I trust you and you're my bff were the two texts that changed everything. That, and my hero admitting her side of the story are what's giving me the courage and determination to tell mine. Hers: Keep Sedated
Those two sentences; how to even describe them? It flattered me that he would think that of me when everything was going downhill, yet he was part of the reasons things were heading that way. On the inside, those words crushed me as I thought about what scheme I was part of: to destroy him. But those kinds of thoughts began to destroy me and I wondered if I should-DAMN IT! He still had me hooked!! No matter what he did, I couldn't let go. I still cared for him and I know that will never change, no matter what kind of mental anguish he subjected me to.
How could he have gotten me so hopelessly hooked that I never could, and never would let go? Maybe if I start from when things were better, I could understand...? Could you call nightly tortures better...?
Countless times had I stayed awake until 3 AM, allowing me only three hours of sleep before getting up for school. How many nights had I stayed up, trying to help him, just to fail? How many nights over and over must I be subjected to his torture while trying to help him, just to be told by my friend it's not worth it? How hooked must keep me so that every time he faked his death, I'd stay by him even though I knew he would be back; staying with him till he was silent, and I was in tears? Even though I knew he would be back; we all did. Yet none of us could let him go, just in case.
I ask how? I ask why? How could he have gotten us clinging to him, and why did he always have to hurt us when he knew how much we cared? To those questions, we will NEVER have an answer. That mystery will haunt us forever, creeping into our dreams to suffocate us as we sleep.
Night after night we would stay awake, over and over for about a month or two. We eventually adapted, or at least I did. To this day, I can stay up late without hesitation. More often that not when we were up he'd "die." We'd scream his name and beg for him to stop, to try and talk to us, but it didn't work. Being able to only talk to him over the phone didn't help. I longed to be able to hold him, to comfort him, to be able to put my hand on his shoulder and look into his eyes and try and stop this. How much I wanted to, but couldn't. I was stuck in another town, talking as loudly as I dared just trying to get him to listen to reason. No such luck. But he got me to listen to his favorite word: impaled. I now loathe that word. With a wispy breath he would exclaim that he'd been impaled. We'd scream for him to listen, to stop, to do something. But again, he wouldn't, for he was and still is extremely stubborn. All that waiting, all that pleading, all that begging, all those tears, all the feelings of hopelessness, just lead to another death.
After the silence, it was always the same. One of his friends would arrive just a little too late and pick up the phone that had dropped, open and on. They would say the words that have always stung and always will: "he's gone." or "he's dead." Didn't matter which. Either one hurt life a knife, stabbed in my heart.
Even when those words began to lose their meaning, they still hurt. It didn't matter that they were used 4 out of 7 days a week. It didn't matter that we knew they were coming. His control made them hurt. No matter how often they were said, no matter how much we wanted to stop caring, we couldn't. Even when others stopped, I always cared. Even when I WANTED to stop, I couldn't! Even though that I knew that night, or the next morning a text would come saying he's alright, or they'd somehow saved him, I couldn't stop caring while he was "dieing." when they say he's been saved, I'd breath a sigh of relief outside, but inside I was screaming at an inward battle. More like he'd stopped FAKING.
We became subconsciously dependent on him, never allowing ourselves to say it more than, I wish we could talk to him, or I miss him. He had power over all of us. Especially my hero and I. No matter what, no matter how many times I'd hear that he's dieing, no matter how much I believed he would be back; I stayed on the phone with him while he died. Even when one friend wouldn't, because she knew he'd be back, I would.
By this point, it was beginning the time of my life where I find tears a source of weakness. I wouldn't allow my self to spill them if I could absolutely avoid it. He was the one that it impossible to avoid. It was part of the power he held over my head, like a farmer, a whip, and some cows. He was the farmer with a whip and I was the cow. I could do nothing to control it. It's not love that keeps me devoted to him, but it's close. It might be fear; fear of losing him for real. It's indescribable, whatever it is. That whip is so close to me, that he used it without even meaning to, the other night. I don't know why I called him. Actions just happen.
One thing I am happy about are the days in which we live in, free from deaths, however not free from control. So for once I was having a peaceful talk with him. He made me laugh, I made him laugh. Almost like flirting, and even if it were true, I would NEVER admit it. I can't walk down that same road for a third time! It just ends with pain. Anyway, I made him laugh, and the response I get is: "You're adorable." What so upsetting about that is, it made me blush! Not on the outside, but on the inside. HE STILL HAS CONTROL OVER ME! HE CAN STILL ACCESS MY EMOTIONS AND CONTROL THEM IF HE WISHES TO. I STILL CARE! Many of you may not understand this, but those who have had something similar happen to you would get why it's so horrible that his one boy, can do so much with just a few words. However, one thing you might get is the anguish from one night that sticks out in my mind.
As usual, it was the middle of the night, and he was depressed; but this time was different. This time there was no knife to stab him, no gun to shot him, and no other seemingly dangerous objects. There was no grunting as the knife entered him, no popping of the bullet as it left the gun, not a single noise. No. This time what he used was worse: rope. By this time you may be laughing, but just imagine this. Someone you care about so much, giving you the private pleasure of hearing them hang themselves, and you can't even watch! You're just glues to the phone, unable to do anything but listen as they begin. To beg as they set it up, to plead as they step on the chair, to SCREAM as they stick their head through the noose, and to cry as they fling away the chair, hanging, coughing, and sputtering in mid air. Imagine all of that and you'll know what we did. I bet your not laughing now.
Unbeknownst to us, as he flailed in his noose and we cried those tears, (so many shed for him) trying to get him to do something, anything! To grab the rope, to cut it off, to stop! Something was happening. Through our now silent tears, there was a thud, followed by nothing. We waited, too scared to even talk. Eventually we asked what had happened. Neither of us knew. Neither my hero nor I. We were petrified. We needn't wait much longer for an answer because a moment later, he was up! And he was speaking to us with words that stabbed my heart, and I'm sure they hurt hers too: "DAMN IT! I didn't do it right!" The rope had come undone from its place on the ceiling. He was alive! But at what cost? More nights struggling to save another's life? The torture never ends! No matter how much we wish it could, no matter how often it happened, and how may times I'd been told he could and WOULD come back, I could never leave. It didn't and still doesn't matter that I want to let him go. Because part of me doesn't, and part of me can't. It doesn't matter the he no longer fakes his death, HE STILL HAS THE WHIP! HE STILL CONTROLS THIS COW! It doesn't matter that I'm forever grateful to avoid the deaths, I'm forever in despair that he controls that whip. I fell like I'm being plucked out of the end of Animal Farm as I finish writing this, but that's what he did. He sneakily took control, and even though he was questioned, never lost it. Why are we always connected to those who hurt us? Why does my heart STILL ache as I plot against him for what he's done? Why can't I just let go? Why can't I get rid of these Memoirs of a Nightmare?
Click for me>>>>>
That was all very saddening to write, then have to re-type because that is all 100% true. Same with my hero's and in case you didn't get the link to hers (which is just another side to it), here it is. Keep Sedated
If you have any questions contact me. I will answer them the best i can. EXCEPT NAMES! I WILL NOT GIVE OUT NAMES!
< !-- BEGIN CBOX - www.cbox.ws -->
< !-- END CBOX -->
