It was pretty cold that day, from what I can remember. After all, February in South Dakota is far from warm. But I’m not here to talk about the weather. Although it’s easier to discuss than the abuse, I keep trying to push it from my mind on that day.
He’d just finished cleaning the horse stalls, but the bedding still needed to be put down, the hay bags stuffed, and the water buckets filled. I remember feeling extreme panic—the rage he was expressing, the vile words pouring from his mouth. I was exhausted. I had four broken ribs from a fall while trying to get on my horse, Cane, just two days prior. I hadn’t slept well the night before, so dealing with the verbal abuse was harder than usual. Yes, I said “usual” because this was a common occurrence with him. I never knew what would set him off. He’d always say it was my “tone.” At the time, I didn’t know—maybe it was me—but I was always second-guessing myself around him. It didn’t matter that I was hurt; he should have just given me some grace.
His mouth spewed profanities and accusations like venom. Things like: “You’re never fucking happy, no matter what I do. Why don’t you just go to fucking bed? You’re such a fucking bitch. Why don’t you just let me fuck you? That’ll make you feel better. No one can make you happy. You accuse me of everything. My God, I’m trying…” It just kept going on and on as I walked away.
I took my coat off when I got inside the house and sat down on the bench in the laundry room, my head in my hands. I didn’t want to leave him out in the barn alone, wondering what vindictive “accident” would happen this time, but I just couldn’t take it anymore. I just wanted to lay down and rest, but I couldn’t. Tears stung my eyes as I felt that empty, sinking feeling of despair. I checked my phone—a text from Elias, my son. He was already on his way and would be there around 7 pm. My savior, once again. My body filled with relief. I hadn’t even known he’d left yet. I’d hesitated to call him and ask for help again; this poor kid didn’t need to keep uprooting his life to come help me because mine was falling apart. Still, the relief I felt was euphoric.
The day before, I’d asked my narcissistic ex, Andrew, to come help me for a couple of days because I’d broken my ribs. He’d gotten a ride to my house since his truck was in the shop. I didn’t want to ask him, but I didn’t know what else to do. I couldn’t lift anything without being in serious pain. The day before had been much the same—the raging and belittling—it just never stopped. But there was something different about yesterday. We were both in the laundry room getting our coats on, and he looked at me with a blank stare, right in my eyes, and very calmly said, “Someday, I’m going to kill you.” This wasn’t said in jest. It came from the eyes of a cold, calculated sociopath or psychopath—I don’t even know what you’d call it—but it gave me a blood-chilling feeling. I’d told my son about it because I was genuinely scared.
This day changed my life and what I thought about narcissists. I realized that this wasn’t just a mean person—this was possibly a cold-blooded killer. I still had to take him back to his apartment, and when I told him that, he got even angrier and started raging at me almost immediately in the truck. As I said above, this was a usual occurrence, but now it took on a different feeling—I was in real, genuine fear as I drove him back to his place. I had to stop three or four times and tell him I wasn’t going to drive anymore if he kept screaming at me. It didn’t stop, so I called my brother. Immediately, Andrew started to try to appeal to my brother, claiming I was the problem. Then his whole tone changed—he was suddenly “nice” again, acting fake to hide the real piece of shit he was being to me. Once off the phone with my brother, it started again, and I had to stop once more. I was in excruciating pain driving, as sitting was the worst with my ribs and his screaming at me while I drove just made everything worse.
This is what narcissistic abuse looks like in its worst and rawest form. This day should have stopped me from ever seeing him again, but alas, as most survivors know, we keep going back until…
I’m Sherry, also known as SoulfullyWild, and I’m a narcissistic abuse survivor. If you are a survivor of narcissistic abuse, I encourage you to follow along with me on my journey to recovery and how I reclaimed my life and my identity. I hope that the pain I’ve gone through to get to the other side will serve as an inspiration to you on your healing journey. As the saying goes, “When you’re going through hell, keep on going.”
Until next time—chin up, Healing Warriors.
~SoulfullyWild