It has been only very recently, in the last two months, that I could refer to our relationship as abusive. That you abused me. I spent years explaining elaborate stories about how you were sick, you didn’t have a good childhood, your father was an alcoholic…all of this in my mind made it easier to accept how terrible you actually were to me.
Even in the beginning, in what could be called the “love bombing” stage, you were still terrible. We had to hide our relationship so people at work wouldn’t talk. It turns out, that was just so you could fuck other coworkers. I’m sure you told them that I was crazy, attached or that we were not really together.
You fed me constant half truths. Just enough to fill me momentarily. It became very difficult to expose lies because of this and you knew it. It’s why you did it. Even after you slept with Jan, you told me, “we got drunk and I spent the night, but nothing happened.” It felt wrong in my gut. But you were hoping it could excuse the awkwardness between us at work. I knew when I walked down the hall and she avoided my gaze that you were lying. She sat on the steps outside smoking and I walked up to her and asked if she had fun with you the other night. The look of pure shock across her face. I see her heart racing. Her friend runs inside. I make her admit everything to me. I don’t cry. I don’t say anything but “Thank you for telling me the truth.”
I told the boss I was leaving and I went home. Everything thing that was yours or that you had given me I took to the front of the house. I made a giant mud puddle and tore and smashed everything up and mixed it up. I cut cords. I snapped cds. I ripped up every letter. I threw all of it into my trunk and drove to your apartment. I tossed it all over the front lawn while the neighbors watched. I went to your door and rang the bell over and over until you woke up. I said, “You are a liar. Your shit is on the front lawn.”
This should have been the end of our story.