It is intensely embarrassing for me; but if one person out there feels less alone, than it is worth it. Although I didn't get punched, the abuse is clear to see. It is important to remember that, because abuse wears many hats. A normal, healthy person would never treat a partner, a loved one in this manner.
It has been a while since I have posted. Things are grinding slowly along with my current case. Nimrod has asked for a settlement agreement, which I sent to my attorney today. I have mixed feelings on how I think this will go. In the event it doesn't settle, we are trying to secure a court date for August or September, which means that this could drag out past when school starts. More frustration.
In the meantime, I have been reviewing the diary I kept while the sociopath was still living in my house. Looking back, it makes me so angry with myself that I stayed as long as I did. Angry... because I should have had the foresight to get away... right then and there. Angry that I allowed someone as worthless as him to hurt my son and I. Angry that I was so paralyzed by my fear, so busy tip-toeing around that I neglected to take action.
Ten steps forward and one step back. I thought I was over the self-blaming for being in an abusive relationship. Clearly, I am not. I have come so far in my journey to recovery, only to find that sometimes I feel as if I am right back where I started.
In this example, the sociopath only speaks about 20 words, but his intent is clear.
I am in the kitchen cooking when the baby falls in the doorway and bumps his head. I walk over to him, kneel down and tell him he is mommy's brave boy, to let me see the boo boo. From somewhere else in the house, I hear the sociopath stomping towards the kitchen. I mentally freeze because I know that he is angry; he can't hear his TV over the sound of the baby crying.
As I wrap my arms around my little one to comfort him, the sociopath rounds the corner into the kitchen. He takes one look at us, reaches out, and pushes me over on the kitchen floor. I get to my feet and see the sociopath put his arms around my son, trying to hug him. I watch as my precious little boy screams and screams “MOMMY, MOMMY!” in between his sobs, stretching his tiny arms as far as they could reach, struggling desperately to get back to me.
I couldn't take it one more second. I reach out to take my son and the sociopath blocks me with his forearm. With an evil glare he looks at me and calmly says, ”No. He is my son. You will NEVER have him.” Meekly, I ask him to please let OUR son come to me; that there is no competition between us. The baby wants his mommy because that is all he has ever known, so of course his reaction is reasonable. I assure the sociopath that it has nothing to do with his ability to parent.
With a glare, he sets my son down on his bottom on the floor, stands up and says, “Shut that kid up- you have made him a sissy,” and stomps his way to the back of the house. I scoop my child up and head for the rocking chair. For the moment, the danger has passed- but I am so numb that I can't even feel relief that it is over. Just dread at when and how bad the next time will be.
Curled up in my arms, my son whispers, “Mommy, daddy is a Bad Man. Bad man. Why, why?”
To this day, I STILL catch myself wondering the same thing....why?