“If I lock myself in, you can always get in. Let me show you how,” he says nonchalantly, demonstrating with my debit card. He angles the card just so, and the lock springs open.
“See? Easy,” he says.
“Um… thanks?” I reply, confused.Why is he teaching me this?
A week later, after yet another fight over the dishes, Timmy stomps down the hallway to the back room. I hear the door slam and lock.
Then, the unmistakable sound of a drill.
“Timmy! What the fuck are you doing?”I yell, rushing to the door.
“Drilling the door shut so you can’t come in and bother me!”he yells back.“What the fuck do you think?”
“You can’t drill the door! You’re damaging the apartment! You’ve already destroyed so much stuff. Can youpleasenot drill the door?”
“Too late!” he calls back, his voice carrying a smug undertone.
This is insanity. He’s the one throwing tantrums and creating chaos, but he acts like I’m some kind of villain, barricading himself in a room to ‘protect’ himself from me holding him accountable.
I sit on the bed, seething. I’ve been reduced to pleading for basic respect in my own home, and he’s treating me like a supervillain trying to breach his panic room.
The absurdity of it all would almost be funny if it weren’t my life.
I look out the window as a fishing boat goes by, oblivious to the chaos inside these four walls. This relationship feels like a sinking ship, and I’m strapped to the mast.
Every time I try to steer us to calmer waters, Timmy finds a way to poke holes in the hull.
He’s the storm and the iceberg, and I’m just trying not to drown.
CHAPTER 90
OH, SNAP!
MARGAUX
Late one night, I find myself sitting on the bed, bathed in the dim glow of my laptop. The search bar blinks at me, a cursor for my confusion. I type:
Am I abusive?
The thought has been gnawing at me. I’ve been screaming, calling Timmy a loser, a piece of shit. I’ve slammed doors, thrown my hands up, even called him names I never thought would leave my lips. I’ve been making highly questionable decisions.
This isn’t me.
My results are a jumble of terms, articles, and advice columns. And then, I see it:
Reactive Abuse.
I click, and the words leap off the page, staring into my soul.
DARVO. Reactive abuse. The cycle.
I learn that DARVO stands forDeny, Attack, Reverse Victim and Offender—a classic manipulation tactic. The abuser denies their actions, attacks the victim, and flips the script to make the victim seem like the aggressor.
And reactive abuse? It’s the human reaction to prolonged torment.
It’s what happens when someone who is poked and prodded and belittled finally snaps.
I read further, my heart pounding with recognition. It’s like someone is seeing inside my brain.