Welcome to RMB’s Naked Pictures of Faceless People, a series of guest posts from diverse anonymous bloggers. (Read more about NPFP’s origins.) These are the posts that are jumping to get out of us, but for whatever reason — safety, embarrassment, conflict of interest, protection of loved ones’ reputations or feelings, or so on — we don’t or won’t or can’t post at our own blogs. Anyone is welcome to submit or discuss a potential post by emailing me at arwyn at raisingmyboychick dot com.

TRIGGER WARNING There is a trigger warning on this post for quotes of abusive language and descriptions of abuse. Please do not read if doing so would put your own health or sanity in jeopardy.

It’s Never Simple

There was a little girl, who had a little curl, right in the middle of her forehead. When she was good, she was very, very good. But when she was bad, she was horrid. –Nursery rhyme by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

It’s never simple.

Him picking me up and carrying me around for a whole minute when his sports team won. Sat out with neighbors on the front lawn having beer and wine and watching the sun go down, smiling, joking. Having a barbecue in the back yard listening to music and dancing with each other until it grew dark.

Him not speaking to me for two weeks for being five minutes late back one night. Me sleeping in the second bedroom crying myself to sleep. Pleading with him, sobbing, for him to forgive me. Him, shouting at me as I cried, insults getting worse and worse the more I sobbed. Literally getting on my knees and asking him not to dump me. Desperation rising. The relief when finally he said he would, but I’d have to work really hard now. Me, thanking him. The pain in my eyes the next morning from the sobbing.

We sat cuddled up on the couch watching episodes of Star Trek: DS9 every night. We’d go to the bar and chat and smile over beers. We’d go to bed and I’d lie behind him with my arm curling around him, lazily thumbing the curly hairs on his chest. He came back from work every now and again having been to the store and bought me a Doctor Who DVD. I once walked two miles carrying a box of heavy glass dinner plates because I remembered him talking about how much he loved the square plates at his friends’ house.

You stupid, fat bitch, he said. You lazy, stupid fat bitch. You’ve been in your bathrobe all day and you’ve done fucking nothing around here.
I have! I’ve done the dishes, and the baby was crying so much I couldn’t put him down to do anything else.
I thought you were getting a sling to solve all those problems, but no, it’s just more money you’ve spent on hippie bullshit.
That’s not fair, I have been doing some things, it’s just that I can’t do everything yet, I will be able to, give me time!
You’re a stupid, fat, ugly lazy bitch. You’re useless. Absolutely fucking useless. Thoughtless. Selfish. You don’t give a shit about me. It’s always about you, and what you can and can’t do. What about my needs?

We reminisced about the parties we used to go to, the clubs, or sometimes staying in to take ecstasy together, talking about everything and nothing except how much we loved each other, opening up our innermost thoughts and secrets. We remembered, or didn’t remember, what we’d done before the baby. We joked about the time he threw up in front of a cop in the middle of the city while he’d been coming up; we laughed about the time I wrote down the deep and meaningful thoughts I had on acid, which turned out to be garbage the next day.

We glossed over the fact that he’d take advantage of how loved-up I was on a pill, get me to dress up in too-tight underwear that hurt my drug-sensitive skin, get me to fuck him when I just wanted to sit and chat or dance, how in clubs he’d always make me go up to men to flirt with them to get more pills when we’d run out.

When I had morning sickness in the early days of my pregnancy, he’d cook me a healthy meal every night with lots of vegetables – “even if you just keep some down, at least it’s nutrients”. He wanted to keep the pregnancy test with the “positive” result because of how happy he was. He got his friend to come over to decorate the second bedroom as a nursery for the new baby.

You’ll have to be induced.
You know I don’t want to be. There’s no good reason, except that I’m two weeks “overdue”. They can monitor me every other day to be on the safe side.
And who’s going to drive you to the hospital then? I won’t. And besides, I want to be able to tell my boss when I can take my paternity leave. You’ll just have to be induced.

He’d sit with the new baby on his knee. The baby would lie on his knees, tiny little thing. He’d hold his hands and make him do pretend boxing. He’d smile like every doting father. He extended his paternity leave to three weeks by taking vacation just so he could spend more time with us. He was upset when it finished.

When the baby was just six weeks old he wouldn’t even speak to me he was so angry. Angry that he thought I had Post Partum Depression and this was why the house was a mess. Angry that this constantly crying baby would stop crying if I’d just give in and give him a bottle. Angry that I was using the baby’s crying as an “excuse” not to keep the house tidy and iron his shirts. Angry that I was still eating as much as I ate when I was pregnant. He was so angry and quiet that I went to stay with a friend. He said he’d only have me back if I took anti-depressants, made efforts to lose the baby weight and gave the baby at least one bottle a day.

When I came close to a breakdown after working outside the home full time for a year (not my choice but his), he was utterly supportive of me working part-time. He helped me with the job application. He didn’t say a word about me not earning. He came home from work every day and asked how my day had been. He made me a special meal when I got my new job.

I would sleep with you, but I can’t get used to your new shape, it’s a lot to get used to when you consider how slim you were when we first met. And I wish you made more of an effort. You just expect me to be overcome with lust when you dress like a scruffy Mom, with your short hair, no makeup, and how you go bra-free, not that it’s your fault they’re saggy but you could at least wear a bra when we’re having sex.

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And this was the cycle of it; he would be: happy, kind, nice for ages, then a bit cool, which always made me fear I’d done something wrong, really cool and quiet, ignoring me, then when I asked him what was wrong, because I couldn’t bear being ignored, he’d get angry, really, really angry, with hateful, hurtful, nasty words and the occasional glass of water thrown over me (but never physical violence), always laughing and getting worse when I cried, always trying to anger me to the point where I’d say something nasty to him in return, so then he could be utterly justified in the things he said to me. Then eventually forgiveness (because it was always me who was wrong) and even happy, and kind. And the nice, nice, nice bit would go on for a long, long time, sometimes months, once or twice close to a year. I’d think things had changed.

And I was frightened. Frightened of becoming a single mother (it’s hard, but not the end of the world by any stretch of the imagination). Frightened he’d do something to try and take my baby from me (I was right on that score, initially). Frightened I’d lose our joint friends (I did), frightened I wouldn’t be able to cope on my own (I can, and better), frightened of what people would think, frightened that no one would believe me (at least one friend didn’t; hey, after all, he never hit me so it wasn’t abuse, right?), frightened of telling him it was over and what he’d say. I was frightened people would think me a fool for not leaving earlier (do you?), for letting him talk to me like that, or a bad mother for letting my baby stay in that situation.

I was frightened of telling people, too. Because I thought they’d tell me to leave him. Because they wouldn’t understand that he was only like this very occasionally. Because I thought if I told them, and then didn’t leave, they’d say it was my fault. But I didn’t want to be told to leave him. I wanted to be told how to make him stop being like this. No one ever managed to tell me that.

In the end, I didn’t leave for a long time. But I did, eventually. And life carries on. I still see him; we’re still on speaking terms; friendly, even, to a point. I no longer think things have changed. I’m not naive and I know at any moment he could turn. But for the sake of our child I am friendly, even nice to him. I even have a laugh and a joke with him occasionally. You might think I should be fighting him in the courts for full custody; how can I let my child be raised by such a monster? You might think I’m lucky that he even sees his child; many don’t.

But it’s never simple.

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