My ex constantly criticized everything I did. When other people did the same little things as I did he would say nothing, but if it was me I would never here the end of the insults and harassment. Even things as simple as missing a turn or which side of a parking lot I decided to leave from.

I confronted him about this fact at a festival called Alchemy in Georgia. I asked him why he couldn’t afford me the same respect he afforded other people. At some point during the exchange he got extremely angry and stormed away. I stayed behind for a while, crying, and then went back to our tent. I had no idea where he had went but I sent a friend to check on him and make sure he was OK. Our mutual friend found him. My ex didn’t like that I had sent him so he proceeded to have sex in an orgy tent right in front of him.

Our friend didn’t tell me what happened, but my ex did. He came back, took me by the hand, and asked me to walk with him. After we got a little distance from our camp site he told me what he had done…I didnt believe him at first, but when he insisted I knew it was true and I immediately ripped my hand away. What proceeded afterward was long and dramatic, but involved him telling me over and over again how it was all my fault and I had somehow made him do it.

In the end he went into our van, rolled up in a ball, and started rocking and saying, “I just wanna go home,” repeatedly. Through all the pain and anger I felt I still felt worry for him as well…and it all turned into ME trying to help HIM stop breaking down.

I wish I had ended it all there. I spent another year with him.



The night that signaled the true end was truly horrible. I don’t remember exactly how the fight started. What I remember is him standing over me in the dimly lit living room while I struggled through eyes full of tears to stuff my few belongings into my luggage. He was haranguing me…who knows about what. He was insulting me and spitting in the floor. I said something in my defense and he summoned a big wad of spit to expel on my face. It landed in a nasty mess between my right eye and my nose.

At that point I felt I had to react…I had to demand respect for myself. I had to show myself that I wouldn’t be spit on and treated like shit. So, I stood, squared myself off and approached him. He scoffed and said, “What are you gonna do?” I reared back and gave him the strongest right hook to his left jaw that I could muster. It felt like nothing but I heard the crack of his jaw. Dislocated.

His muscle memory of hand to hand combat training went into action immediately. No sooner than when my fist slid from his jaw had he grabbed my arm, spun me around, and sent me hurdling toward the wall.

My own face broke my fall on the wall. I should say: My own face broke through the wall. It felt like nothing. No pain, but there was a small amount of blood. My lip started swelling inside with blood immedately. Then he came for me, backed me into a corner and we struggled for a while. He tried to throw me over the couch but I fought him…I balanced myself with my legs, which had a firm grip on the back edge of the sofa. I had many opportunities to hit him again. I wanted to smashed my elbow through his face…but I held back. I didn’t want to hurt him.

At some point during the struggle I ripped his shirt, which had been a gift from one of his family members, in an effort not to be slung across the room. I wouldn’t let go. When that happened, he suddenly stopped and began weeping and breaking down.

I took that opportunity to call his father, who immediately prompted me to call the police. I was still so concerned about his well being at the point that I refused…I felt I couldn’t do that to him. So his father did it. He called the police and told them to send an ambulance for a wellness check.

When they showed up, I told the ambulance I was fine and he refused to be seen by them. The police picked up the work from there. They questioned us both and heard both sides of the conflict. Then, they put him in cuffs and took him away…

Even after that…I hoped things could change. I hoped he could change. I stuck around for a little while, but things never remedied.

I’ll continue this some other time…


It’s been nearly two years.

Nearly two years have passed since I have been separated from the guy I used to write about on here all the time. I finally broke away from him and I’ve started piecing my life back together. I even have a new lover now, although I often question if I’m ready for it or if it’s a good idea for me.

The things I went through with that monster from before haunt me to this day. I really wish he had only hit me. The emotional abuse is what I can’t shake. I lost confidence in myself in just about every way possible. Most importantly, I don’t trust my own judgement any more. I feel like…if I could have been so wrong about the one before, how can I be sure I won’t make the same mistake again?

But…was I wrong about him? I mean, from the beginning I was wary of entering into something with him. I rejected him several times before I final decided to give him a chance. Maybe instead of not trusting myself I should take this as a note that I should always trust my first instinct.

The poor guy I’m with now…because I often question my own judgment, I constantly worry about if I can trust him or not. I always worry that if he’s mad at me, he’s going to do something to hurt me. Just to hurt me, like the last one. I’m worried that I’m not pretty enough, nice enough, good enough. That he’ll betray me, too. I worry about these things despite the fact that he has never sought to do me harm, has never betrayed me, and is endlessly patient with me. Sometimes I feel like his role in my life is to be some kind of criminal who has committed no crime.

That’s not to say there hasn’t been progress, but I want to work through these horrible feelings so that I can be the person he deserves again. That’s why I decided to pick up this journal again and try to write through the issues as a form of therapy.

Here’s to everything…


Something is holding her back. No matter how she digs, and scratches, and claws, she can’t reach what she needs. Would that it were only a matter of depth. If digging alone could get her there things would be so much easier. But digging doesn’t help. She digs in vain. Digs to dig. She digs like one digs through a bag but doesn’t know what one is looking for. She doesn’t know what it looks like or what she is trying to find. She could be looking right at it but she would never know. She could have touched it a thousand times. Still, she searches. Rifles around. Looking for it. The reason she can’t budge from where she is at.