02/15/2026
The reason I share this horrific memory from six years ago is for domestic abuse AWARENESS. I, personally, do not need reminding. I know what I’ve lived through, while still dealing with triggers and PTSD, but there is a chance this will reach the right person, resonate, and inspire strength and change. My hope is that, in sharing part of my story and what came to follow, it will empower the women feeling trapped, and they will know that they are not alone, and there IS a way out. Vulnerability, transparency, and accountability brings awareness, support, and peace.
February 15, 2020
Thanks to a friend, giving me a verbal-ass whooping, my response woke up something inside of me: my need to write. I have a friend I follow, but couldn’t bring myself to read her recent chapters, shedding light on her narcissistic ex-husband. She’s a brilliant honest writer… and I just couldn’t. Too close to home? Denial? I actually found myself lying to myself: my situation is different, there’s still hope, that’s not us. She’s so brave, and I’m too scared… and scarred.
If I don’t write about it, I will fall short, I will fall back in, I will lose what little strength I have mustered up and I will destroy myself again. Something I’ve been doing for over a year and a half, in a vicious cycle of torment and torture.
I thought my misery was at its worst, going through my last divorce. I fought dependency on antidepressants, sleep aids, and alcohol. I thought my last years of fighting, disregard and complete breakdown was as bad as it could get. I was so very mistaken. This is NOT about my ex-husband.
I did start writing again. Several times… and quickly sent it to the trash bin, deleted, crumpled up my chicken scratch on hidden notebook pages in fear of being caught. Especially… after I found out he was breaking into my personal emails. Reading my texts, stalking my Facebook. And he was convinced he had every right. My privacy was HIS to OWN. It was HIS life, HE was to have FULL access. Because I was his possession. An object. Not a person.
I set out to empower myself, empower other women, gain independence and make something of myself by following my passion. I made a grave mistake. Over and over again. I ignored red flags, I ignored warnings from friends and family. I even fell for the empty words and false tears of a narcissist. He filled my head, heart, and soul with everything I thought I desired. I fell for the blissful idea of selfless devotion without expectations. I believed it could be possible. Pretend spirituality and cosmic connections, embellished past childhood traumas that ate at my nurturing heart and what I thought fulfilled the need for me to care for and ‘fix’ a broken soul. It became my job, my punishment, my nightmare and, what’s so hard to swallow is… I allowed it to continue.
It’s too much. Too much to think about. Too much to write about. Too much to hear about, but… if I don’t, I will never be accountable to myself or my loved ones.
What you saw to be real, is what I WANTED to believe could be possible, the goal, the prize, what I was promised WOULD be real... after I fixed him, proved myself. What you didn’t see was the abuse, and I made excuses for it all. I even believed him when he said I deserved it.
What you did not see was the threat to take my business away. To hide my trailer. To burn my inventory. To mutilate my face so no one else could ever love me. What you didn’t hear was that I was a worthless w***e and a piece of s**t mother. That I didn’t do enough. That I was never good enough. That I could never succeed without him… nearly EVERY SINGLE DAY!
He told others, in front of me, that I was his inspiration… his muse… his cosmic partner… his sacred flower. He told people at shows that he built all of my art… and I gave him that lie, to help protect his fragile ego. He’d tell me all the beautiful compliments and how I was his queen… behind the closed doors too, down on his knees, snot dripping from his face, begging me to stay because I was the ONLY ONE who could save him… only minutes after he pressed his fist into my cheek until I screamed out in pain, followed by his massive palm covering my mouth hard enough my teeth hurt my lips, left bruises from his firm grip in my arm, and shoved me into a tub with wild eyes full of hatred… for false accusations. He’d leave to go get me coffee, as a show of devotion, and I would scream at myself in the mirror, smacking myself in the face, “what are you DOING to yourself?!?!? What about your children?!?! Think of your GIRLS!!!”
He’d come back in, and I would fall. I would believe the explanations, fall for the trauma that scarred him, and trust, and just MELT into submission… just give in. It was too much to leave. Better to love. He was right, no one would be there to help me like he does. No one could love ME! I was cosmically HIS, and I have no where to run.
He’d call, on my panicked drives back to my studio. After dropping the trailer, I’d run as fast as I could to my Jeep, lock the doors, and peel off. This was it. I was gone. But… the calls would keep coming, over and over, texts begging that he needed me, HELP him, he LOVED me. Pleading and regressing to that scared little boy who had been beaten and abandoned by his mother. His headlights swerving closely behind, flashing for my attention, threats to run me off the road if I didn’t answer. After hours driving back from a show out of town, screaming at me, calling me the most horrifying names. I’d feel myself draining out all over the rubber floor of the passenger side of that truck. Everything that was kind and sweet and innocent, left in a puddle, no longer part of me. My body soaked in the pop or coffee he threw ON me. Sometimes covered in chew and spit, caked in my hair and on my face. I deserved it, because I disgusted him. Because I looked too long at a male customer. Or I had communicated with my ex about our children. Or I had had past relationships before him. Or because if I leaned over too much and people saw too much skin. The vile and evil just spewed constantly from his mouth. I would beg him to stop. Plead. As I tried desperately to ignore the torture, I would contemplate either jumping out of that truck thatveas towing my passion and hard work (the only way I knew how to provide for my children), going 75 on the highway, to escape his terrorizing words… or beating him with a full water bottle just to make it stop. Because of my children, I stayed in the truck. Every time. Every show. For almost 40 weekends, last year alone.
Why did I allow it? I’m working on that. I sob violently nearly every day. I’m scared. I’m shattered. He financially and emotionally left me destitute. No, I allowed him to. I allowed him to isolate myself from everyone in my life, but my children, and destroy my self worth. Starting over is hard when you ask for help and you cannot logically explain your decisions. Not even to yourself. Being brainwashed to believe I am dependent on a terrorist, and he proves he is the only one who will be there for me when times are tough, it is hard to break away.
Because of two women in Cleveland, after seeing his 86 texts of pure hatred, and 42 calls within an hour, only a day after he surprised me with food and flowers at my show - hundreds of miles from home, thinking he was the cats meow, I have been listening to podcasts on Narcissists, two to three, sometimes more a day. And I feel like I am getting somewhere. Slowly.
And to my new friend. I’d call him my employee, but he’s not just that. He knows when I need a hug. He won’t bail on me. He doesn’t judge. He believes in me and knows I will get to where I need to be.
I don’t want pity or sympathy. I don’t need to hear I told you so. I won’t try to convince the few close ones he has deceived. He deceives. He manipulates. He’s brilliant and charming and charismatic. There is no convincing otherwise. But I know the truth and I’ve seen behind the mask, and I’ve been too weak to leave. I need to find my voice and strength again. Every motivating post I’ve shared was for me. When I started to get strong. A little push or plea to myself. But because I’ve been so silent, I haven’t been accountable. Not to myself. Not to my kids. Not to my friends and family. I believed him when he said no one could love me like he would, and no one would be there for me like he would. I was stupid, weak, and I was manipulated and brainwashed. I am ONLY writing this for myself, and sharing to be accountable, and hoping for some understanding that I allowed myself to be isolated so much that I felt I couldn’t get away. I’m fighting those insults I heard almost every single day. I’m telling myself I AM good enough. I WILL believe it again. I’m fighting the thoughts that creep into my head that he was right, I am not an empath, but a codependent mess who should have been left in the sewer where he found me.
I’m so sorry for putting my family in fear they might outlive me. I’m sorry to my friends that felt I tossed them aside. I won’t make excuses, but I will tell you all I AM trying. Trying to pick up the shattered pieces of my self esteem, my heart. The constant bombardment stopped long enough for me to have clarification, then the self doubt came back in, and I allowed the torment to continue.
This is the only way I know how, putting it down for all to see, making myself accountable, now I don’t have the choice to fall back again. Because I am right there on the edge, but desperate to end this cycle, reaching out for dear life. Finding my voice again.
