it was always a roller coaster
turbulent and gut wrenching
highs and lows
Always a state of ready.
ready for the dark to come home.
ready for the criticism,
ready for the down,
ready for the accusations,
ready for the threats,
ready for the blame.
Of course I detached.
And the farther I got - the darker He
became.
while THINGS got smashed, punched, crushed -
love and trust were destroyed. Softer parts of Me
learned to flinch
(love should never make you flinch in fear)
and quickly built walls of defense.
quietly making promises to my little voice…
if he threatens me once more...
if he punches the wall once more...
if he hurts me…
if he hurts me…
if he hurts me…
No. I wanted to make this pretty, but I just can't.
I wanted to make a beautiful poem of waking and finding my way back - but I can't yet. Its all a ****** dark mess of anger and shame. Seeking some sort of forgiveness, forgiveness from who?
I won't ever ******* go back, do you understand that? Can any words even come close to expressing the depth of that pit I was in? I don't miss it. I don't secretly need it. I still don't know how I got into or out of it.
Yes, he ******* hurt me. OF COURSE I DETACHED. HE tried to ******* destroy me. Intentionally or not - He tried to destroy me - this one life I have. All that I AM. Me, Devon. For every drop I offered, he took a gallon. Yes he ******* hurt me. Your precious son, brother, father, friend. Smashed ****, in front of our child, punched holes into EVERY ******* DOOR in that house, pulled the emergency brake on the freeway at 80 mph with our daughter in the car, and then called me abusive when I slapped him on the shoulder hysterically for it. He kicked and threatened to **** my dog, shoved me and slammed me into walls. Night, after night, after night - denied sleep because I didn't want to **** him and if he couldn't sleep then why the **** should I? But how could I want someone I loathed, inside of me? Constantly accused of ******* someone else and told that I was as lesbian for not wanting him. **** him. **** him. **** him.
Worse - I am the one ASHAMED of myself. Ashamed that I could not fix it, that I could not give him what he wanted. Ashamed that it took me so long. Ashamed that I am no longer capable of compassion for an obviously sick man that I think (I think but can't recall now) I loved once. Ashamed that I ignored my own little voice. Ashamed that my daughter has seen so much weakness in her mother and so little of what love should be.
Now I am vilified for lack of compassion - for "giving up" as they say.
For Hurting Him. Because I. Hurt. Him.
And that, is not a pretty feeling.
It's ******* ******* - hissing, high pressure, rocking-back-ready-to-blow, ******* feeling. Scribbled and incoherent, shredded paper & canvas, ****** knuckles, red-faced, spit-flying feeling.
No. It is not pretty.
