Good morning, loyal reader. I feel I should warn you, this is a hard blog to write, and it may be hard to read.

Two years ago, I was informed by my former husband that we would be getting a divorce. It was not a mutual, caring discussion. It was not said with kindness or compassion for the years we were together. It was basically, as were all things, a command.

I cried myself to sleep that night, alone in my bed, and so many nights after. Because I was in love, still in love after everything, and my heart was broken. It was also the day I finished all my master’s classes, and a week before my graduation, and two days before my birthday. For someone who didn’t care about significant dates, the former husband sure had impeccable timing.

Maybe it was the ending of my masters program that finally cracked him. Maybe the woman I had become, was becoming, scared the hell out of him. He couldn’t control me the way he did when I was sick. He had been cheating on me for about 9 months, with that particular girl. He knew that I suspected something was going wrong, and he didn’t have a leg to stand on.

That was the spring of 2019. Over the Christmas break of 2018, he had assaulted a family member during our visit to Montana for the holiday. I’ve never written about this, because it’s not my story to tell, and I didn’t break it off immediately, and I was so deeply, deeply ashamed. How could I have let this go on?

That’s my brain talking. My brain, soaked in societal expectations of the abused. Why did I LET this happen? Why was I still around at all? It pains me to say I still doubt myself sometimes. I still wonder what memories will resurface and take me down the path of self hate. I still have nightmares, so often, so potent in their horror.

He wasn’t just emotionally abuse. I’ve kept this to myself, but I can’t anymore. It was sexual abuse, too.

Don’t try to find him, loyal reader. Don’t attack him, don’t kill him, let karma and the universe do their jobs.

I don’t feel as if going into detail will help anyone. Suffice to say the last time we were together physically, it was deeply unpleasant, as it had been so often before. I protested, for once, and he stormed off in a rage. It was a terrible, terrible experience. I tried to make up, because that was what I had been trained to do. I tried talking him down. Funny, how we discuss the aftermath of abuse, we never bring up those times we tried so hard to make it work. Despite the horrible things they would say, and the gruesome things they would do to our bodies at the most vulnerable moments of supposed intimacy, we tried to make it work. No one mentions that part, because it hurts to admit that we tried so hard to fix someone that was hurting us. It hurts to realize how brainwashed we could be.

He was unmoved. He was not the man I married. He had gone somewhere dark and evil that I cannot fathom and won’t try to do. Later on, late May, when he was with his girlfriend in Portland, I gathered the courage to send him my divorce lawyer’s contact information. He told me to call him immediately. I texted him the info again. He replied,

“you can choose to call me now, or I’ll contact my lawyer tomorrow. this won’t be a temporary thing. I’m saddened by your choice here, and will abide…permission to access the house can only be given through my legal representation. from the time you leave, until the end of this.”

I had already packed, and I called my dear mom that night to bring Cormac and Dante to my new apartment, set up and ready to go. I told my shitty roommate (we could go into detail about her compliance with the abuse, but why bother? she’s a shitty roommate) that I was headed to my mom’s house to stay the night. I left Moro. I wish she was able to understand. I took my things and pets and I left.

The former husband and I never talked again. The divorce went poorly, because he made minimal money on paper (he just used daddy’s credit card for his booze and things he wanted, but that doesn’t show up as an asset), although he took on half of my medical bills, which were pretty small, and he took on half my debt to the government, for the SSDI he had collected as my payee when I was sick. I never saw a dime from him, I never mentioned abuse in the divorce. I never spoke to his parents again either, which is a blessing, since they had been told lies upon lies about the way things went down. I was cut off from anything resembling true compensation/reparations for what he did to me. Because I didn’t tell them everything. I didn’t have the mental vocabulary to describe or understand what was so wrong. I didn’t know how bad it had been. I thought that was just the way things had to be. With him, they did have to be that way, I suppose. To love something like that means you get fucked, literally and so on, and afterward you feel seemingly endless regret.

So now, loyal reader, you get to make a choice. You can decide if you believe me or not. You can ask me for the gory details if you need to hear them to understand, it’s a bit tacky to need details, but sure. You can also turn a blind eye, because I can’t force you to acknowledge what he did to me. It’s truly your call. I will be ok, either way. We may end our friendship, but I don’t wish you ill. I’ll just be sad for you. Because allowing a person in your life like him is detrimental and dangerous to everyone you know. Especially the women. Especially them.

Forgive me if this post isn’t the joyous celebration of my freedom that I’d like it to be. Give me time to move forward, even with so much holding me back. Let me heal.

I hope some of you that are struggling see this and know that it’s NOT OK to be treated the way I was by him. It’s not your fault, and it’s not ok. I’m working with my therapist, and my doctor (for medication management including a med that makes nightmares less traumatic) and I talk with my family and friends. Please take care of yourself, and please forgive yourself. Resources below. Thank you for reading. It can’t be an easy thing to hear…But it needs to be known.

https://www.raperecoverycenter.org/if-you-have-been-assaulted