Where Do We Go From Here….

So here I am back in Huntington Beach with a pissed off man. In his defense (in this very rare instance) I can understand why. I have been hurled into a cyclone and I had nothing to do with this situation. I knew he would never, ever let this go and he didn’t. How can I overcome this? I am a young woman with zero relationship skills and the ones I do have only put me on the defense time and time again. We have reached the most explosive and volatile time of our lives. He would speak to me with such hate it truly broke me. I cannot combat this and yet I sat there and stayed for over a year. It was nothing short of tumultuous. First order of business was getting me another car. While I was gone he needed to pay the bookie a gambling debt, so for $500, he traded my Chevy Chevette to pay the debt. As stupid as it sounds, I loved that cheap little car. It served its purpose. But you can’t live in SoCal and not have transportation so I looked at him and said “I need a car and we are going to buy something nice since the bookie is driving a Rolls Royce.” We went to the Porsche dealership in Newport Beach on our crappy motorcycle. It was St. Patrick’s Day.  (A day full of irony in my life – another story for another time). We did not look like we could afford a Porsche so therefore not a single salesman approached us. He looked at me and said “Let’s go home and get the car.” We arrived back to the dealership where we were greeted by a now eager salesman. Here’s how it went down. I looked at him and said I want a 944 and I want it in Red. He pointed across the lot and said there is one over there. I said “Great, I’ll take it.” He looked at me and asked if I wanted to test drive it. I said “Nope. I’m going to write you a big, fat check and then I’m driving it off the lot.” That’s how that went down. My foot never touched that clutch until we signed the paperwork. That car was the shit to drive. I honestly loved it because of how it felt going very fast (insert smiley face here). The bigger problem was that he really loved that car. I am pretty sure he loved it more than me. Whenever he was driving he would tell me that I could not look at anyone to our right or left. He didn’t want us to acknowledge the people that stared at us. I believe you call that egomania. He was serious. He was reaching full blown asshole stage. How were we better than anyone else? Because we were sitting in a Porsche? Please. Spare me. Our dining room table cost $25 at a yard sale and the chairs were plastic all because his mom didn’t think we deserved a new table. And yet we are driving around in a Porsche. Get over yourself buddy.

The Porsche was my transportation. It was my car. We had several other vehicles. Some company car piece of crap. A Subaru and this kick ass Monte Carlo. That car was so awesome. I actually spotted one the other day and I almost pulled into the parking lot just to have another look. But I digress…That Porsche became something very defining between us so I knew I better enjoy that ride because I knew he would be taking it away. Until then I had a routine with that car. Every single day before work I would turn down Goldenwest Blvd and go straight down to PCH and just open it up. I knew to enjoy every day because my days were numbered from the time I landed at LAX. Anyhow, I would get her into 5th gear quickly and just cruise for a bit until I got to Warner Avenue and then I would head into work. I always pulled into the parking lot like a bat out of hell and I would draw a tight circle through the lot and screech to a halt in my parking spot. Everyone at work would always look at me in amazement. I would respond with “Hey, it’s a high performance vehicle.” That’s my dark side and I was there. Pushing. Challenging. Knowing that this car meant so much to him was every reason to drive it that hard. He also had a routine. Every day when I arrived to work he would call me there to see if the car was okay. Yep! Not if I was okay but checking on the car. He checked it constantly for scratches. Kept it impeccably clean and I drove the snot out of it. Who calls to check on a car? Our time together became impossible. I was back to being the slave wife. Every Sunday I had to do his laundry and iron all his pants and shirts. That was my entire day. His agitation with me just grew and one Sunday as I finished ironing a pair of his pants, he walked over to the ironing board and grabbed them and started yelling that the crease was not lined up the right way. To solidify his anger and disappointment with me he proceeded to rip them in half and throw them at me. It was that moment when inside my head I thought “Wow, we have reached that point. Here comes the aggression. I am not sticking around to be the receiver of physical abuse.” That moment truly scared me. They way he spoke to me just got worse. He would even call my girlfriends horrible, horrible names. This man will never love me. All I remember is the next outburst a few days later he whipped the checkbook at my face. I was out. Done. I could tell something else was bringing him to this spot and one morning in his maniacal routine of laying out his clothes perfectly, I noticed his wedding ring was not on the bathroom sink. I confronted him and asked where it was. He told me it was in the trunk of the car. I marched right outside, opened the trunk, took out the ring and walked in and told him he will never put that back on his finger again. Then of course he replied with “That Porsche is mine! All of this is mine!” Guess what asshole? You can have it all. I hope you choke on it. And so…that was the day I called my mom and said “I’m coming home. I don’t know how I will get out of here or when, but I promise I will be home before the end of the year.” Now to figure this crap out again. Are you counting how many times I’ve left California? I’m going for #2 but this time it’s going to be for all the marbles.

He won. He took the joy from my world. He hurt me more than any man I’ve ever known. When you make excuses for someone else’s bad behavior toward you, you are giving them permission to hurt you. You are saying “It’s okay to verbally and/or physically abuse me. I have no more worth to anyone else because you’ve made me worthless.” I know that so many women struggle with the moment of how to leave. Trust me. I get it. It was the hardest thing to do because I knew he would keep everything because that hurts too. I knew I would leave with nothing but my clothes. I had to just leave. That company. The car. My pet. My personal things I took from childhood when I moved there. All of it. It boiled down to what I could pack in my car (which he replaced because he got rid of the Porsche.)

…we are almost to the end of this story

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