i wouldn’t wish me on anyone

I am sure reading that phrase would anyone¬†counter by telling me I must have little to no self esteem to say something this drastic. Perhaps, or maybe it is the fact that I am looking at things from a more realistic perspective. I am viewing myself and my “issues” from outside my misery and outside my own box. These are the facts.

Simply being in a relationship with a person who has endured any sort of trauma is taxing. Then there is the task of maintaining said relationship. Have you ever tried to or seen someone else attempt to corner and cage a wild animal? All the darting back and forth, constantly watching and waiting for them to run in an unexpected diretion to escape is taxing to say the least. An abused soul is not much different. It is damaged, distrusting, fearful, doubtful, slightly unhinged, jumpy, sensitive, unpredictable, on one minute, then off the next. I am speaking for myself here since I am sure others would speak differently of their own experiences. Even attempting a relationship with that hot mess, for lack of a better term, is asking for trouble.

I never thought of myself as needy until the last 6 months when my brain began to connect the pieces of the puzzle that was supposed to be my memory. Now, I am needy AF. No, you can’t say that because my dad used to say that all the time. Please don’t do that with your face (yes, I said that). My dad used to do that when he would make fun of me for “being fat” or not knowing what my face was doing when I was scared out of my mind. Don’t scratch your hairy leg. Not because the sound itself is vomit inducing but rather because the memories it brings flooding back are enough to make me wretch. Please don’t raise yell at me. I know to you it is only speaking a little louder (to match my volume, you say) but my brain interprets it as yelling. Don’t joke with me. I take everything as 100% serious especially when I try to read your face and it gives nothing away. There are the playful gestures that make me flinch and shield my face like you really were going to throw that object or your fist into my face. Those are out as well. You need to pay attention to me because I feel neglected. But don’t pay too much attention to me. I feel smothered and controlled. This is just the tip of the iceberg. Asking someone to stay in a relationship when they have an impossibly long and ever-growing list of “rules of engagement (or NOT engagement) seems selfish to me. And I know in the back of his mind he agrees because he has not minced words a time or two. “I can’t keep track of all these rules you have. They are always changing” thus the unpredictability.

Yes, my self esteem may be a little (or lot) damaged. But in all reality, who in their right mind would take THAT on?!? Who wants to deal with the depression, the flash-backs, the muffled sobbing on random nights, the refusal to say what is wrong? Who wants to keep asking what to do when they are pushed away repeatedly only to be pulled back in and accused of not caring? Who wants to be told they don’t understand and can’t understand but still expected to try? Who wants to be married to cray-cray? No one. The answer is no damn one. If I had any idea how much damage had been done, I would have run far, far away in hopes that the damage wouldn’t cascade down onto yet another generation. I suppose I am a little late, though.

This doesn’t mean I am giving up or quitting.¬† I am simply taking a very raw, very real look at the ugly aftermath of abuse. I will give everything I have but in the end, I can’t ask perfection of someone who isn’t perfect. When he walks in the door some day and says he’s done or just doesn’t come home at all, I can’t say I would blame him.

(morbidly) Realistic,

me

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