What a collection of scars you have...

…never forget who gave you the best of them.

Hannibal Lecter said that, followed by an explanation that our scars have the power to remind us that the past is real. Pretty insightful for a cannibal, but I have to say, I don’t want any reminders right now.

Not now, not ever.

(Talk of abuse coming up - nothing terribly explicit, mostly emotional in nature, but if that’s likely to upset you, I would skip this post.)

I saw an article online that mentioned, sort of casually, that people with unfaithful spouses often suffer similar effects to those who are survivors of domestic abuse. I believe it. It’s strange, because leading up to this, I was fighting off a sickening feeling that I’d been here before. Not here, exactly, because I’ve never been cheated on. James was my first. My only. Nobody else was ever interested in me, before he came along.

But I’d felt like this before. Somewhere. Where? When? Keeping secrets, unable to express my feelings. Crying alone. Becoming further and further withdrawn, isolated. 

I hadn’t felt that way in years.

Not since James came and rescued me from my childhood home.

I was nineteen when we met. Not living at home anymore, but at the same time, my mother’s shadow loomed large. I was living at school, but not far from her. Not far enough.

James was my escape. I kept him a secret from my parents for as long as I could, because I knew that it wouldn’t be received well. I was terrified. My parents were my sole financial support, and I didn’t know a life without them.

After my mom found out, I remember her telling me: “It’s a good thing Grandma’s dead, because what you’re doing right now would kill her.”

An expert at emotional blackmail, my mother.

I still don’t really know what’s wrong with her. I’ve tried to armchair-psychologist her many times, just for my own edification, but the reality is that I don’t know. I can only guess. I remember the screaming, the name-calling, the accusations. How many times did she tell me that she wished I was dead? Once, she got very specific, saying that I should become a suicide bomber with Al-qaeda. To my mother, a devout Christian, that not only meant me dying - but also burning in hell, for eternity.

That was what she wished on me.

From time to time, it got physical, but that’s not where the real damage was done. I became the person that I am today because, as a child, I never felt safe. I never knew which mother I was waking up to every morning. The one who loved me, or the one who hated me? 

There was no emotional safety. The place that was supposed to be my ultimate refuge was a minefield. And I hadn’t felt that in years.

Until now.

The home life that James created for us, that Delilah helped him create, made me feel betrayed and unsafe like I hadn’t since I was a kid. I can’t even begin to express how devastating that is. 

He was supposed to be my escape.

One of the things I screamed at him in the moment of confrontation: “my parents were right about you.”

I hope I’m wrong. I hope they’re wrong. I need them to be.

I need to feel safe again.

Note: Since writing this, we have been to therapy together and things have improved. I will write more about that later, but I still wanted to get this out.