This isn’t a justification for my behavior.
It doesn’t excuse it.
But itexplainsit.
Everyone has their limit, and at their breaking point they lash out.
I’m not inherently abusive. I’mreactingto abuse.
For example, I’d never wake up screaming at someone because I had a bad dream. But Timmy doesn’t need much at all to ignite a fight. A bad dream? A misplaced flip-flop? A dirty dish in the sink? Any of it can set him off.
He’ll wake up angry, already in a mood, muttering under his breath about how I don’t do enough.
He’ll hover as I work, making passive-aggressive comments about how I’m ‘so lucky’ to be working from home, how he ‘does everything around here.’
He’ll distract me from my writing, taking me further from my goals.
He’ll call me a ‘stupid cunt’ for forgetting to put the shower curtain inside the tub.
He’ll sneer at me for focusing on my career instead of spending time with him.
And I’ll hold it together. For a while. I’ll bite my tongue and focus on my screen. I’ll nod absently, hoping he’ll leave me alone.
But it doesn’t stop.
He escalates.
He pokes and prods until the dam breaks.
Then Iwillget upset and Iwillyell at him to please leave me alone so I can work.
I snap. I scream. I say things I regret:
“You’re a loser.”
“You have no friends because nobody can stand you.”
“You’re wasting your life hanging out with addicts on the beach.”
“You’re the problem in this relationship.”
The words sting, but they’re my truth in the moment.
And then it happens. He flips the narrative.
“See?You’rethe abusive one,” he snarls. “You’rethe one yelling.You’rethe one callingmenames.”
The Timmy I know now isn’t the man I met.
When I met him, he made me laugh.
He called me beautiful.
He made me feel safe.
Now, he makes me feel small.
But onlyafterhe makes me feel huge.