Food, please and thank you

So, it’s 10:00 AM.  I have been at work since about 7:30 AM.  I have checked my email.  Nothing there for me to do.  I put six bottles of water in the conference room refrigerator.  I took two letters to the mailbox and put the flag up.  There have been no phone calls to answer.  I have heard one of the “professionals” in the office being passive aggressive and complaining about the temperature of the office (that person has a thermostat in their office).  I know one female and two males have gone potty.  I have shuffled and reshuffled the same papers around my desk about four times.  I have organized the wheat thins that I am eating into pairs.  I have hated myself 127,568 times for my many faults.  I am currently considering getting more wheat thins to eat, because……………why not.  If I do get more wheat thins, I will be able to hate myself like 54,789 more times before noon.  At noon it’s lunch time.  I have fresh, local black raspberries (my favorite) and vanilla Greek yogurt.  Totally healthy and good for me.  And as I eat that, I will PROMISE myself that this is it.  This is the time I make the change.  The time is now.  Stop procrastinating and making excuses.  How do I know that will happen?  Because it happens every day, at least once a day.  And then the rest of the day I eat my feelings, I eat my mistakes, I eat my unhappiness, I eat my loneliness, I eat my excuses, I eat my fear, I eat my inadequacies.  I eat.  The way I see my current situation, there is no reason not to eat.  I find my comfort eating, I find a long-lost friend eating, I find my emotional support when I eat, I find everything I need when eat.  Food isn’t going to leave me. I can’t disappoint food, I can’t hurt food.  Food gives my fat suit.  I have and will continue to pay dearly for that fat suit.  It will help me shut people out, let people see what they want, let people think what they want.  With my fat suit on, no one is going to get close enough to see the real me, to see the truth no one wants to see.  And, so you are aware, I did not get more wheat thins to eat.  I got goldfish.  I ate them in pairs.  

 

What do you see?

 

What do you see when you look at me?  Can you tell me?  Will you tell me?

 

Who do you see when you look at me?  Can you tell me?  Will you tell me?

 

Tell me the good, the bad and the ugly.  Here I am.  No filter, no make-up.  Just me, raw and vulnerable.  Opening to you.  What will you do with this? 

 

I wonder if you see what I see. Do you only see what I want you to see?  Do you see me? ME!

 

There are so many words I want to hear, so many truths I want to hear.  The truth can be messy, hurtful, powerful.  It can open doors and it can close doors.

Who do you see when you look at me?  Can you tell me?  Will you tell me?

 

What do you see when you look at me?  Can you tell me?  Will you tell me?

 

What do you see?

Ramblings

 

Please excuse me, but these are the ramblings of an old, fat, scatterbrained, wannabe loved woman.

 

I can say those things about myself.  I am old.  I can’t say midlife anymore.  That would mean I have another 50+ years of living.  I’m fairly certain that isn’t the case.  I am fat.  Society and medicine tell me so.  Even when the people who say they love me don’t tell me the truth, I know I am fat.  Yes, I am scatterbrained.  How can’t I be?  Who isn’t these days?  A wannabe loved woman.  That is also me.  This is one of those catch 22’s and probably most of what my ramblings and deep dives will most likely lead back to.

 

Feels like so many things are just floating around “out there”.  My girl is in therapy.  At least I think she is.  She started May 18th.  It is from 8:30 AM to 3:30 PM, five days a week.  As far as I know she has gone every day.  No real way for me to check since she is over 18 and an “adult”.  The last three weekends she has basically been gone from the house starting Friday evening through late Sunday night.  I don’t like it.  She tells me she is with a friend and ends up spending the weekend.  Is she?  I don’t know.  Is she with drippy dick?  I don’t know.  Someone suggested putting a tracking device on her car.  I honestly did think about that.  But, I need to do my best to trust her until she gives me a reason not to trust her, right?  If, in the near future, I need to make a decision to kick her out of the house or cut her off, or whatever – it will be because she messed up.  I will not spy and/or trick her.  Don’t get me wrong.  I want to spy, I just feel like I can’t right now. I need to let her go and do her thing, whatever that is.  

 

A very dear friend recently lost her mother (as did my husband).  I haven’t talked to or seen my mom since Mother’s Day.  It’s such a messed-up relationship.  She won’t break down and call me, that would mean she is giving in.  And honestly, if/when I call her at this point I will be subjected to guilt.  I carry more than enough guilt around.  But, what if something happens to her and I haven’t talked to her in over a month?  The guilt would be tenfold and would stay with me forever.  I can’t understand why she doesn’t see or refuses to see that I do all I can for my family.  I work to continue to support my kids and grandkids in things they may need.  If I didn’t spend money on kids and grandkids, maybe I could stop working – at least fulltime.  She stopped working by now.  She stayed home.  I’m not 20 anymore.  I do get tired, I do have aches and pains, things aren’t always as easy as they used to be.  I would like her to understand that.  I have tried to tell her.  She says I’m just making excuses.  She actually sees her great-grandchildren, my grandchildren, more than me.  But she still plays the victim.  No one calls her, no one stops to see her, etc.  I want to be more sympathetic.  I just can’t be at this point.  As the saying goes, “too much water under the bridge”.  I shouldn’t live in the past, but the past made into this old, fat, scatterbrained, wannabe loved woman.

 

I found another arthritis lump on one of the knuckles of my right middle finger.  I found one about 6 months ago on my right pointer finger.  My hands now look like my great-grandmothers did.  At least what I remember her hands looking like when I was 15 and she was 76.  I don’t like it.  My face is getting droopy.  My neck is gross and hanging, along with every other body part a woman doesn’t want to have hanging.  I feel completely unattractive and gross.  That’s the plain and simple of it.  I like one thing.  I like my eyelashes, and those are fake.

 

Do you ever tire of people saying they wouldn’t know what to they would do without you, that they couldn’t live without you?  I do.  If you feel that way about me, let me ask you a question.  What are you doing with me?  What are you doing with me in YOUR life?  Where do I fit?  Are you more afraid that I would leave and you would have to figure out that I actually did a hell of a lot for you?  Are you afraid to lose the comfort and convenience of me being around?  Is that fair?  I am a comfort and convenience for some of the most important people in my life.  At least I feel that way.  Old, fat, scatterbrained, wannabe loved woman will always be here.  She always comes back, no matter what.  You don’t have to reciprocate, you don’t have to show love, you don’t have to talk to her, you don’t have to respect her.  Because the old, fat, scatterbrained, wannabe loved woman isn’t worthy of more or better.  The old, fat, scatterbrained, wannabe loved woman is reliable, convenient, easy, a doormat for everyone to wipe their dirt on and move on.  What happens when the doormat is taken away?  What do you do with your dirt?  Think about it.  The old, fat, scatterbrained, wannabe loved woman wants just that.  I wannabe loved for me.  Just me.  Not because I have become a comfort and a convenience to have around.  Show me that love, tell me about that love, tell me why I should stay, don’t make me feel like a doormat or an afterthought.

 

The old, fat, scatterbrained, wannabe loved woman says, “tag, you’re it.”

Maybe

Maybe if I was younger

Maybe if I was skinnier

Maybe if I was prettier

Maybe if I was blonde

Maybe if I had big boobs

Maybe if I had thin thighs

Maybe if I had a flat stomach

Maybe if I had no cellulite

Maybe if I cleaned more

Maybe if I cooked more

Maybe if I laughed more

Maybe if I cried more

Maybe if I cared more

Maybe if I made more money

Maybe if I loved more

Maybe if I talked less

Maybe if I complained less

Maybe if I spent less

Maybe if I laughed less

Maybe if I cried less

Maybe if I loved less

Maybe if I cared less

Maybe if I changed all of me

Maybe then…

Fucked Up

Do you ever wonder if anyone really knows you?  Or do they think they know you because of what you show them, which would actually be your fault (well, my fault because I am talking about me here).

 

I don’t know why, but I feel like I need to explain myself, maybe redeem myself.  Maybe just try to make someone understand me, my choices in life, my decisions.  Just me. Here, now, today.

 

In five days it will be my 31st wedding anniversary.  31 years.  Some days it feels like 10 years, some days it feels like 110 years.  Three kids, three grandkids, way too much trauma and drama.  My wish for our 31st anniversary is……………he talks to me.  He opens his heart, his mind and he talks to me.  He talks to me about him, he talks to me about me, he talks to me about us.  He is open and honest no matter how it hurts or who it hurts.  He tells me he if he wants to stop or keep going.

 

And what can I do for him?  I can try, desperately try, to make him understand me, to know me, again.  Try to help him see that choices I have made, things I have said, things I have done, have nothing to do with him and everything to do with me.  I know, I know – everyone says that.  But it is my truth.  I want to take the pain and hurt I have caused him away.  I see it when I look in his eyes.  He doesn’t want to look into my eyes anymore.  I see that, I feel that.  The hugs are different, the kisses are different.  The feeling around “us” is different.  And I own all of it.  Things that have happened in my past have affected my present.  I don’t need everyone to understand it, just him. 

 

I am needy.  I need to feel loved, wanted, desired.  Why?  Because that is how I feel worthy.  Yes, I need attention and lots of it.  I need the random kisses, the occasional love note, a cheap bouquet of flowers for no reason.  I am constantly fighting the demons of my past, trying to convince myself that I am enough, he loves me for me, he wants me for me.  But, it doesn’t always work that way.

 

This will sound fucked up and it is. I still try to get his attention.  I know he knows it.  At least I think he knows it.  I have always been an open and flirty person.  It’s me.  There is no way he doesn’t see it when I go into my flirt mode.  I do it to make me feel worthy, it’s always been the way I am.  It’s like my built-in defense mechanism.  If I don’t feel worthy or loved, or desired or wanted – I will go into flirt mode.  I KNOW I DO THIS.  It is a huge fault of mine.  HUGE.  When he sees or feels this happening, I want him to look at me and tell me to stop.  Tell me that he loves me, he needs me, he desires me, he wants me, he is not going to leave me.  Yes, I’m a needy bitch. 

 

And I want to wrap myself around him, crawl inside him to be as close as possible.  I can’t do that, I can’t flirt, so I will eat.  I will comfort myself with food.  I know I will.  It’s just me, it’s who I am. Yes, I am fucked up.

My Girl – Another Chapter

I apologize I’m advance. I try to read and re-read to catch errors. For some reason this one was too hard to re-read.

It’s been a little over a week since the last major upheaval with my girl. I still don’t think I am fully comprehending what happened. What I saw, what I heard, what I had to do.

She went back to him after the last incident. You know, the one where he drug her with his car and beat her again. She signed a six-month lease with him for a shit hole apartment in an old house. First floor was my girl and drippy dick, second floor an old lady and the third floor was drippy’s uncle (shocking) and miscellaneous other derelicts. 


The last week of April I could tell she was struggling. The messages and texts she was sending were…..too happy. I wasn’tsure if she was trying to convince me or herself that she was happy.  Throughout that week she messaged that she was going to stop at some point during the week and also over the weekend.  She didn’t come during the week.  

On Sunday, May 1st, I was outside painting a piece of furniture. My other half was doing miscellaneous yard work. My phone rang, it was her. As usual the feeling of “what now” mixed with fear and angst shot through me.  I answered to hear my girl and drippy screaming at each other.  I had to scream at the top of my lungs to get her attention and get her to hear me.  She was pleading and begging me to come get her out.  He was yelling at her; she was yelling at him.  She found messages he sent to other girls, again.  That started the fight, but it always turns into much more.  She was completely out of control.  He kept threatening to call the cops because she was using “his phone”, the phone he got for her when he put her on his plan.  She was screaming at him to stop touching her stuff.  I asked her if she thought he would talk to me.  She asked him and I heard his response “of course I will talk to your mom”.  I can still hear his smug ass voice.  I said, “Hello, drippy dick (but actually used his name).  We are coming to get “my girl” and all her things.  This situation needs to end for your well-being and her well-being.”  He stopped me from continuing.  Drippy said to me, “please don’t pretend to care about my well-being, that is just disrespectful.”  I said, “Oh, I forgot you are all about respect.”  I couldn’t help it.  I asked if they could please stay away from each other until we get there.  He assured me that they wouldand hung up.

She called me back.  She was hysterical; dry heaving, crying, screaming.  I told her to stay on the phone with me.  We were getting ready to leave.  Just as a side note, it’s about a 35–40-minute drive to get to her.  I kept telling her to go to her car and get away from him.  Just sit in her car and ignore him.  She said she would.  I still heard them yelling and screaming.  

We are in the car headed to her. She is still on the phone, I have her on Bluetooth. She tells me she called the police.  I was actually shocked.  She was in her car waiting.  She was crying, wailing in emotional and physical pain.  Repeating over and over that she didn’t want to be alive, she can’t do this anymore.  This was the FIRST TIME my other half has had the experience of hearing her like this.  It’s not a fun thing to experience.  But part of me was glad, if I’m being honest. He needed to hear what I have heard for the last four years.  

She told us the cops were there.  I told her to stay in her car until they come and talk to her.  She is still hysterical.  I hear her talking to the cop.  She has her edge of ghetto girl in her voice and words.  I hate it.  The cop is trying to calm her.  It’s not helping.  There are two cops.  They go to talk to drippy.  She is screaming at drippy.  So much is being said and yelled it’s hard to hear everything.  At one point is sounded like drippy told the cops he didn’t want her there, and she quickly yelled back that she is on the lease and has every right to be there.  Good for her.  She was still yelling at drippy to stop touching her things and yelling at the cops to get him to stop.  I understood her side.  She wasn’t allowed to go into the apartment to keep things civil, but he could start removing her things.  

One cop stayed with her, one with.  I asked her if I could talk to the cop, he agreed.  I explained we were on our way and that I didn’t feel she would be safe if they left.  He asked when we would get there, at that point it was another 20 minutes.  I hear my girl yelling about one of drippy’s relatives now being there.  It was the uncle that lives on the third floor.  The yelling and screaming continue until we get there.  She was continually saying she wanted to die, she wanted to go to the hospital, she’snot going to make it, she can’t do it anymore.  Drippy was playing the victim card with the cops that were there, she felt completely defeated.  

We finally get there after what seemed like hours.  She was in the apartment getting things, there was a copy inside and one outside.  We talked to the cop outside, he was very nice and obviously saw through Drippy’s attempt to be the victim.  My girl had her car packed full, and there was more of her stuff in the yard.  We started loading up, the cop helped us.  While loading up Drippy’s mom showed up.  Just as cynical and condescending as her son.  She made sure the cop heard that she was at church and her son was just blowing up her phone and she had to leave church early.  I can only assume it is a church that allows illegal drug use, carrying weapons illegally and beating women.  We introduced ourselves, this is the first time we met or talked.  She went into the apartment to console her son.

Drippy tried numerous times to get me or my other half to engage with him.  We both refused and ignored him.  At one point my girl wanted me to come onto a porch area, which leads into the kitchen of the apartment.  There are a few steps up into the kitchen and a man door at the top of the steps.  I was standing on the top step, refused to go inside.  But I could hear her and would know if anything was happening.  Drippy walked by, noticed me and used his foot to slam the door on my face.  He made comments to my other half, all to antagonize him into a verbal or better yet a physical confrontation.  

We have basically everything in the cars.  The cat was the last thing.  My girl was maybe a 7 out of 10 in the hysterics.  My people are in the yard area, his people are in the porch area.  Cops are basically in the middle.  Conversations are being had about Drippy not being allowed at our home.  He wanted the same for my girl, but whoopsie! She’s on the lease fuckhead.  She can come anytime she wants.  I loved hearing the cop tell him that.  Drippy feels he is very smart in regards to civil and criminal laws.  Drippy didn’t like it.  So, he says to the cop that he would like to discuss a matter in private with him, because he wants my girl arrested for Domestic Violence because he has a scratch on his hand from her.  And BOOM.  She is set off.  So I said, if that’s the case then my girl will press charges for Domestic Violence as well.  That is when Drippy’s mom stepped in and told Drippy they will discuss it and if he feels strongly about it, he can contact the cop later.  But my girl is completely out of control at this point.  She is now screaming and yelling about $500 worth of dab shit that she just bought for him, and she wants it back, it’s in his car.  He refuses to go in his car – for obvious reasons.  She refuses to leave; I can’t do anything with her.  I can’t get through to her at all.  

At this point I have no choice but to manhandle her.  I basically have her in a bear hug, walking her out of the yard and to the car.  She broke free a few times, throwing things, yelling and screaming.  Drippy keeps asking about his phone.  She wipes the phone, restoring it to factory and I hand it to the cop to make sure it is returned to Drippy.  She still will not leave willingly.  Still screaming it’s not fair he gets to play the victim after all he has put her through.  I have her wrapped tight in my arms.  I tell my other half to open the passenger door and then start my car.  I get her into the seat, he has to get her the rest of the way in and shut the door.  I am in the driver seat and as soon as her door shuts, I put it in drive and fly out of the alley.  She is thrashing, pounding on the dash, the windows, throwing her body front and back.  I was terrified she was going to jump out of my car.  Oh, I should add that my other half drove her car.

I try extremely hard not to cry in front of her.  I couldn’t hold it back.  I was so done.  I reached my limit.  Nothing I said was right, so I just had to stop talking.  She eventually held my hand.  Slowly began to calm down.  I think her body was just done; her mind was done.  She was completely spent.  She has no more fight in her.  

I call her one brother on the way home.  He can relate well to her.  He tells her he will be at home when we get there and will stay as long as she needs him.  I also call a friend who is an officer and ask him to come to the house and talk to her about the domestic violence side of things.  He agrees to.

We get home.  No one really knows what to do or how to act.  We talk to her about going to the hospital to commit herself.  She just isn’t sure that’s what she wants.  Yes, we can commit her.  She will answer all the questions correctly and be released in about two hours.  And I take a chance of ruining her being safe with us at home.  

It’s eventually decided she will stay home.  She wants to be in her bed, in a safe place, with her cat.  I take Monday off to be home with her.  We talk quite a bit.  With her beside me I set her up for an outpatient day hospital program.  She agreed to this.  Five days a week, 7 hours a day.  She is scheduled for in-take on Monday, May 9th.  We have to help her make it 7 days.  

Throughout the day on Monday, I get her a new phone number.  I call the landlord for the lease; I have to leave a message.  I get no call back.  

Tuesday, I have to go to work, pulling out of the driveway is the hardest thing ever.  But she promises me she will not hurt herself.  Oh, shit.  I should mention that while my girl and drippy were fighting, before anyone got there, she was cutting herself with a scissors.  He actually told the officers that he “eventually” took it from her for her own safety.  E-V-E-N-T-U-A-L-L-Y.  

Anyway, I end up talking to the landlord, she is fine with releasing Hannah from the lease if Drippy agrees to sign a new lease in his name only.  She said she would talk to him.  My girl sends me a text, she forgot a motorcycle jacket and a picture of her cat that she took, edited and spent quite a bit of time on.  I get Drippy’s mom’s number from my girl and text her asking if I send a box with a prepaid label, would she send the items.  She said she would need to check with her son.  Before she responds about the items, she asks me if I am going to pay the rest of the lease or pay for the phone that he bought for her on installments.  WHAT? We had a back-and-forth text conversation for a bit.  Nothing was resolved.  

Called the landlord back on Tuesday. She answered.  Explained the situation.  She said she would talk to Drippy and see if he would be willing to sign a new lease in just his name.  This will shock you; he did not agree to this.  And he let the landlordknow if my girl didn’t pay her part, he would sue her civilly.  I fully believe that he would do this.  The last thing she needs is to be served with paperwork from him.  So, I am paying her half of the rent for the next three months.  Sent Drippy’s mom a text advising her, along with a picture of the letter and check I sent to the landlord.  Apparently, that isn’t enough for them.  Now Drippy also wants me to pay or the phone that HE bought, that is in HIS name and doesn’t have my girls name anywhere on the paperwork.  It just never ends.

I’m backtracking here a bit.  The evening of May 8th, my girl gets a call from the therapy group she is going into treatment with.  They are short staffed and cancelled her in-take for Monday, May 9th.  I did confirm this.  The next available in-take date being May 20th.  Awesome.  She got yet another call last week to cancel the May 20th appointment, again due to being short staffed. She actually stood up for herself and said no, she needs this, needs to get it started.  She had to settle for an in-take via zoom on May 18th.  My fingers are crossed this pans out and she follows through with it.  

I have no way of knowing if she is contacting him.  I check phone records and don’t see any of his numbers. But there are so many other ways.  I know that.  I ask her almost daily if she has talked to him, she says no.  There are days she wants to.  I can imagine after almost 5 years it would be difficult.  

I now have to figure out how to get my girl on disability.  I can’tkeep paying for everything.  Her car insurance is $280 a month, plus the rental payments, plus gas (which she needs to drive to her therapy and doctor appointments) and then there will be all the co-pays for the actual treatment and medication.  I have heard attempting to get disability take months, if not years.  I am still paying off her last commitment. And of all times, I decide to take a new job, and a 15k yearly pay cut.  

Anybody have any advice? I did contact a lawyer and got some basic information.  She has to apply, she will be rejected, she will have to appeal, will be rejected and then we have to get a lawyer.  We are now working on getting all her medical records to send along with the disability claim. This is not an easy task.

None of this is easy.

Okay

I’m confused.  I’m torn.  I’m trying.  I’m failing.

My girl moved out (again), yesterday.  She was home for 6 days.  She caused disruption, angst, turmoil, and a flood of emotions I can’t begin to describe.  I say she caused it.  That makes me feel guilty.  Did she cause it or did her disorder cause it?  Or is it both? How do I separate that?  How do I separate her from her disorder?  Can I separate it?  As much as I tell her that she can’t let her disorder define her; I feel like that is what I am doing.  

When I think of my girl, the first thing I think of, and feel is chaos.  I no longer think of my little pink princess.  I hate that.  

How do I know when I have done enough for her?  I don’t think I have.  Should I be making appointments for her to psychiatrists and therapists? Should I be picking her up, taking her to appointments, watching her walk inside, waiting in the parking lot until she is finished and then take her back to him?  Should I take her to another state?  Will distance help?  Should I stop working to care for her?  How far do I go?  How much is enough?

I feel myself breaking a bit more each day.  I get annoyed at things I wouldn’t have a year ago.  I don’t like it.  I drink too much, and I eat too much.  Why am I so weak?  Why can’t I get a grip and control both?  I need to feel in control of something.  With everything else that is happening around me, why do I sabotage myself by doing things that I know are not healthy for me?  Yes, the drinking makes me forget for a bit; makes me fake happy, makes it easier to pretend I’m okay.  The food is my comfort, as fucked up as that is.  

I’m not okay.  

I AM NOT OKAY, but my girl is worse.

And then there were none…

I never thought it would happen this way.  I never thought my girl would move out to be with drippy dick.  To be with the person who mentally, emotionally, and physically abuses her.  But she did.  It happened today.  She told us last night.  I haven’t let it soak in yet.  I took a sleeping pill last night, so my mind didn’t go berserk.  Wrong way to handle it, I know.  Ironic thing is, a few nights ago – I believe it was Sunday night into Monday – I had constant nightmares about my girl and drippy dick.  I was fighting to keep her; he was fighting to take her from me.   My nightmare came true.  And I hate it.  I HATE IT. I HATE IT. I FUCKING HATE IT.  How did this happen?  How is this the life she wants?  When she told us, I asked if she was sure.  I told her I am scared for her mental and physical wellbeing.  I told her she needs to do what is right for her. I told her I will always love her.   My door will always be open, my light will always be on.

Scattered

Scattered. My brain is scattered. My world is scattered. I’m trying to sit and get it all out. I can’t seem to find a place to start. There are so many places, so many things that keep rolling through my brain. The things that keep me awake at night. The things that scare the shit out of me.

I don’t know why I haven’t put anything on paper recently. Maybe because it makes it all too real for me. If I write it, it’sreal. If I don’t, I can pretend. Pretend everything is “normal.” What the hell is normal anyway. Normal, a preconceived idea of what life is supposed to be like, what you want life to be like. If only it were that simple. 

I apologize in advance it there are errors in the following. It is hard enough to write, its even harder to try to go back and proof and re-read.

My girl child. It happened again. February 6-7, 2022. He beat her again. She went to see him on February 6th, messaged me to tell me she was staying over that evening. I was at work (a new job that I have been at for only about a month). My cell phone rings and it’s my girl. I couldn’t answer immediately because I was talking to someone. She called back, I answered. She was crying and close to hysterical. She said they had a fight. I asked if he touched her. She said not as bad as last time. I asked where she was and she said she was in his car, driving to where her car was parked. I asked where he was, and she said she had no idea. They fought and she left. I pleaded with her to be safe, get to her car and lock the keys to his car in the car. I called my husband, told him what was happening and asked him to go to the parking lot where her car was parked and watch for her. He did. She never showed up. I tried contacting her with no luck. She called again, screaming, yelling, hysterical begging me to help her, begging me to save her, she was throwing up and dry heaving while she was talking to me. I got from her she went back to his house, they fought again, she ran outside and was at a convenience store and scared that he would find her. I have her on the cell phone and call 911 from my work phone. I give all the information I have to the dispatcher; he sends police. Her phone goes dead. She calls back from the convenience store phone. Still crying and begging me to help. The dispatcher tells me the officers are on scene. I hear them talking to her. She is beyond rational thought. I can hear the officers now yelling at drippy dick who found where she was. They were telling him to get away from her and stop talking and to listen to them. Drippy yelled at her for calling the cops. She blamed me. The phone went dead. I hear nothing for hours. I finally get a call from her saying she needed to figure some things out and she would be in touch with me, but she didn’t know when she would be home. Deep breaths. Trying to stay in “control,” trying not to freak the fuck out, trying not to let my new employer know what’shappening.  

She calls again on my cell. Upset, but not hysterical. She tells me that drippy dick was driving her back to her car, and he got stopped by police for expired inspection. The car smelled strongly of weed (shocking), and drippy was put through Field Sobriety Tests and then taken for a blood test. She now had to drive his car to the police station and wait for him to be releasedbefore she could come home. I offered to get her an Uber, she refused. 

I go home at the end of the workday. I message my girl a few times and finally hear back that drippy dick is driving her to her car. This would be about a 30-minute drive from where drippy lives to where her car is parked. She messages and says she would like to talk when she gets home. We wait and wait. We go to our bedroom because it’s getting later, and she isn’t home.  Again, my cell phone rings and it’s her. Again, screaming and crying for me to help her. She fears him. She got to her car, they continued to talk, and she drove away. He was now following her, and she did not know what to do. I told her to keep driving home, told her to drive to a police department. Again, she really isn’t hearing me. She stops her car at a gas station and tells me where she is. The phone again goes dead. I call 911, again. I tell the dispatcher the details of what has happened throughout the day and ask him to send officers to help her. My husband also leaves to go to the area where she is. Officers call me back. They can’t find her. I tell them the events of the day and what happened. I call my husband and relay to him that the officers can’t find her. He is in the area and sees the officers, so he stops to talk to them. I get a call from a strange number and answer. It’s her calling from one of drippy’s phones.  Her phone is turned off so we can’t track her. She will not tell me where she is but tells me she is safe and okay, and they are talking. But he is sitting in his car, and she is locked in her car and they are talking via phone.  We have an idea where she parks her car and my husband, and six officers are in that area searching and find nothing. She calls me numerous times from drippy’s phone, and the calls just keep dropping. I have no idea what is happening. Eventually, the officers must respond to other calls and my husband comes home. She eventually gets home sometime after midnight on February 8th. 

I don’t see her until the evening of February 8th because I had to work. 

Sorry, back up a minute. As the things were happening the previous day, I was advising my sons, so they knew what was happening. 

My girl messaged me at some point during the day on the 8th and said she would like to talk when I get home from work. I told her yes, we would definitely be talking. I asked my sons to be there as well. That way everyone hears what I have to say in case she isn’t thinking clearly, and she decides to go to one of them for help. She initially wasn’t happy that everyone was. I told her she needs to be honest and no lies about what happened. 

Drippy dick decided it would be a great idea to get them Xany-bars for Sunday evening (the 6th). She said she had never tried them before. They ate them. Apparently, they ate a lot.  She has little memory from Sunday evening at around 11PM to Monday evening around 6PM or 7PM. She knows they fought almost none stop. She showed us a few bruises on her legs. She was still very……. on edge. She said she could still feel whatever was in the bars was still in her. We asked that she tell us what she does remember. She knew they fought both inside his house and outside his house. She told him she was done and wanted to leave and was getting some of her things out of the back of his car. He was in the driver seat and when she reached in the back seat he started to drive away and drug her with the car, hence the road rash all over her ankle/leg. She remembered him punching her in the back of her head when she was trying to walk away from him. She said she knows at one point she was fighting for her life and had his skin under her nails when she came home. We all talked for about an hour. I could tell she was reaching her limit. She just repeated over and over that she wanted to sleep forever, she was tired of this, tired of making mistakes. She wants to be dead. We encouraged her the best we could. Knowing if we push too hard, she would flee. 

She has been at home since this happened. I know she has been in contact with drippy, but she has not seen him. Will this be her rock bottom? Will she want help this time? Will anything change? I am trying to get her to talk to a Domestic Violence hotline. I am trying to talk to her about maybe trying a wilderness program where she has no contact with anyone. Will any of it help? I don’t know. 

Watching her is hard. Hearing her words is harder. Not knowing how to help is beyond words. Seeing her beat up body is debilitating to me. She took a video of her body. The bruises are unbelievable. Her neck, throat, shoulders, arms, legs, feet, and head all have bruises. But I am sure that her brain is the most damaged. That damage doesn’t fade like a bruise. That damage is deep and permanent.

My walls

Each day my walls grow stronger, taller, impenetrable; my walls are my power

Reinforced by the hurt, the sadness, the loneliness, the fear

My walls keep me safe; they keep my heart safe

Safe from feeling too much, safe from giving too much, safe from caring too much

My walls make me a cold-hearted bitch

Walls help me pretend, help me keep going, help me disappear

Behind my walls I can show you want I want you to see; not what is really me

I dare you to get inside my walls