They carted him off in cuffs right in front of me and sent me PDF copies of the documents he signed acknowledging he is required to submit DNA samples, register on the sex offender list and abide by a whole host of other rules even once he is out of prison.
How long he actually stays in there will remain a trick of the system, but he was given the maximum possible sentence across the board for the charge he was convicted of and the summary election.
I can’t believe it.
Less than 7 per cent of reported cases end in…this. From bravely speaking to a police officer, to charges, to a trial, to conviction – less than 7 per cent of Canadian victims get…this.
If you were part of the other 93 per cent and you want a win, I’ll share mine with you. However happy or proud you may feel at reading he is now in prison, I would be equally happy and proud for you for any peace you find and the bravery you stepped into (however waveringly) to step forward.
I’m still in disbelief that we got this. I genuinely am.
I shouldn’t be, but I am.
I hope the amazement at this occurrence wanes not just because there are fewer victims but also because I hope the courts handle it better.
I’ve already submitted the form to get the publication ban lifted. I’m safe enough to do that. If it makes sense in your situation, and I know it is highly variable and personal, consider lifting the bans. When we tell our stories and share their names, it protects the next woman. It creates a resounding din of “not again” that makes would-be assailants think twice.
Nobody wants to be labeled a rapist.
If we can, we should take back our greatest weapon: our voice.
“How are the apps?” I asked my ex husband over video chat. The call started so I could say goodnight to our son while he was over there but we often still chat as friends at this time.
He knew what I meant. He made a face by way of reply. He looked like a disgusted Elvis with his one lip pulled half way up to his eye.
I chuckled and he said they’re basically the same, if not worse, as the last time I was really on them (which he knew was before Asshole).
“I guess it depends what you’re looking for,” he sighed resolutely. The implications were clear.
“That would be great, but not without a bit more behind it,” I answered. With about a week until Valentine’s Day, I wasn’t looking for a fling.
He smiled then said they probably wouldn’t give me what I was looking for. I wondered briefly if all exes talk like this, but realized it didn’t matter. We do and it works for us. We’re still “best friends”.
I whined that the few people I had met more recently just going through life all seemed to start with such high hopes. I explained how things seem great and they seem super interested and then just…poof!
They’re gone.
Except not. I told him I can see them stalking my professional socials – the hits are easy to track.
He made a derogatory movement involving his hand, his hips and one very happy face.
I chuckled.
“Well I was standing right in front of them so that was dumb on their part.”
Then my ex heaved a big sigh and gave me one of the sweetest compliments ever. And yes, it was made especially sweet because it came from him.
“You’re smart, Varity. Not just like kinda smart. You’re really smart and you’ve got a lot going on.”
“So?” I asked, making sure to prove him wrong for a moment.
He grinned at me awkwardly for a moment before getting serious and almost angry on my behalf for me.
“And you speak up. You challenge men. Guys don’t want a dumb girl but they don’t want you to be smarter than them. They don’t want you to have more accomplishments than them.”
I sat in shocked silence. It was what I suspected in my bitter moments but I try to give people more credit than that. These self-professed liberal and evolved men still couldn’t get past my brain and accomplishments?
Precisely what level of accomplishment is sufficient to appease your cocktail party socialites but not so much as to make people a bit uncomfortable.
“They think I’m too good?!”
No really, where is that happy medium? Just so I know for reference.
“Basically.”
“Well then I fucking am. This isn’t a fucking contest!” I was getting angry and Pumpkin was in the other room getting ready for bed still. I didn’t want my bitter suspicions to be right. “It’s, ideally, supposed to be a mutually beneficial partnership. They can grow up and put their big boy pants on if me having a brain is such an issue.”
My ex chuckled at my momentary temper flare after making a semi-shocked face which I suspect was mostly just for show. He knows me well enough to know my reaction.
“Yup,” he said suddenly grinning.
I’m looking for reasons he would lie about that. It can’t be that simple and bitterly true. There must be men out there who can handle a woman who can handle herself and treat her with respect.
Honestly?
From a survivor’s viewpoint?
This is one of the ways they get in. This is how good women end up with bad men. We get lonely too. We want to be seen and recognized and cherished too. We know we aren’t bottom barrel but everybody else flees.
So love bombing feels like “FINALLY! Hallelujah!”.
Somebody who nitpicks some of our own foibles (because we’re actually not perfect, despite the conversation above) seems confident and on our level.
From there it goes downhill.
I’ve got stronger boundaries now but I have a lot of the same feelings I had when I first met Asshole. If I didn’t know better now, I could easily slip into that again. Easily.
I won’t blame the other men for doing their…I’m going to call it the “chicken dance”…but they don’t then also get to turn around and complain about wonderful women they know who date toxic losers. We each get to own our own decisions.
Well? Did you step to it? Did ya try? Or did you find some cockamamie reason not to even try while shielding your ego?
That’s what I thought.
Shut up.
My ex-husband is 100% my EX husband. We’ve mutually agreed we are not going back there again, but as dim as he can be and admits he is, he figured out early on never to let my intelligence and accomplishments be anything but something he was proud of me for. He would brag about me.
See, guys?
That smart woman could be a feather in your cap with the right attitude.
Maintaining this blog is no longer therapeutic or an act of reclaiming.
Now it’s like peeling open scabbed over wounds and slicing back into long scarred-over injuries.
It’s hard precisely because I’m not actively bleeding anymore.
I don’t even want to testify anymore really, except if I don’t, conviction will be much harder and some other woman may become a victim.
I vowed to myself to keep it active until he wasn’t a threat anymore so there could be some trace, some remnant for the next would-be victim.
And I will.
But, hot damn, the second he’s behind bars again this thing will likely go dormant. If you still like my writing and want to engage with me, check out peskymuses.wordpress.com
That’s where life is moving on.
Yes, I know this is a shitty post and unless Asshole gives me some SUPER interesting inspiration, it will likely remain so at this point.
I have a few more posts stored which I haven’t been brave enough to publish yet…but that might not change.
This is essentially me throwing my hands in the air and saying “I’m trying”.
This was cross-posted on the Pesky Muses blog already, but it seemed equally relevant here. Part of regaining my strength is not feeling an emotional need to be with somebody, especially if they haven’t earned it and that also means finding joy in the small things like not having to share a bed. I’m sorry to my future partner already, but we might need seperate bedrooms. Honestly, I’m loving this and I’m cool with visits, but I want my own space to retreat to. Still, the bed is just a metaphor in this poem. The ways that being with somebody, especially somebody abusive, requires you to make a million tiny concessions in your day-to-day life? At this point, somebody is going to have to be amazing to get that space from me.
He could still physically get me and that niggling fear as I double check locks, bar my doors, make sure the baseball bats are strategically placed and such is always looming.
In the less tangible but no less impactful way he was still hanging over my life though? That’s gone. The last remnants disintegrated mere hours ago. I’ll always have scars, but now I’m free.
The physical signs were the first to dissipate. Breaking the trauma bond came next and was hard and took a long time. Reorienting my life and re-engaging with the best parts of myself came next and, slowly, my brain was able to focus and think clearly again.
I also took lots of naps. An injured psyche still needs to heal so naps are good. Also lots of talking to G-man (a.k.a. God). I think I made him laugh a lot ultimately. I thought I was figuring shit out. I’m sure it was adorable.
To start, after leaving, I could focus in short bursts and perform well patterned professional practices and simple daily bits. I would down gallons of coffee and pray just to answer an email.
With more time, more prayer, silent support from colleagues, more rest, more therapy and more writing (as evidenced in this entire blog), I regained my focus. Then my sense of humour. Then my sense of self and, by the time I got there, it was crunch time to pass required licensing exams to maintain my career.
I’m not a workaholic but my career does make me happy and does support all the other things in my life which also keep me happy. It all ties in together; it’s important.
The trauma of my time with Asshole put that in danger. Even just three months ago I couldn’t focus long enough to take in even one page of my textbooks, let alone one chapter of required learning material and the deadline was creeping nearer.
But today? Today I passed! I passed easily too. The automated testing system spits your score out to you in nearly real-time
So, I can focus again. I can dream big. I can sleep and smile and snuggle my Pumpkin and, when the time is right and if it is right, now there’s room in my life for more. More hobbies, fulfilment, adventures, people and love.
Asshole can’t take that from me. Apart from the nagging physical fears, I am free.
And in breaking with my typical practice of posting at least one week in advance, I am posting this on the very day I passed.
Today is my day – and I’ll rejoice and be grateful in it. *Wink*
If you’re anything like me, something he said stuck in your mind and it just doesn’t seem right. You’ve hopped onto Google or Bing hoping for the answer and to make sense of it all.
You stumbled across this blog on your day off, on a lunch break, or in the middle of the night when looking for answers.
You read one post and then another, and another, and another. I see you going very far down this rabbit hole.
“This can’t be him. It’s just a coincidence,” you’re probably thinking.
Maybe you asked him about some of these things and he told a good story or dismissed me as a jealous ex or something else.
Murmurs from the gathering congregation created a peaceful din as they echoed off the old brick walls.
Mary was acting as usher this week and after a bit of awkward hesitation she led me a seat in the middle of the pew. I propped my feet on the wooden kneeler in front of me with a single church warden on either side of me. (Is propping your feet improper? I don’t know. Somebody please tell me if it is.)
Anglicans are apparently notorious for having “their spot” in church so I don’t think the ushers know where to put me. A relatively young, single woman showing up out the blue with a kid in tow every other weekend has raised polite curiosity to say the least.
As I settled my purse and opened the bulletin. The rhythm of the brief document is becoming familiar and feels comfortable.
My eyes scanned to the end though. There it was in the postlude. My mind put together a thousand anxious fears in an instant … your name.
I knew you composed works for this denomination. I knew they were for this instrument – the organ. I knew they’d been published. I knew they could be picked up by other church musicians. I didn’t suspect, from the thousands of works available, I would ever actually see your name though. What are the odds?
I considered ducking out early. I was curious what it would sound like. I didn’t want to like it if I did hear it, though I figured I probably would. (To deny your musical talent is just silly.)
I felt my heart beat start to pick up speed and calmed myself back down a few times. I reminded myself you were an hour away. I told myself I was surrounded by people in a church and even if you did show up, I was safe. I reminded myself the music can’t do anything to me.
Then I brought myself to look again.
It wasn’t actually your work the organist chose but at first, flitting glance the name was close enough.
I can’t adequately emphasize how good you are in your soul. I’ve meant it every time I’ve said it and my opinion remains unchanged.
I fell for your confounding mix of devout religion combined with an utterly bohemian approach to life. I loved speaking with you on the phone, on walks, and while sipping tea and coffee in your front room and uncovering your passions and humour.
I couldn’t help but smile every time you played the organ or piano. I could hear your passion when you spoke about your grandparents and continuing those traditions. Your work with the thrift store is prayer and devotion in action.
Your love of language and wordplay surpass even my own – something I’ve never found before. You are honest and loyal, sometimes to a fault {ETA: I laugh at this now}, and your steady routines comforted me. The way you get down on children’s level when speaking with them and the ability to remember small individual preferences showcase your deep ability to empathize.
I know your life seems out of control right now. I know, no matter how much you deny it, that you are scared. You may not fear death, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t other things that worry you. They worry me too.
I know you’ve never felt full acceptance for who you are. I know you feel shame and don the mask regularly for defense.
I see you. And I love you. And I was ready to build a life with you. I was ready to call you “Asshole” everyday until I couldn’t anymore, and then scream it (heartbroken) at your grave or whisper it in your drowsy ear from the other side.
I see you, [his name here], and I love you – all of you. I love the parts you prefer to pretend don’t exist as much as I love those traits you are proud to showcase.
I’m not sure I’m done if you’re not, but this emotional rollercoaster has to end. You hurt my boy. He was sad all day and kept coming to me for snuggles and reassurance. At the grocery store he asked to buy you medicine to make you better and in the pet aisle he wanted to buy dog toys for Batman {ETA: Batman did not exist yet but he was claiming he was on a waitlist with a breeder and very excited to be getting a springer spaniel}. He also wanted to visit the baby aisle “for mommy and [his name here].
Before bed, {my boy} crawled into my lap and cuddled me like a baby. He was crying before I knew it because he misses you and was worried about you – you told him you were sick. He remembers everything just like you. All I could do was hold him, hide my own tears, and assure him he was infinitely loved.
[His name here], your anger and your triggers are yours. I know you can control them because even through your seething rage, you showed {my boy} and I uncompromising kindness. I need you to own that, as valid as your feelings are, sometimes they have nothing to actually do with me and blaming me is not going to gain you the control you crave in that situation. It only makes you feel worse afterwards as you do mental gymnastics to avoid your own guilt.
I see this. I see all of it and I understand. It’s already forgiven – but there need to be concrete steps to end it: couples communication counseling – as requested – with somebody who specializes in HFA {ETA: He lead me to believe he was an Aspie and it did seem to explain most of the behaviors.}
You don’t shame me for my shortness or {cerebral palsy} or lack of musical skill. You find ways to help me celebrate my ‘shortcomings’ or work with them. I want to do the same for you. I can’t on my own.
You can’t hurt my boy – but you did. He was crying for you and he misses you. I trusted you. I still love you, but I don’t know what to do.
{The letter continued a bit from there but was repetitive.}
I never sent you this letter. I wrote it while severely heartbroken after triaging a terrible situation you created the last time you saw my boy.
I remember the tears that stayed mostly in my eyes, though sometimes blurred my vision, as I wrote this. I remember feeling chilled on the hot summer day as though my core had been ripped from me and I was already stuck in a no-win situation, drowning and trying to stay afloat.
I remember I was trying to clear my own head and heart as much as anything else when I wrote this letter.
Now, when I read it back to myself, I realize the number you did on me.
The worst thing you’ve done to me is mess me up emotionally and mentally and there is no criminal charge for that. That is the biggest danger of you.
Now when I read it, I can start to pick apart the things I saw as good in you and see the truth behind your motives because I have more of the story. Now, I can spot the outright lies. Now when I read it, I feel more powerful for having broken out of that, though I still sometimes miss the good moments with you.
I also feel so, so sad for you and I think I always will. The beast you have become is pitiful. You’ve been given so much love from different people and so many chances to turn things around. I know you’ve had hardships, and some I believe you even still won’t address, but haven’t we all?
By this point in your life, you’re choosing this.
You’re not brave enough to fully look at yourself and choose healing and love – so you are pitiful.
Truth and Recovery 