I try to replay the conversation in my mind, but it’s just a jumbled mess of accusations and guilt. I was only asking for honesty, but now all I feel is a hollow ache, like I’ve been punished for daring to question him.
Timmy insistedearly on that we share our phone passwords.
“I have nothing to hide,” he’d said, “I want you to know you can trust me. I’ll do anything to make you feel comfortable and secure in this relationship, because I love you so much. I’d do anything to make you happy.”
I’d agreed, because I’m not doing anything behind his back. For the most part, with obvious exceptions, what I found in his phone put me at ease.
There were things from the past—messages and contacts that made me feel uncomfortable—but I convinced myself that these don’t matter anymore, and, when he got his new phone number, that took many of those concerns away. He’s not reaching out to new people, just keeping in touch with a limited circle.
I checked his Facebook messenger, just to be sure, and it was the same.
I felt relieved.
Then, shortly after, he insisted that we share locations.
“Especially living out here,” he says. “If we get separated for any reason, it could be really dangerous. So we should know where theother person is at all times. Plus, I want you to know that you can trust me.”
At the time, it felt like an extra layer of trust. Practical, even thoughtful.
I’ve never been in a relationship where I’ve felt the need to really check my partner’s phone or share location. I’ve laughed about couples that share Facebook accounts.
And everything he said made sense at the time. Made it sound like it was coming from a place of love, so I went with it.
But now I see how easily he’s used these promises against me.
The location-sharing promise soon turned into another manipulation. Now, every time we argue—no matter how minor—he switches off his location. Sometimes for hours, sometimes longer.
“Timmy, why bother sharing locations if you just block it every time you’re mad, which is often?” I ask him, exasperated.
“I’m sorry,” he says, his expression solemn. “I promise I won’t block you ever again.”
“Seriously? You keep saying that, but the moment your feelings are hurt, you do.”
“Yeah, I know. I’m really sorry. I understand.”
But the promises mean nothing anymore. Each time, it happens again. And again.
He knows it bothers me, and so it’s become another cruel form of punishment.
It feelslike his behavior is escalating, and he’s going back on every promise he’s made to me. He seems to get a sick, perverse enjoyment out of my constant misery. And he creates conflict over literally nothing.
Anything can set him off. He’s getting mad because I’m not doing dishes to his liking now. Because I move around on the bed while I’m working when he wants to be asleep, even though it’s the middle of the day.
He’s a rageful powder keg, and he’s acting more and more unhinged. I don’t know what’s driving it, and I try to be sympathetic to his mental health issues. But it seems like he’s trying to destroy this, to destroy us, and I don’t know how much longer I can keep doing this.
I’m sick of crying.
I’m tired of becoming someone I’m not.
I need some reprieve from this constant madness.
But he seems to thrive on drama, and look for it in places it doesn’t exist.
The happier, the more successful I am, the more he seems to want to punish me.
But then he’s the one who comes back to comfort me, to give me the notion he’s remorseful, and that he’s truly going to change.
Yet his words and actions are getting further and further apart, like they’re magnetically repelling each other. And he’s seeming more and more justified in his actions.