I had honestly hoped, as shitty as the situation was, that things could eventually become.. better. I thought things could…possibly one day resemble some sort of normalcy.
Although I knew I might never forgive you, I tried to convince myself that maybe I could try. Because regardless of the shit that you did to me and put me through…you still helped to raised me, and always made me think I was loved. You always made me feel special and important and loved. Or, at least that’s what I thought it was.
Something that I’ve been deprived of and so desperately seeking my entire life. So, yeah. Despite all of the shit? I still wanted any of the “goodness” from the past to…mean something.
But, tonight, we went to your house again. The same group of us as always. You started drinking, but this time, I did not. I haven’t touched a drink in 23 days now.
You started getting touchy with me, and I kept putting physical distance between us. Moving away, towards other people..into other rooms, you know the drill.
Tonight, I shared our news. A secret that I didn’t want to be a secret. News that I desperately hoped would be well received.
I thought you would react best of all. I honestly thought you’d even be….happy. Because I thought that, despite the shit, you really did love me. So how could you hurt me like that again?
We hesitantly shared the news of our very wanted, and very loved, 7 week pregnancy. My parents reacted exactly how I knew they would. Shock, disappointment, fear. They react the same every time. And while it’s hurtful…it’s honestly just expected.
But you. You screamed at me. You cursed me out. Saying that “we just ruined our entire fucking lives”. Telling us “not to come over here again. We’re not welcome in your home”.
You full on yelled at my husband. You told me to stand down and be quiet so you could stand there and yell at him. So you can “hear what he has to say for himself”.
I’ve NEVER raised my voice at you before. But there will never be a time where someone comes after MY husband, and tells me to stand down. You might have over a foot and over 100 pounds on me…but sir, if you’re looking for a fight? You’ve come to the right place.
Say what you want about ME and beat ME down all you want. But the second you start coming after my husband, because what, he had sex with me and (intentionally, and PLANNED) got my pregnant? No. No, no, no. You’ll go through me. And I will not stand down.
You’ve hurt me in ways I could have never dreamed possible during just this past year alone. Multiple, and I do mean multiple, episodes of increasingly severe sexual assault. The shit you’ve put me through…and still….I’ve been trying so fucking hard to push through it. To try to be okay, and to try to…exist in a world with you in it.
My baby is 7 weeks old, safe and protected within me. We heard it’s heartbeat for the first time today. Saw pictures of our little gummy bear. This baby is loved. And wanted.
So, no. I do not believe that we “just ruined our entire fucking lives”. We chose to add a loved, valued, and wanted member to our family. And it’s a choice that I would make again.
See, I didn’t choose you. But I did choose my husband. And I did choose this baby. So you can be butt hurt about this all you want.
You and I and anyone who knows me, knows I’ll handle it this way. I’ll act all high and mighty. I’ll act strong, and I’ll give off the idea that this doesn’t bother me. That your reaction doesn’t hurt me. I’ll brush it off and blow it off and continue to walk with my head held high.
But that’s not how I feel.
It feels like he took the one, good and decent and hopeful part of me that I had left, and fucking smashed it into an inferno of hot fucking coals and left it there to burn.
You left me feeling like it would literally be better for me to kill myself, right now, than it would be to continue living and fighting. I thought about it, too.
I’m sitting here in the oh so infamous bathroom floor writing this, while my husband tried to sleep. He ran a 15k this morning, and I wanted him to rest.
This spot usually means bottles of alcohol. It usually means burns and cuts and pills and thoughts of death and dying. But not tonight.
Tonight, the spot is the same, the thoughts are the same…but there’s no bottle. There’s no alcohol. There’s no burning or cutting or pills.
It’s just me. A broken down, useless, horrible person. Who happens to have a 7 week old gummy bear inside of her.
You’ve broken me in quite a lot of ways this year, rapist. You really have.
But tonight? I won’t forget this. Assault me all you want physically. I’ll blame it on myself every time.
But do not come after my family. Because for him? For them? Shit. That’s a fight in me that knows no bounds. And I will not go down quietly.
I’ve received 2 texts while sitting in the bathroom, fighting back the tears, and writing this.
The first, from him. The rapist, the neighbor:
You probably think if I love you how could I have reacted the way I did. A text can not explain my reaction. It’s so complicated. I feel bad I said what I said when you guys left here. Please know I was wrong to say it.
And the other from my husband:
Hey, just a reminder that I love you.
Isn’t it funny how they both claim to “love” me? At least I know one of them would never hurt me. Not like the other one has.
I know he regrets it. I know he’ll hate himself for hurting me.
But I’m not sure if that changes anything.
This is a hurt that I don’t think I can get past.