I have waited months to pen those words. It’s over. It’s finally over. The months of heartache and pain gone.
Today was the last time I am ever going to set eyes on you. It’s been three months exactly since the police removed you after you threw a glass at me while I was lying in bed. I knew you were a violent and controlling person. But it wasn’t until I read the statement you presented to the court as your defence.
You minimalized the violence, the physical aspects at least. It never happened in your eyes. You blamed my anxiety for our arguments, told the court I was a bad person, and a bad mother because of it. ‘A danger to myself and others’ you said.
Then you blamed my sexual preferences for your behaviour. Apparently I came home from work, to find you and your friend playing the Xbox in the front room. You said I took all my clothes off and demanded you sleep with me, and apparently I said your friend could watch.
You said I was a bully. I called you names. Belittled your feelings. When in truth all I did was try to break free. For months, I tried everything. I told you I didn’t love you. I said I needed space, maybe if we lived apart things would get better. You responded that you were my last chance, and that no one would love me again. I’d be alone forever.
Sat in that little box room with my brief, I felt anger. Anger to the point of tears. It was in those moments of anger that my brief handed me a tissue and said ‘It’s his last attempt at control.’
I hadn’t been thinking clearly, if I had I would have seen it.
You didn’t have me. You couldn’t cut me off from my friends any longer, nor control who I see. You couldn’t belittle my opinion. Or more importantly, you couldn’t stop me from leaving.
The words on the pages, were nothing more than your last attempt at hurting me.
The irony is I know that whomever may be reading this, will have their own opinion. Hell even I know there’s too sides to every story. No doubt yours would be different to my own. No doubt there are people who believe you. That justifies your behaviour in some way. Helps you to believe your version of events.
You’ll tell the next girl I was a crazy bitch, the same story you fed me, and she will believe it like I did. I feel nothing but sympathy for her, whoever she may be. For she has all of this to come. Because in order to change you first have to accept what you did.
There is only one fact at play here, only two people in this world who really know the truth, that’s you and I.
The funny thing about the truth is, no matter how far you run. How many times you rewrite the story to fit your needs. Or how many times you tell yourself and other people that you didn’t do those things, you can’t ever truly outrun the truth. It will be there like the giant elephant in the room you try so hard to avoid.
Meanwhile, I’m free.
I may find love again, or I may never find love again. But that’s okay.