The Liberation

Deep stuff ahead. You’ve been warned. 


This months marks one year.

One year.

A whole damn year….

Without The Psychological Abuser in my life.

I’m trying to adjust my perception of it all to look at it as a learning experience and not a waste of good suffering, anger, spite, and time.

I really don’t like to talk about the things he did. Mostly because I don’t want to speak of the devil and have him appear.

But I’ve learned so much about myself and how strong I am.

At first, I was confused and sad. I thought my world would literally implode and everything around me would go to shit and then some.

But it didn’t.

I do feel that in the first few weeks I became so prepared for things. Prepared to lose my job, prepared to lose my home prepared to face the consequences he so rubbed in my face for leaving. I made contingencies and more contingencies.

It was a week and some change from the parting event and there were still “minions” reaching out to me telling me that I was a horrible person or playing dumb asking if I’d heard from him.


I changed my number.

The thing I feared most was that he’d show up to my house. I’d moved to a different state about a year ago, but still not far. I thought he’d come out of the woodworks like a goddamn poltergeist.

But he didn’t.

I’ve moved residences since then.

Sometimes I fear I’m being followed home from work or what have you. If there is a car that has been following me too long or seems to follow too closely, I do the four lefts.

Call me paranoid.

All the ways he had to reach me, I severed, except for my email, which I’m not changing because I have too much invested. Also, I can block it.

Most of the “friends” lost in the “divorce” still bother me. It shouldn’t. Some I had to sever ties with because I knew, even though they were inconsequential to our relationship, he would use them to get to me.

And I still feel bad about that.

My world did shrink a bit. I’m not sad about that. I’ve always been a quality person versus quantity person.

I’m much more careful about what I say on social media. I don’t think anyone really knows me IRL from this blog.

I’ve learned how to make decisions for myself — I’d used to defer to his judgement and advice and now I have to use my own thought processes and figure stuff out. Weigh pros and cons and make up my mind.

I’ve learned how to be a better person — more kind and caring, more understanding.

I’ve also learned how to be more guarded — I rarely confide in anyone anymore. Unsolicited advice from an innocuous person when I was 19 and impressionable is what got me into this in the first place. I curate a lot of conversations. I don’t bring him up anymore, definitely.

My family was always suspect of the Abuser. Asking me why he was in my life and he manipulated the way I associate with my family. Some for the better, some for the worse. I guess their suspicion of him made him suspicious of them and he instructed me to minimize contact with them.

And not all of it was bad. We had some good times. And I guess, in my mind, that those good times overshadowed the horrible times.

As I’ve said before, still haven’t told S.O. about all the bullshit. I did tell him about the one time that the Abuser had tried to convince me that S.O. had given me an STD — it was during my staph outbreak from my rosacea during my homeless adventure. I had gotten a staph bump on my lady bits (which is as horrible as it sounds). And the abuser tried to tell me that S.O. had given me a venereal disease. I thought it was stupid in the first place. I’m the only person S.O.’s ever been with and he really doesn’t have the gumption to sleep around.

I could never tell the Abuser about my sexual assault. Being the deep south, my worth as a woman significantly decreased if I had sexual intercourse with a Black man. I was sexually assaulted by a Black man my freshman year at college. The thought shamed me so much that the thought of it, in my mind, would reduce me to nothing. So, I lied. “Have you ever slept with a black guy?” he’d asked.

“Nope,” I said, my guts filled with shame and anxiety, more so that I’d disappoint the Abuser and less that I’d been sexually assaulted and still suffered the stigma of it. This conversation also happening driving to my grandfather’s memorial. Bad timing.

But I know better. And I’m not as ashamed as I was. More angry. I’ve told S.O. about it, vaguely. But I wasn’t able to talk about it in therapy because I felt it would get back to him.

But yeah… there’s a lot of shit.

I’m gonna be okay, though.

I got this.





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