If you’ve ever been there, you already know.
You don’t suddenly wake up with holes in the drywall, bruises on your arms, dents in your car’s side, and self-esteem crushed into a nice powder you wish you could snort just to get it back in your body.
What you do is wake up one day and realize: HOLY SHIT what the actual fuck am I doing?
And for me, it was also realizing the parts of this chaos I was responsible for.
I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it, again:
I am not innocent in this. I egged on the crazy after being pushed to the point (multiple times) where I should have just left. I’m an unusually calm and slow to react person, but there’s only so much crazy you can expose yourself to before it starts rubbing off and you start becoming the crazy.
First, I rationalized drug use. Yes, I rationalized that drug…
“Oh, I didn’t even know he was high? Okay, maybe it’s not that bad. He’s just painting and crafting. This doesn’t seem so bad… When is he gonna bust out the toothbrush and clean though? Fuck, man, wrong kind of tweaker.”
Then, I let the angry outbursts slide.
“He’s always been super quick to get angry, but it’s all words. I don’t like the yelling and screaming, but I’m sure we can talk about this when he calms down.”
After weeks(?) months(?), it started wearing me thin…
He was coming home at first light instead of in a few hours like he said, and I was losing my mind. He’d walk in the door. The gloves would already be off:
Him: What are you doing up?
Me: Waiting to see if your fuck ass was going to be back with my car or if I was going to have to report it stolen.
Him: Stop overreacting. I’m here.
Me: I wish you weren’t.
Him: Just let me sleep.
Me: No, fuck you like I know you were fucking those bitches using my car, fucking scrub.
I learned that day being called a “scrub” is one of his triggers.
He walked into the living room, and we kept arguing. I might have said something like “it’s no wonder your mother beat the shit out of you if you were anything like you are now.”
He picked up a heavy wooden, would-be table top I had painted to look like a full moon and threw it at the TV in the living room.
I ran into the room and tried to snatch his PS4 out of the shelf he had built for it.
He snatched me up by the waist and threw me on the bed, holding me down.
I punched him I don’t know how many times on the back of the head.
He wailed into my ribs.
The next day was my birthday, October 22nd. It was a normal day.
First week of November, we found a girl we both liked.
Life was good, but he found another line to cross and fucked her before I got home.
Not cool, dude. Not cool.