“You worthless piece of trash,” he sneered, his eyes glinting with malice. That was his go-to insult, aimed squarely at my deepest insecurities. He called me names he knew would cut, relishing the way they made me feel small and worthless. His dark eyes sparkled behind thick lashes as he twisted the knife, a cruel smile playing on his lips. This wasn’t the first time he had tried to dismantle my self-esteem; he had already laid the groundwork two years prior, professing his love, only to snatch it away days later with a simple phone call.
He came from a family that worshipped men. A grandfather who cheated on his dying wife, a father who crossed boundaries with his students, and a brother whose shadow he could never escape. When his sister took her own life, I forgave him everything. I brushed aside the years of torment, convincing myself that his past justified his actions. I despise myself now for being so naive.
The argument that night was my fault, of course. After both of us had been drinking, I dared to address our relationship. He twisted my words, viewing them as manipulation, and soon, we were locked in a brutal verbal fight. These weren’t just disagreements; they were vicious, filled with venomous insults. At first, the darkness of night cloaked our fights, but eventually, they spilled into the daylight.
He hurled sarcastic remarks that I tried to ignore, blinking them away as if my denial could erase their sting. I learned to suppress my reactions, thinking that if I didn’t acknowledge his words, they wouldn’t hold power over me. Little did I know, that only fed his belief that I was foolish. Over time, I began to believe him. I transformed into his version of me: stupid, fat, and desperate for his approval. I even found myself wishing he would hit me, to have a visible mark to show my family and friends—the charade I continued to uphold.
He was adored by those around us. Older than my friends, he was charming and clever, his Southern accent making him irresistible. He cleverly avoided crossing lines with my friends, ensuring that his facade remained intact. No one recognized the monster hiding behind the mask. He was my monster.
As was typical, the fight ended with me in tears, begging for intimacy. I believed that sex could mend the rifts between us, and for a time, it worked. But eventually, he twisted that too, claiming it made me seem desperate. My longing for affection became something shameful in his eyes, a trait that reduced me to a mere shadow of myself.
In my solitude, I would cry silently in the bathroom or scream into the void when alone. This was my moment of release, the only time I could let the pain wash over me and strip away the facade I had crafted as the girl with the charming boyfriend. I felt humiliated and mortified.
I conditioned myself to suppress joy. When he asked me to move in with him, I accepted, but held back any excitement, waiting for him to retract his offer. Later, I discovered he had told others he lived alone so he could pursue affairs with co-workers, leaving me isolated in what I thought was a shared life.
When he proposed, I declined, sensing it wasn’t genuine. Caught in a lie, he desperately sought to reconcile, and I was trapped in my own irony. He wrote songs for me, using them to manipulate my emotions and to hurt other women by reminding them of me. I would lie back and endure, laughing bitterly at the girls who thought they had him.
I became audacious in my efforts to gain his attention, offering threesomes and extravagant gifts, even resorting to stealing money. I never claimed innocence; I was molded by my monster into someone desperate for validation. He taught me to humiliate myself without remorse. I committed reckless acts just to feel seen, just to elicit a reaction from him.
He constantly reminded me of my imperfections. I had lied about my age when we met, following him without permission, becoming a shadow of the girl I once was. He was justified in his actions, while I was painted as a fool.
The night he punched me was a turning point. I was shocked, yet oddly exhilarated. Finally, his true nature would be exposed! But I was wrong. They believed his twisted narrative and branded me as the crazy one, a clingy nuisance. When the end finally came, I orchestrated my own escape.
On that last night, he confessed everything: the affairs, the deceit, and my insignificance in his world. He pleaded for my forgiveness but never for me to stay. My monster was no longer a part of me, and thankfully, the distance between us allowed me to sever ties completely.
Years later, I have married someone who truly loves me. I have learned to embrace happiness without fear. My self-worth has slowly returned as I move forward, allowing myself to love and be loved. My husband, kind and patient, has shown me that love is unconditional and that I deserve it. He has helped me reclaim my femininity and hope.
I still face moments of struggle; sometimes, I catch a glimpse of that old self in the mirror—stupid, fat me. But I continue to battle, and I will not let my past define my future.
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