead, his voice persists in my head.

I am not ready to spill the crazy to friends and family. To be honest, basically only one person knows about an iota of the abuse at all — my current boyfriend.

I am starting this journal to spill out what is in my head, and to begin to heal.

Today, my daughter B dropped my pink dog shaped cookie jar. It shattered into a million pieces on the floor as I was cooking dinner. I calmly swept it up, assured her it was an accident and I wasn’t mad (I really loved that jar), and continued dinner. That’s the normal part.

In my head I was spiraling. This type of mundane event, that truly was an accident, would cue frustration in my ex. If I made a careless mistake like this he would stomp and yell, accuse me of doing it on purpose, call me names etc. If the kids had done it, he would act frustrated (slam cupboard doors, stomp) and I’d shoo the kids out, assure them it was an accident and then deal with his anger. He’d get mad that I didn’t punish the kids, over an accident.

I remember once, my son C spilled too much parmesan cheese on his spaghetti. “It’s just cheese” I said stupidly as he rolled his eyes and snorted at the wasted cheese. This was close to the end of our relationship. What used to be abusive to just me was being spilled over to the kids now too. Accidents were on purpose and every body was on egg shells.

What set off the end was when B had an accident and hurt her wrist. I was worried about it and wanted to take her for an Xray. He accused her of faking it for attention and yelled at me for not respecting his opinion about her wrist. He then pushed me, in front of my kids, into a sliding glass door.

That’s the day we left.

I don’t know why I endured the abuse for so many years, but I wouldn’t let my kids deal with that crap.

But that feeling of dread is still there, even as I clean up my pink cookie jar, in my own house, with my own broom, as I live in my own life. Sometimes that dread is too loud and busy; but today was another victory — I lived a Normal life, where accidents are just accidents.