I was diagnosed with post traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) yesterday… and all I wanted to say was “yeah, no shit”… and I get to relive it all daily, and come Monday I get to relive it in front of my stalker, in a courtroom.
The “Affidavit of Probable Cause” lists out eight incidences where I was harmed in some way, whether physically or mentally. Eight. The last two years of my life, typed up nicely in one court document stating what hell my stalker put me through, here sitting in my lap, in black and white… When I first read it during my “pre-court” meeting with the prosecutor, I read the list as though it were about someone else. That numbness is a survival tactic that I have carried for many years now; it safeguards my fragile self from reliving the brutal truths of my past, but come Monday that numbness will do me no good. It is time to feel, to deal with this shit once and for all, and then talk about it, convey it to a court room and pray that I have the strength to keep my shit together on the stand.
Therefore, today I feel, and share…
He got a hold of me days after my ex-husband and I had discussed divorcing. I was vulnerable, weak, and desperately needed some attention. I was so tired of feeling ignored, and invisible that I welcomed him into my life, after all I had wondered about him for so long. Eight years ago, we seemed to be a good match. He treated me with respect, something he never showed other women, and I felt special in his light. I was positive that he could not hurt me, not like others had, not like he had to others. I was so naïve, and so mistaken.
The physical abuse started a month after we began seeing one another, the mental and verbal abuse started from day one, if I am perfectly honest. He was a junkie. I discovered needles and drugs throughout my home. He blamed his shooting meth on me, said that if I were more communicative, more available for him he would not feel like he had to get high. He also told me that he would never, ever hurt me if it were not for the drugs. I told him I would leave him, that he would never see me again, unless he got into some sort of in-house treatment facility. I felt this was the safest option for me at the time, as there was no telling what he would do if he were not admitted somewhere. He agreed to get help, but it did not matter. He kept shooting up, even while at the facility, the abuse did not end and I became terrified of everything about him.
One night, after he had left treatment, when he was not sleeping, he woke me up abruptly, drug me down my stairs and informed me that he was going to tell me all of the things I needed to do to make our relationship work. He decided that forcing me down onto the couch for three hours, not letting me get up, or move at all, was the best way to start this “conversation”. That night I received my first black eye. That is what did it for me. It was not the countless hours of abuse, or the drugs, or how god-awful I felt about myself when I was near him; it was a fucking black eye that pushed me over the edge. All I could think was how when mom left my dad that she had a similar black eye. And here I was… doing the same shit, keeping that alive in my bloodline.
I filed the restraining order three days later. It took all of my strength to walk into the police department with my obviously wounded self and tell them that I had let a man put his hands on me, and that it had been happening for too long (all though not as long as it could have). Pictures were taken, lots and lots of pictures were taken, and the first of twenty or so police reports was made. The protective order stated that he was to have no contact with me whatsoever, no emails, texts, phone calls, etc. An order he never acknowledged unless it was to tell me that it was worthless.
Fast forward to a year later.
Many police reports, death threats, etc. leads to stalking charges, and me left with post traumatic stress disorder. And fuck if I’m not sick of being strong and brushing this shit off. What he did to me was WRONG, and extremely damaging. I should not have to hide that. I should not have to be ashamed of that. I should be able to talk about it freely and openly without worrying if I am being “overly dramatic” for someone’s liking. And if someone is “sick of hearing about it” imagine how I must feel dealing with this shit daily.
EVERY FUCKING DAY.
EVERY NIGHT WHEN I TRY TO SLEEP.
Nightmares and insomnia blistering over my fragile heart.