Me and the Mysogynist....
- By girly-d
- On 24/11/2017
- 0 comments
It was my fault that it ended badly.
Of course it was.
You ask anyone who knows him and they will tell you what happened. Because they've heard his side of events....And of course he's going to tell the truth to his mates - Because that's what mates do.
Well that's what mates should do....Because he wouldn't tell the truth if his life depended on it. Which means that his mates don't know shit....
He wasn't always such an arsehole.
At first he couldn't do enough for me. There was a red carpet and rose petals everywhere I walked. He bought me things. Told me that I was beautiful. That I was his perfect woman - And that he was never going to let me go now that he'd found me....
And he hasn't yet. Not really.
I left him 12 months ago. In a bit of a hurry....
The last that I heard he was still looking for me...Only this time I'm not dealing with Mr Nice guy. I'm dealing with his twisted, paranoid, aggressive alter-ego.And he's not a happy camper. Because his ego is bruised.
A bit like my neck was the last time he touched me...
So now we are quits.
It would be so much easier if people just had their intentions tattooed on their foreheads - In giant Neon letters. Something simple and straight to the point would do. Like "Twat" maybe.....anything which would have provided a clue and stopped me from going out with him really.
Because then I would have run a mile.
But he didn't have a tattoo. Well not one that would have been a red flag to me anyway....And so I walked straight into his trap.
Laid with flowers and chocolates and a new mobile phone, that was supposed to be a gift but was actually his way of keeping tabs on me. I'm pretty sure it had a tracking device - either that or he was psychic.
I should have known better.....Because all of those compliments and nice things that he did were just red herrings, designed to hide his true intentions towards me. And they did. I didn't suspect a thing. He built me up and put me on a pedestal. So high at times that I could almost reach the stars.....and then, without warning, he pulled the ladder away and watched me come crashing back down to the floor.
Which is exactly where he'd wanted me all along.
Because it turned out that he didn't actually like women very much - and I was about to find out the hard way.
He degraded and belittled me. Twisted everything that I said until even I didn't know what I was talking about. He called me vile names and posted horrible things about me on social networking sites.
I had the spanish inquisition every day. About my clothes, my hair, my make-up. Where was I going? Where I had been? Who had I seen? Spoken to? Kissed?....slept with??? It didn't matter what I told him. Every word that came out of my mouth was a lie. So it was pointless trying to reason with him, because he didn't believe a word that I said anyway.
I could have taken a date and time marked selfie at the top of the Eifel tower and showed it to him to prove where I was, but I wouldn't have been there - It would have been a figment of my imagination. Along with everything that I thought was wrong with our "relationship".
Trying to explain something, anything, to him got twisted. So I learned to keep my mouth shut. It was easier.
I walked on eggshells constantly, trying to avoid stepping on a landmine. But I stepped on them anyway. Every day that I was with him. Because they were everywhere.
Tiny little triggers and traps designed to mess with my head. I lived my life just waiting for the next explosion.
My friends were begging me to leave him. They were afraid of what he would do to me if I stayed. They were right to worry. I was worried too - I knew that If I didn't leave him I would die. Accidentally or otherwise.
But I'd given up my flat and was living with him. Because I'd fallen for his charms. Which funnily enough went AWOL the minute that I handed my keys back...
Which meant I was stuck.
So he accused and he shouted and he raged and he swore. He went through my mobile phone and he smashed up my things.
He threw Little mans ashes down the stairs one night. And dragged me back up those same stairs by my neck when I went down to pick them up.
And that was that.
I knew then from that minute on that I was on countdown. It was just a matter of time before he seriously injured or killed me. His rage and his paranoia were growing by the day and I was in serious shit.
And so my friends made a plan. They booked me into hostels, up and down the country, so that I had a place to stay when I left him - But keeping me moving, so that I was hard to track down.
Until I could get into detox. Which I'd arranged behind his back. I was ill and at a low ebb when I met him, but he was sucking me dry.
There is no way he would have let me leave him for any length of time if he knew what I was planning. Even if it was so that I could get well.....Especially if it was so that I could get well. Because he wanted me sick and dependant on him. I was easier to control that way.....plus he thought that I was less likely to leave him if I was ill.
So detox was booked - I just had to stay alive long enough to get there.
Minutes felt like hours. Hours felt like days and days felt like weeks.
I was an absolute nervous wreck - Knowing that I had a plan, but not knowing if I could keep it together long enough to go through with it.
And then it was the night before I was leaving him. And it was horrendous.
He suspected something. He was drunk and had been trying to pick a fight with me all day. His paranoia was off the scale. And this time I did have something to hide, which meant that I was even more on edge than usual.
So he started the spanish inquisition... which was pointless. Because I hadn't been out of his sight. And when that didn't work he changed tactic. And told me to take off my clothes.
We were three flights up - He knew that I was less likely to run if I was naked - I felt sick. I had no idea what he was planning. But what I did know, was that whatever happened that night, I was leaving him within hours.
And so I did it - I took off my clothes and I got into bed. Just like he'd asked. And I waited for his temper to finally explode.
Guardian Angel took centre stage, the twenty odd cans he'd been drinking that day finally kicked in and he fell asleep.
Needless to say, I didn't.
I didn't dare.
In case he woke in the night and the dressing gown cord he had been playing with earlier just happened to end up around my neck.
I just lay there naked in the dark beside him and I counted the minutes until I could leave.
And I did. The next morning - When he was supposed to be out.
I grabbed hold of my handbag with my money and my phone and my passport inside, and I walked down the stairs and I opened the door, and I ran.
And I caught the bus and I went to the hostel and I hid. And it felt like I didn't dare to breathe, until I made it to detox a week or so later.
And then I knew I was safe.
I've had five addresses already this year.
It's been hard to adjust.
But I'm hoping that where I live now can now be my home for a while. Because I like it here. And I'm settled.
So he can tell all his mates his little tale of woe when he's drowing his sorrows down the pub. And he can call me all the names under the sun on socia media.
Because I don't care. I don't have to listen to him anymore.
All that matters now is that I got away from him and his twisted fucking head games.
And I am never, ever going back....