Towards the end, during arguments, he started to threaten to call his mum and dad to come and get him away from me. He’d frame it like I was the problem. Like I was unstable and dangerous and he needed rescuing from me.
He’d always say it with a smirk. Goading me, testing me, daring me to react. It felt like a trap. If I protested, I proved his point. If I stayed calm, he’d push harder.
It planted a quiet fear in me: What if he really believes I’m the abusive one? What if everyone else believes him too? What if I am the abuser? Little did I know at the time, that is actually what was happening behind my back…
Now, I think: What 40-odd-year-old grown adult would even say they’d call their parents to save them? My head was such mush, that question didn’t even register with me at the time. However, during the court proceedings, I discovered he’d been telling his family for over a year I’d been abusing him. I’ll link to that story when I’ve written it.
Over time, I started monitoring myself even more. I’d watch my tone of voice, my words and my reactions. I became terrified of giving him evidence to use against me.
Near the end, something inside me broke. The threats stopped feeling like manipulation and started feeling like a possible exit. I found myself longing for him to make the call. To ring his parents and let them take him away. I wasn’t afraid of losing him anymore, I was afraid of being trapped with him. The same line he once used to control me had become the only escape I could imagine.
One night when he was goading me, I couldn’t take it anymore. I screamed at him. I begged him.
“CALL YOUR PARENTS. PLEASE. JUST CALL THEM AND GET THEM TO TAKE YOU AWAY FROM ME.”
My chest burned, my throat ached, my hands shook. I was shaking so hard I could barely stand. Tears streamed down my face. I couldn’t breathe properly. My chest felt like someone was crushing it.
I guess I felt like I was supposed to be the scared one, the careful one, the one watching every word, every gesture, every mood, and suddenly I wasn’t. I was raw, desperate and frantic. I wanted him gone more than anything in the world, even if it hurt, even if it felt like I was admitting defeat.
While I broke, screaming for him to call them, and, to be honest, feeling absolutely feral, he smirked. He was suddenly calm and detached. He watched me unravel like I was the performance and my desperation was his entertainment. I knew in that very moment just how deep this had gone. The person who had once threatened me with abandonment had turned me into someone who begged for it.
My legs eventually buckled under me and I’d crumpled to the floor. I was shaking, sobbing and barely able to breathe. Tears, snot, panic, no dignity left and no control. My chest felt like it might cave in from the pressure of it all. As I sobbed on the floor, he stepped over me like I was an inconvenience, laughed, left the room, and then left the house.
That’s when I realised how far my mind had been bent. I should have felt the anger at his control, his manipulation, his cruelty, but it was buried under exhaustion, fear and the absolute terror of knowing I was trapped. I knew right then that I had to get my son and I out.
I touch on that decision in the post: Why wouldn’t you protect your child?
