I think he knows how badly he messed up our anniversary and that he's hanging by a thread.
He reads my email. “I agree with all of it, Margaux. You’re right. I love you, and I promise to do better.”
His words soothe, but calm is never a constant with him. It’s a fleeting intermission before the next act of chaos.
Sure enough, five days later, Timmy strikes again.
He runs away to the tents. Defeated and exhausted, I fall asleep, no longer having the energy to fight his runaway episodes.
Resigned to this being my life now.
I wake to the disorienting sensation of Timmy pressing against me. My body stiffens, my heart racing as I realize what’s happening.
He rubs his dick against me, then he moves down and licks my asshole.
I freeze, paralyzed.
My skin crawls as his tongue slides against me, and he crawls back up, sliding himself inside me.
I’ve told him before—explicitly—that this is not okay. That he does not have my consent to touch me while I’m asleep.
But what does consent mean to someone like Timmy?
I remain still, hoping he’ll stop, unable to find the energy to resist.
Last time I brought it up, he laughed.
My stomach churns as he finishes inside me, and I feel bile rise in my throat.
I lie here, numb, as he rolls over and falls asleep.
I’m trapped in my own body, replaying what just happened over and over—he just used my body without my permission, and it wasn’t the first time.
Timmy spends most of the next day in bed, finally emerging late in the afternoon.
He slams around the kitchen—the fridge door, the water bottle, the bathroom door all victims of his unchecked rage.
“Ifuckinghate your stupidfuckingTV shows,” he snarls. “You watch them just to upset me.”
“No, Timmy,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “I’ve been watching them for over ten years. I watch them because Ienjoythem.”
He sneers at Sabre, who’s lapping water from his bowl. “Ifuckinghate the noise your cat makes when he drinks water.”
“Okay,” I reply, exhaustion dripping from every word. “Then move out.”
“Youfucking move out,” he spits back.
Something inside me snaps.
“Get out of my life with your lame lies and your hollow promises, Timmy. Everyone knows about you—security, the landlord. You arenothing.”
But, like always, he doesn’t leave. He grumbles, complains about how bad I make his life, and stomps around until he disappears again. Likely back to the meth tents.
My therapist has a theory that I’ve been dissociating by this point, and I know she’s right. Because nobody sane and mentally present would be able to deal with this as their day-to-day.
By the time evening arrives, I’m fed up, and I head to the police station. I’m shaking as I approach the watch house, the weight of this decision pressing down on me.
“I’m finally ready,” I say to the officer on duty, my voice trembling. “How do I get a TRO?”