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a written letter to m, in the early summer of 2008

m,

you were my temporary insanity.

i have come to terms with the fact that i met you for a reason, and i’ve stopped agonizing over what my life would be like had i never spoken to you in the first place. i’ve decided to stop living with regrets- to stop beating myself up over the things i could have done differently. i am impulsive, and you know better than anyone that i wear my heart on my sleeve. this is something i’ve had to deal with all my life (especially with you), and the consequences weren’t always good, and they were never easy, but i’m still learning. i’m growing into myself and although i may be burning bridges, hurting myself, or fucking up horribly along the way- that’s okay.

i will always resent you and the things you’ve done. but a small part of me is glad i did everything the way i have. you & our relationship were a lesson on life, love, growth, pain, and utter desperation. sometimes it was perfect, and other times it hurt like hell- but at least what we had was passionate.

you were a very difficult person to love.

i was so afraid to move on and separate myself from the only things i knew. i couldn’t accept nostalgia, or the look on your face when i’d walk right past you: a ghost; a shadow. i had people tugging at me from every which way- pushing, pulling. but not now, things have changed. i will look forward to new lovers, future endeavours. i will soar greatly, and fail miserably. i will be in and out of trouble. i will open myself up to greater possibilities, compatible people, love. i will learn to accept myself in all of my imperfection; in my successes, in my downfalls.

a man once told me “to hate takes as much effort as it does to love… let go, be indifferent, otherwise you will always be bound to him”, and i never quite understood what he meant by that, until now. you will be nothing more than a stranger on the street, a face in the crowd, a discarded memory.

thank you, and good riddance.

- e

when the darkness sets in

a few years ago i lost a baby.

not physically, per say. i wasn’t walking around a super market with my child when, WHOOPS! i totally lost them in the dairy aisle when i was busy comparing yogurt prices.

i was eighteen years old when i peed on a pregnancy test for the first time. and considering the unprotected sex i’d been having since i was young- too young… it was a miracle i hadn’t had to even experience that before then. i was actually running around my apartment, waiting for my hair straightener to get hot and for friends to show up. m had been gone for a month at least- what seemed like an eternity then. i hadn’t heard much from him actually- save for the two page love note he wrote me on a bus on his way to halifax, a note he scribbled in the middle of the night to tell me about everything… the things he’d seen, the fun he’d been having, the agony in his heart since leaving me. he couldn’t spell for shit, but i always knew he was a poetic writer- he sucked me back in the way he did when we first met.  

i’d been spending my twelve hour shifts at the smoothie bar, hunched over empty buckets of fruit, trying to hold down the little food i may have had in my stomach. i had spent so many weeks drinking to forget that i didn’t have any real idea as to how long he’d been gone, or what my cycle was even like at that point. all i knew was that he was gone, and i was sad, and this was how i dealt with things: by not dealing with them at all.

so i peed on that little pink stick, put the lid back on, and threw it on the bathroom counter. i tried to busy myself with other things- making sure the living room was tidy, or that the liquor was in the freezer.

there’s always those scenes in movies, where the room starts to spin and the narrator says things like “in one instant, i saw my entire life flash before my eyes” – that’s a real thing. that really does happen. and there must have been a moment where i blacked out because one minute i was sitting on the toilet looking at this pregnancy test, and the next i was on my stomach, hands flat on the cold tile floor, sobbing uncontrollably.

and if there is anyone in the world who knows me at all- they know how badly i want kids. how badly i want to be a mother- how i would drop this lifestyle in a heartbeat if it meant i could mother, and nurture, and love like that. i get dizzy when i think of a parents’ love for their kids- the courage and strength and determination. the unconditional drive to want and need to be better- so you can raise this little tiny human being and not fuck it up.

such pressure.

i guess that’s where the anger and resentment come from- i knew he’d fuck it up. the way his father fucked him up, the way he saw countless men fuck his mother up, and so on. the way the abuse in his life destroyed him and deteriorated him as a human being so hard, that he became that nightmare himself.

i must’ve been sixteen when we were sitting on a city bus, heading downtown. he looked me right in the eye and said “if you ever cheated on me, i’d leave you. i’d kill him, and i’d leave you”. my naive little brain then was so in love with that- the idea that he loved me so much that he could never possibly move past the idea of me being with someone else- that he would destroy anyone who had me, if it wasn’t him.

how heroic, i thought.

how brave.

how fucking cowardly.

i don’t think the shock ever really set in, after looking at the test. i slept with it next to my bed, waking up in the middle of the night to check to see if both lines were still there. i was so, so scared then. not for me- not once for me. i wasn’t scared about my financial, emotional, or physical state. i didn’t care that i had been on a drinking binge since god knows when- i didn’t care that my bullshit smoothie job could barely put food in my own stomach- i didn’t even care that my baby’s father wasn’t even around when i peed on that stick because he was too busy snorting blow off some dirty table in someone’s basement in a foreign city- that he was half way across the country when my world had stopped spinning on its axis. these were all concerns, of course… but what i was most scared of, was that my baby would have to grow up and know what it felt like to love m.

i knew what it felt like then, and i still know now. the shellshock of loving him still haunts me today. certain sounds, certain smells… places, songs, faces. anger and resentment i couldn’t shake from me if i even tried. the fear that makes my own bones vibrate inside of me if i know i’m in a part of the city he may be in. if i ever made someone else feel that way- what kind of person would that make me? how could i make my child live that kind of crippling fear on a daily basis? how would i explain to my baby, that papa just had his fists wrapped tightly around mama’s neck because he was angry- because the drugs had worn off and i’d said the wrong thing again, and this time he wasn’t going to show any mercy. this time, i was going to have to use every ounce of strength i had left inside of me, because papa wasn’t letting go- papa burried his thumbs deep into my throat until everything went back.

she would have barely been two, then.

i didn’t have it in me.

m‘s dreams of travelling crumbled at his feet immediately. two days after i’d made the appointment, he called me from his mother’s house. “hey, honey bee” – his voice awkwardly resonated on the other end of the line, and i was paralyzed. there was a moment of silence, of shock, of complete disbelief. he immediately asked me what was wrong- something triggered in him, halfway across the country, telling him to come home to me… for reasons he couldn’t explain. all he knew was that i was hurting, and he needed to be by my side.

life is funny like that- connecting you to people you want so badly to separate yourself from.

all i know is this: i didn’t walk into that old cement building. that young little thing, with sweatpants on, and a tear-streaked face… that girl who had enough strength in her to walk into that clinic, fill out that paperwork, and go into that room… that was not me. there was a force inside of me, making me do this awful, gut-wrenching thing. i remember that day so clearly, it makes me sick. it’s like i’m floating and i can see myself going through the motions, and i keep yelling, “STOP!”, “GET OUT!”, “RUN!”.

.. but i can’t, and i won’t, and i didn’t.

my shaking fingers slipped that sedative under my tongue, and i waited. a young woman brought me to a dark room with curtains everywhere. it was sterile, and cold, and i fucking hated that room more than anything i had ever hated in my goddamn life. i remember not hearing much, then… i was sobbing so uncontrollably, my ears were ringing. the technician gently lifted my gown, and told me i had pretty tattoos on my hip bones.

it hit me then, like a ton of bricks. this woman was looking at a tiny little screen, looking at my baby, this distorted black & white  image of my own flesh and blood. i caught my breath, if only for a moment, and demanded -“show me”. i must have caught her off-guard because she looked horrified.

“show you?”

“my baby, let me see”

“i’m so sorry… it’s against regulations”

“turn your screen and let me see my fucking baby”

she hesitated for a moment, looked around quickly and turned the screen to face me. i don’t know what i was expecting to see- some beautiful image of a pale-skinned, coffee bean-haired, black-eyed little girl bouncing around in clear, fresh, blue water. a perfect mix of her father’s best features and mine: a vision i’d had in my silly little head since i was sixteen years old. he was a handsome man, that fucking asshole. lips pink like cotton candy, and a smirk that still makes my heart drop to the tip of my toes.

what i saw was so, so much more, somehow. this little black & white bean floating in the pit of my body. my own little creation- perfect in its entirety. i’ve never experienced anything more painful than seeing that.

the drugs must’ve kicked in then because i don’t remember getting back to my chair. a nurse peeked her head into the hallway and called my name. i looked her dead in the eye, walked up to her, and collapsed in her arms.

“i don’t want to do this”, i whispered.

i don’t think she had experienced a patient like me, then- a young spitfire so determined to do the right thing, the only thing i’d ever done in my life that felt selfless. she caught me mid-fall, held me against her- the way a mother would, and apologized, endlessly. she lead me to a room of metal and latex. a room so devastatingly cold. she helped me out of my little black underwear, lifted me onto the table, and held my hand- i cried, and cried, and so did she. we looked at each other knowingly, and she didn’t leave my side once. i don’t remember her face- all i remember is the sincerity in her eyes and her heartbeat pumping against mine between my fingers.

the extra drugs i’d taken, and the gas i’d demanded before the procedure kicked in just as it was ending- i don’t remember much then, but my nurse helped me back into my underwear, and more or less carried me into recovery. she left me with a “care package”, stayed with me awhile, and left. it was the last i’d seen her.

i’m still angry.

i’m angry with myself for taking that route, angry with myself for being angry with myself. it’s a pain i don’t think i’ll ever be free of. i haven’t cut myself a break about this since the day it happened.

people joke about it sometimes- the thought of me putting down the beer bottle, to pick up a baby bottle. i get it- it’s funny, i’ve fucked up so hard for so many years… but truthfully? it stings. it pierces through the only good pieces left of my heart because i know if there was one thing i could do in this fucking world, and not fuck it up beyond repair, it’s motherhood. i want to do it, and i will, and i will be the fucking valedictorian of it because i am so, so meant to be someone mama- a feeling so fierce i can’t shake it.  

a feeling so fierce i won’t shake it.

some girls do

you’re so my everyday
you’re so my sweetest love
you’re so the greatest change
i’m always dreaming of
you’re like my compass and
we always find our way
you bring your smile and
wipe away my shitty day

– ubiquitous synergy seeker

i don’t have an impressive book collection.

maybe ten, fifteen books. granted, i’m really picky with my reading material, but if i’ve bought it, i’ve probabably read it a good five times, at least. you see, i really connect with my books. they make me laugh out loud, or cry for hours. the book’s gotta be fucked up, or weird, or something i can relate to in some way.

i haven’t picked up a book since i was seventeen. can you believe that? how awful and sad.

i used to stay up all night waiting for m to come home… we didn’t have cable at the time, and the living room was haunted so i just sat in bed, reading stories about broken people and their subhuman tendancies… waiting for my abusive addict of a boyfriend to come home and ruin me. i couldn’t connect with anyone i knew, considering they had no idea what kind of life i was living, so i just drowned myself in these books about these independant, fucked up girls who did blow or sucked dick for money. about hippie girls, living with their mohawk-ed boyfriends on the beach, driving convertibles, and having babies with offbeat names like witch-baby.

i picked up one of my favourite books last night and ran myself a bubble bath. i read until the water became too hot and i couldn’t find a comfortable position to lay in. so i got out, dried off, changed into a ratty tshirt and my most comfortable sweater, and kept reading in bed. dan called to let me know he was coming home, and i just wanted to burst into tears.

are you sad?
yeah…
why?
i don’t know…

i just wanted him to come home and hold me and let me breathe him in. he’s not really one to cuddle if we’re not sleeping, or lay there doing nothing… but he let’s me when he knows i’m being crazy.

which is pretty often, actually.

by the time he got home i’d already been asleep a few hours, so he just kissed my head and turned off the lights. i woke up at one in the morning, walked to the mancave and pouted.

what’s wrong?
i wanted to cuddle all night but i fell asleep.
well come here!

we were each wrapped in big blankets, sitting in our lawn chairs, watching the encore of jersey shore. we kissed a bunch of times and i went to bed. i woke up to him pulling my arm over onto his stomach so we could be a little closer. i barely slept all night, but any time i woke up, we’d be completely wrapped around one another, and i just kept thinking about how much i love him.

i have this feeling our lives aren’t going to pan out exactly how we want them to, and anytime i’ve had that feeling before it used to freak me out. i would panic and wonder how the hell i’d make anything work- i’m so young, i’m so poor, i’m so fucking broken.

but i’m not anymore. my life makes sense, actually… and the idea of the unknown and unexpected isn’t really freaking me out. i’m calm, even. eerily calm. i just feel like i’m lucky enough to be with someone i share a love so raw with. the love we have for each other, and the life we live together is anything but conventional, but it’s perfect for us, and we make it work. granted, we work really hard together to make it work, but at least it does.

so last night, i was reading my usual fucked up book, listening to my brother’s wedding song on repeat, and just kept reminding myself that my life is NOTHING like it used to be…

“(…)and trembles on the edge of a breakdown. her body is used to hangovers and it only takes a few minutes for the sugar to hit. then she washes the smell of everyone’s cigarettes out of her hair”

“she still loved him a bit, and it was a pretty horrible feeling”

“she made him think of the beautiful girls from high school who drew intricate artwork on the covers of textbooks and dated bikers on the weekend. girls who looked like they were born bored.”

“sometimes it’s good to look at something beautiful, and think of the ways it will be destroyed”

“he had depth when everything else in her life was surface”

“i don’t know what to say, but i promise i won’t tell anyone you cried”

“it was hard to believe the sweetness hadn’t gotten beaten out of her, all things considered”

“she was amazed that two people could feel so alive right there in the heart of the city”

…and am i ever fucking glad for that.

shrapnel

February 27, 2009 at 5:37pm

hey m,

today i swam with sharks! real live ones! and it was amazing. i got to go snorkeling, and the ocean is beautiful. everything is so slow paced- everyone drives motorcycles or mopeds, and no one gives a fuck. they feed us booze for beakfast, lunch, and dinner! it rules! our room is amazing- i wake up and have a perfect view of the ocean. it smells of spices everywhere i go. today i went on a cruise and drank rum in the ocean. we got to dance to bob marley and it was perfect.

everything here reminds me of you.

elle
xoxo

i was going through old emails and stumbled across this one- the only email i have between me and m in four years of bullshit. i left in the winter of 2008: the first time his drug-fueled rage took everything over the edge and he became physically violent. i say violent because that’s the only way i remember it… so awfully painful. so terribly angry. we briefly reconnected that summer, but there was no trust and the stress of forcing myself to care about him became too much. we parted ways again, only to reconnect in the winter of 2009- two days before i left for my very first trip, to the dominican republic. he came back into my life as quick as he always left. while i should have been enjoying my first vacation in the sun, surrounded by people who loved me… i spent the whole time stressing over whether or not i wanted to go there with him again. it’s weird- how simple emails can remind me so vividly of exactly how i felt back then. so broken, so hopeful, so fucking vulnerable. i haven’t gone back any further to see if there were more from him…

when i got back from my vacation at two in the morning, i had barely dropped my suitcases on the floor before we were on the phone together. i spent days with him in bed talking, as he cried and cried. we both did. i don’t ever want to feel that kind of sadness again. i don’t ever want to be put into a position where i know i have to leave someone i love. it took me three years to walk away forever… what the hell does that say about my strength? fucking nothing.

this april will mark the two year anniversary of our final separation. it will mark the two year anniversary of the day i woke up, walked to his work, ordered him into a back booth, and ripped him apart. the two year anniversary of the day i called him a monster to his face, told him to eat shit and die, and that if he EVER attempted to contact me again, i’d call the police. it marks the two year anniversary of my sobriety- sober from his sickness, sober from mine.

two years of freedom.

in some ways it feels like such an accomplishment, such an insurmountable feat. in other ways it all still seems so devastating, so tragic. half the time it doesn’t feel like my own story. i have this awful way of remembering him before the drugs, before the partying, before the anger and abuse. he was so young, so pure, so innocent, i thought. i know now that i was blinded by youth, by young love, by the haze of a world i was spiraling into so easily. i was conned, and he knew just what he was doing from the very beginning- and that’s the scariest part. i see now, how calculated our love was. how conditionnal. how ugly. how sad.

so very, very sad.

in any case, he’s gone now. lost somewhere in the muddle of this city. shamefully hiding from everything- all the bridges he’s burned, people he’s fucked, friendships he’s destroyed. i’m okay with that, too. i’m okay with him being here because i know he’s so unwelcome.

i’m not even concerned about how awful and alone he must feel… and after two years of running, of hiding, of living in fear… i’m no longer concerned about what kind of person that makes me.

we’ve seen the sun rise with new eyes

i sat with my friend discussing her latest relationship qualms and her ultimate decision to finally leave him. she cried about it, for the first time, and her pain was so raw, so real. i saw a part of me in her, and it absolutely broke me. she wanted so badly to be angry, to find reasons to be mad at him, but all she had left anymore was sadness. the pain of leaving someone you want so badly to love- someone you want so badly to fix.

it’s weird, you know… to see a situation and be on the outside looking in. i sat there and gave her helpful advice and hints on how to move forward. it’s not easy to get over something or someone, but it’s always possible to move forward. why is it so hard to take your own advice? these are all tools i’ve acquired over the years, and yet it took so long to listen to myself helping other people.

people are so afraid to feel. when you’re hurting it’s so important to go through the motions and let yourself FEEL that pain, if you ever plan to heal. what good does it do to be tough? how are you helping yourself if you bottle everything up? it doesn’t matter how happy you are, or how easily you’ve moved on… we’re only human. and sometimes things happen and we have to relive these awful feelings just so we can be okay with everything again and move forward.

do i still think about m? sometimes. do i still get angry about it? sure. do certain experiences make me re-live past memories? unfortunately, yes. but just because i cry sometimes, or feel sorry for myself, or curse him for breaking me in so many tiny, sharp, irreperable pieces… does that mean i still love him? that i miss him? that i wonder how things could have been? absolutely not. the pain i feel is real, and it’s ever-present, and it’s not ever going to go away. i am human, and just like everyone else out there, if i’ve been hurt, chances are those scars will likely last a lifetime.

however… it’s important not to dwell on the past forever. it’s important to find yourself and learn to be happy again. it’s important to build walls in order to keep yourself safe, as long as you let those walls come down when you’re ready to feel again, to live again.

people ask me what it was like, to love someone like m. how do you feel? how do you breathe? how do you find the courage to carry on? i don’t know how to describe it other than this: i was dead for so long. there’s a difference between inhaling & exhaling, and being alive. and for awhile, there was nothing in me other than the oxygen my brain told me to take in, and my organs functioning for me on their own. i was blood vessels and flesh. i was muscles flexing and limbs bending- that’s all. that’s all i had left.

but that doesn’t have to last forever, and it hasn’t. don’t let yourself go- don’t lose yourself in the sadness. don’t throw in the towel, pack your bags, and go on a mental vacation. i did- and it’s only when i really let myself ache that i truly began to heal. some days i cried for hours, and other days i laughed so hard my sides hurt… it’s important to live those extremes, to find yourself and come alive again.

will i ever look at vintage frames or antique suitcases the same? i doubt it. will i be able to walk down certain streets without feeling a sting in my chest? i don’t think so. will i ever be able to tolerate the smell of rubbing alcohol or iodine without cringing? never. will i ever be able to play-fight again without having panic attacks when someone’s hand accidentally touches my neck? the chances are slim. will i ever be able to listen to ben kweller without bawling my eyes out? probably not. will i fear him finding me? until the day i die. and that’s fine- those memories are his, and they’re mine, and although they’re sad and heartbreaking or awful, they won’t ever be anyone elses to touch or change. i’ve found the strength to associate him to certain things, wrap those memories up real tight, and throw them away. just like him.

for the first time in years, i really feel like i’ve let him go. i feel like i can talk about it, think about it, share details about it, without going back to that awful darkness. i’m in such a positive, stable place right now and it can only go up from here, right?

i hit my bottom, and i hit it hard… and yet here i am. if there’s anything i’ve learned, it’s that you can’t change anyone but yourself. you just need to figure out what your limits are, and decide when enough is finally enough.

…before it’s too late.

adulthood is a synonym for broke-ass-bitch

i move a lot.

i’ve moved eight times since i moved out of my parents’ house when i was seventeen. i’ve painted. i’ve hung pictures and paintings and mirrors. i’ve re-arranged furniture, bought furniture, threw out furniture. i’ve looked forward to new apartments, i’ve sat alone in empty living rooms crying, dreading leaving. i have purged almost every single thing i’ve own since living with m.

except my couch.

i bought it on craigslist for $50 from a middle-aged couple living in quebec. it was a little rough- but it was black leather and it was the perfect size for my small apartment. i got it when i lived with jesse- one of m‘s closest childhood friends. and although m had already come and gone from the apartment we lived together in, we had decided to try to make our relationship work, again. i dragged that piece of shit couch from apartment to apartment. i cringed every time i sat on it. i was numb to the pain then, but i remember the sounds of that night so vividly- the sound of my bare back smacking the cold leather, over and over, as he hurled my body onto it that one january night. the sound of my hands breaking my fall on the hardwood floors in the living room, as i tried to run away from his grasp.

it’s silly to think about that now, i know. but that couch is the one prominent piece of furniture in my house that lingers of me and m‘s nightmare of a relationship. and i wanted nothing more to set that piece of shit on fire.

the couch, not m.

well okay, m too.

anyway…

i bit the bullet, went all out, and bought myself a new couch. no more hand-me-downs. no more used furniture off the internet. i deserve a brand spankin’ new brown leather sectional sofa. and that’s just what i got.

this is the old couch in my current living room(the best pictures i could find…)

khala watching morning cartoons and hiding from the camera

sarahkay and khala eating casserole on the tiny couch this summer

i lived with the couch standing upright like this for two days til garbage day! raaaage!

now, i know my living room is a little narrow for this couch and my giant knight table (heavy enough to throw your back out and sturdy enough to survive a nuclear blast)… but i LOVE my couch, and i LOVE my table, and i’m moving in six months (SURPRISE!) so it’s really only temporary until i move into a more permanent place.

behold! my precious!

and it’s dan & moose approved!

… the only problem is none of us can stop napping

(i’m 100% okay with that)

dark, you can’t come soon enough for me

there’s something to be said for clarity;
the only thing that you took from me

– living with lions

most people fear the dark because of the unknown; what they can’t see, what isn’t there.

i’ve always feared the dark based on what i know all too well.

his shadow moved so effortlessly in the darkness of what i casually referred to as our bedroom. it wasn’t ours- i learned early enough not to call anything ours… it made him angry. ours meant permanence, normalcy. it meant giving in.

i don’t know what made me so damn antsy all the time. for a year after he left the first time, i had recurring night terrors. i knew better than to fall asleep without taking sleeping aids or leaving lights on. i was nineteen years old when i started sleeping with easy accessibility to shoes, and waking up in the middle of the night to make sure the door was locked. i took my phone out back when i needed to get my laundry in the neighbour’s basement in the middle of the night. i never left the back door without looking through the peephole, especially after dark.

i would wake up to his hands on me and his breath on the nape of my neck.

and eventually, so did she.

after hours of arguing over our life together, i’d finally had enough. i flushed his drugs, i told him we couldn’t start a family together and i put him to bed. she had already been asleep a few hours and hadn’t witnessed any of the arguing. all i remember is her walking out to the living room and sleeping on the couch in the middle of the night. while i had collapsed in exhaustion, he took it upon himself to do to her what he’d been doing to me for years. he slipped his hands inside of her and breathed heavily on her neck. she pushed and pulled and told him no, no, no.

i didn’t even wake up.

you know, i put up with the pain of loving this man for so long because i was naive, and the fear of being without him (for some reason) killed me more than being with him. i was strong enough to endure him. i was capable of putting up with the regularity of his abuse.

she wasn’t.

when she finally confronted me about what he’d done to her in the night, i didn’t say a word. i stared blankly at her, turned and walked to my bedroom and sat on my bed in silence. i shuffled in and out of my bedroom as she stood motionless.

say something, she said. what are you doing?

i was doing what i should have done three years prior. i was looking for some damn pants so i could walk downtown and sever all ties with this fucking monster- for good this time.

you look angry. are you mad at me?

i stopped abruptly, put my arms around her, and told her i loved her. she broked down over how she didn’t want to say anything because she knew i really wanted to make it work this time. she knew how much i’d sacrificed and how strongly i believed he could have changed. she just wanted to see me happy, even if it meant keeping this secret to herself.

moments after she’d told me what happened, we were walking together towards downtown. i still hadn’t put on a bra, my hair was a total mess, and i didn’t even have makeup on.

i didn’t give a fuck.

i grabbed her hand, as we speed-walked silently to his work. she stopped about a block away, telling me she couldn’t face him. i kissed her on the cheek, told her i loved her, and that i’d call her later.

the rest is mostly blurry because i was so hopped up on adrenaline. i just remember my ears ringing and my heart pounding in my chest as i stomped up to him and ordered him to the back room. he thought i was kidding, or maybe taking him to the back for a quick fuck. before i knew it, i was yelling at the top of my lungs; calling him a monster, and a rapist. telling him that i can put up with it… that i can take it because i’ve learned how to, but now he’s hurt someone i love. after twenty minutes of yelling at him, and getting bullshit excuses on his behalf, i told him to fuck himself and walked out of there, smirking at his fellow employees.

i didn’t see him for almost a year after that.

after the years and years i put up with that pathetic excuse of a human… after the agony of watching my family and friends try to help me out of that nightmare of a relationship- if you can even call it that… all it took was for him to inflict that pain he inflicted onto me, onto someone close to me.

at what point does that cycle end? i was beaten down so low that i couldn’t even leave him for hurting ME. i couldn’t leave him for destroying ME. i let it wait so long, he ended up hurting someone i cared about.

i still cringe when i think of that night- when i can pinpoint exactly what was going through her mind as he took advantage of her- as he stole the innocence of such a tender, quiet person. as he ripped from her what he’d been ripping from me for years.

and as time passes, i try. i started turning the lights off to sleep, and i check the doors only once. i stopped taking sleeping pills when i lived with andy, and i’ve been trying to get comfortable in the dark. but still- it’s in the back of my mind.

nothing about the darkness is forgiving.