1in4 Forum: I want to share my story - because I went back...

I remember it clearly... standing, naked, in the bathtub at my mother's place.. we were both crying, and she was washing my wounds with peroxide. My cat had scratched and slashed up my arms and chest pretty badly. Why is this relevant?? Well.. I was leaving. I had been away at an in-house PTSD course, and I'd come back to the apartment to get my things and my cat.

My ex-partner and I had already had a messy show-down. We were fighting (as usual) over something ridiculous and it escalated to the point where he strangled me to the floor (not usual). I kneed him in the balls to get him off me, and he considers this even -- he hit me, I hit him; no harm, no foul. I did not agree (do you?). I was conveniently already scheduled to go to this 6 week program and was able to pack my things and go.

While in therapy groups, I was able to realize some of my own strength, and I decided that it was time to move out from the abusive situation.

When I finally went to retrieve my things, he was there and we had another fight. He was threatening to kill my cat. He was chasing it around the apartment and up-ended the bed to get at the hiding animal. My cat is NOT declawed, and once I had him in my arms, I held onto him for dear life as I attempted to leave the apartment around a screaming, wildly gesticulating man. The cat had other plans -- he wanted to run away from all the craziness and back into the safety of the home he had known for the past year. But I held firm, regardless of the way his digging nails were shredding my unprotected skin.

I drove 40 minutes to my mom's place in the next town over, bloody, crying and snotty.. with a laundry basket of my dirty clothes and my cat, curled up behind the back seat, on the floor, quiet as can be, lest he draw any attention to himself!

And there we get to the first mentioned scene -- my mother, myself and the peroxide.

I remember the feelings. I remember the shame and the guilt ... but not the anger. The anger didn't come until many years later. At the time, I felt like I'd let my mother down -- how could I do this to her little girl? I felt like I'd made a terrible mistake by choosing this man and by letting it get this far.
I was still enrolled in the PTSD course, and when I left from there, I found myself an apartment in that town, a different one from where my abuser was, and sadly found a roommate from the wrong pool of people. I didn't know anyone in that town; I was entirely isolated. I chose a guy I had met through the Rehabilitation Centre where I had been doing my PTSD course. He was anything but stable, but I wanted to see the best in him and there was no way either of us could afford a place on our own. Suffice it to say -- it did not turn out well.

And what was I to do at this point? My mother was newly re-married and I didn't want to impose on her. My abuser had spent the past two years systematically dismantalling all my support networks. I had no local friends and no one to turn to in my time of need.

My new roommate was destroying the apartment and bringing in drugs, along with the people who sold them to him, and stealing my belongings (hocking them in order to purchase his drugs). I moved everything I owned into my small bedroom and put a dead-bolt on the door. I felt like I was living in a storage unit.

And there was my abuser ... he was reaching out to me. Asking if I was alright. Offering support, kindness... here was a man I had loved for 2 years, trying to save me from my incredibly messed up situation. He was all I had. He was the only one trying to be there for me. In my confusion, I didn't think about the fact that this was what he had created. I didn't realize that it was exactly how he had orchestrated it from the beginning. If he got rid of everyone else in my life, so I had no one but him, then I couldn't leave him, I would need to rely on him.

So I went back.

I was still paying rent for my apartment in the next town over. And I still had to go and feed my cat every few days, but I was spending most of my time crashing at my abuser's place... or rather, he had moved into his mother's basement because he couldn't afford the apartment we had shared once I'd moved out.

He didn't hit me. He threw a glass of cold water in my face when I pissed him off. Was this the same as hitting me? I wasn't entirely sure. I didn't know where the line was drawn. I didn't know much of anything at this point. We were intimate. I don't think he would have let me stay over if we hadn't been. I felt awkward and withdrawn and did not experience any pleasure, but simply went through the motions because I had nowhere else to turn.

The best moment of my life happened during this crazy tumultuous time. I got pregnant. My daughter is my saving grace. She has propelled me towards an entirely different standard of life. Maybe I wasn't strong enough to stand up to his abuse for myself. But the moment I knew there was going to be a child involved, I found that strength. He once nearly pushed me down a flight of stairs while I was pregnant -- I was trying to come up and get involved in some silly argument that was going on between himself and his sister, he said "this doesn't concern you, go back downstairs" and pushed me through the doorway. Being unsteady on my pregnant feet, with a strange center of gravity, had it not been for a desperate grasp at the doorframe, hooking my arm against the wall, I am certain I would have gone ass-over-tea-kettle to the bottom of the stairs.

That was it for me. That was the day I moved out. I packed my car with what I could get, and I drove away. He called me 50 or more times over the next half hour. He was crying and begging and threatening to kill himself if I left with his unborn child. He loved me, he needed me, he wanted us to be a family. I told him the threats were text-book abuse. I told him he'd been abusing me all along and that I wasn't going to take it. These words were much easier over the phone, out of arms reach, and with his tears the recipient, rather than his blind rage.

I went to my mothers. She took me in with open arms. She would have the first time around, if I'd only asked. But fate has a funny way of doing things -- I needed to go back so that my beautiful, amazing, smart and funny little girl could be born. I needed to go back to realize I had the strength to leave.

I sent my abuser an email with a list of requirements for him to meet if he wanted to be a part of my life. They included things like, getting a therapist to deal with his anger issues and if he got a diagnosis, to follow the medication routine. The list stated that I would not meet with him anywhere in person unless it was a public place. There were a couple other demands, but he met them. We got together a couple times about 6 months later, and he seemed to be following the requests to the letter. He was there for the birth of our daughter -- I know I couldn't have gotten through that morning without him. We tried, because of her, to work things out for the next 8 months. We went to couple's counselling. I remember two things very clearly from those sessions. The first was when the therapist said "You know, the things Cass is asking for are not out of line. They are what a healthy relationship requires to work." The other was when he indicated that he didn't see the things he was doing were wrong and he didn't see any reason to change. I knew then that it was never going to work. We weren't living together, so it was easier to hold on until after Christmas -- it was our daughter's first Christmas and I didn't want to ruin it for everyone involved. But that was it. By New Years we were no longer together, and this was the final break.

We are still tied; forever connected by the bond of our little girl -- and by the court-ordered visitations! But we've come, finally, over the last 8 years, to a fairly amicable place. I am one of the lucky ones. I know that if I really need to, I can ask him to switch weekends (like this weekend, when my sister is coming from out of province to visit and it would have been his weekend) ... but I don't rely on him for other things. He loves his little girl. He has moved on from me -- has been with another woman and her kids for nearly 5 years now. I am happy for him and I am glad that my daughter fits in so well with their family when she is there on his weekends.

I have never forgotten our mixed-up past. But it gets duller with time. And I am stronger now for the experience. I would never have planned it this way, but life unfolds in mysterious ways. And this is just a bit of my story.