Possession

When I was around seven years old, I heard sleigh bells on Christmas Eve as I was trying to fall asleep. I knew Santa wasn’t real; I had always known that, but there has always been a part of me locked in that perpetual state of wanting to believe in magic. Likely, because I was never allowed to have it, so my child soul clung to it more tightly than it should have. Christmas morning, there was a fresh blanket of pure white snow on the ground, and in the driveway was a single golden bell.

This story, like most of the others I can recall about childhood, inevitably has a dark ending. I chose to let that ending go. I kept the bell and still possessed it with the intention of handing it down to my child. But somehow, this story is one with two inevitably dark endings. The second one is more difficult to let go. This bell, as well as numerous other precious items, remains in the possession of the man I fled from.

A handwritten note from my deceased father. A watch that was my grandmother’s and whose faint tick provided me with precious comfort after her passing. A stuffed cat I got on my first birthday. Recordings of my grandfather singing and telling stories. A ring that was my great-grandmother’s. And everything that belonged to my child as a baby. Mostly worthless to anyone else, but priceless to me.

The grief of being robbed of these things, which I wish so deeply I could convince myself were just valueless, has been more profound than I like to admit. Maybe it’s because I am not a sentimental or materialistic person, so the items I chose to keep were of profound importance. Or maybe it’s because I know he’s tried to tell everyone that I took everything and left him destitute, and the sting of knowing that he is believed.

And my cats. One of which was my faithful companion for ten of her twenty-one years. To find out in a court hearing that she’s gone. To be denied the right to retain her remains. To have been denied the chance to spend her last moments with her.

I got out with my life and my child’s life and nothing more. And still, he believes he’s the victim. What more can be expected from a narcissist?

Taking Up Space

I wake up every morning curled up closely to the edge of my queen-sized bed. Before I was with him, I had a bed this size for a decade or more. I had shared that space with other people, both romantic partners and platonic friends, and never struggled to spread out when I was alone. He made me so small, so timid and afraid, that even though it’s been six months (or more by the time I post this) since I’ve slept beside him, I still can’t find the courage to spread out.

Abuse is so rarely about the physical. It’s in the moments they break you down until they have control. They don’t stop until it’s complete control or you’re dead. And I learned there was never an argument too small for him to stop asserting that control.

He walked through our small apartment as if he was the only one there, expecting that I would duck and move to allow him space. If I didn’t move, either to hold my ground or because I didn’t notice him, he’d lumber right into me and then get angry and wait for me to apologize to him.

He was almost a foot taller than me and constantly got angry at me for walking too fast when we were out somewhere (especially if my pace was being set by emotions he didn’t want to deal with). I wasn’t allowed to have any spaces in my home set up the way I wanted them, even though I was the one responsible for cleaning and using most of those spaces. Before my anxiety led to the loss of my license, I wasn’t allowed to drive. I wasn’t allowed to decide what we ate. I wasn’t allowed to pick the music. I wasn’t allowed to choose not to smoke marijuana. I wasn’t allowed to invite people over (but he could). I wasn’t allowed to cope by zoning out on my phone (but he could). I wasn’t allowed to watch educational shows like TED Talks or documentaries. He had complete control of the spaces I was allowed to occupy and how I was allowed to occupy them.

He complained almost daily about the amount of space I took up in his bed. When I was pregnant and had to sleep with a maternity pillow, he seethed constantly and even though I still needed it during my postpartum period to help with nursing and recovering from a cesarean birth, he threw it out with glee just as soon as he saw an opportunity. I went back to being allowed less than a foot of space on the edge of the bed. I got used to sleeping with one hand extended in case I fell out. I got used to sleeping with a spare blanket on the floor beside me because I wasn’t allowed to pull the blankets back. On a few occasions when I fell out of the bed, I just slept on the floor where I was allowed to take up space on the cat bed that rested there.

And in the early morning, when I was awake hours before him, I wasn’t allowed to be on my phone or to get out of bed. He required me to be ready and available for his “love” when he woke up, despite being so exhausted that I could no longer tolerate his touch. He didn’t care. I was space I wasn’t allowed to occupy—I was his.

My best friend, we’ll call her Meriadoc, has taken to reminding me regularly of the spaces I am now permitted to occupy and actively recognizes and applauds the moments I assert myself in any spaces. Good friends make all the difference in the end.

Peregrine Took

I survived a lot of things without ever losing my innocence. I still managed to see the good in people and held that certain people were simply incapable of being anything other than pure perfection.

And then him.

Sitting across from my best friend I struggled to find my voice and fight back tears as I explained that I used to think she was one of those perfect people. I never saw a single flaw in her. Not a moment of weakness or a stitch of doubt in her confidence. I expressed gratitude in being able to appreciate her more fully now, but grief at having to. I liked things from my innocent eyes.

The conversation turned to that of Lord of the Rings and my love of the written character, Peregrine Took (no offense meant to Billy Boyd, but the book version is so brilliantly written it was not capable of being fully translated to screen). Tolkien, I believe, wrote little Pip so very intentionally. To me, he represents the true cost of war: a loss of innocence. The way Tolkien wrote him it is obvious he held him with a sort of reverence.

As I chatted with my best friend of the parallels I could draw between me and Pippin I could not hold back tears to realize my narcissistic ex was effectively the palantír of Orthanc. And my best friend, naturally, Meriadoc.

We change when we endure the abuse a narcissist is capable of. They take from us things we valued and they alter our world view in ways we may never be able to articulate. I am a different person now and I’m beginning to realize how much grief there is to process at losing who I used to be. I liked the old version of me rather well. I loved that me. And now I have to learn to love this me who is, effectively, a stranger.

Shadows

How can one place hold so many horrible memories? I never wanted to come back to this place full of all the fears I held as a child. To this place the narcissist of my youth tormented me.

But something inside me broke and I fell for his lie. I came back to this place again and he found space for more pain, more fear, and more horrid memories. Everything is tainted with nightmares and everywhere I go is the shade of trauma—a ghostly gray hue—even the moments I enjoyed and the memories I once cherished.

Sometimes the worst parts spill out into poetry and make the deep wounds beautiful somehow, but tonight there is just the murky memories flooding into my present and filling my body with recognition.

Sometimes the nightmare wins and it is not beautiful. And I find myself awake, living in a moment I wish I could forget, vowing I’ll never come back here.

But I made that vow before. How do I trust that I’ll keep it this time? How do I ever trust … myself?

Building A Bridge

Today I had a realization. I used to be someone I loved, and I strive to be a version of that person again. I have pondered and meditated over the last five years and the abuses I have now managed to survive, and what I have found is that what I truly need is not grief. What I need is a bridge. A way to meet my past self spiritually is to build a bridge to join myself back together. Something to allow me to be above what has happened to me, still able to traverse that space, but never required to fall back into it.

This journey is one that I fear, but one that is also filling me with a profound hope. I will rebuild.