Last night he came into the bedroom slamming things around.
I asked what his problem was.
“Fuck off,” he growled.
So I asked why he was being such a dickhead.
Because at some point, when you’re pushed enough, fear turns into defiance.
He told me he has to do everything all the time and that I’m a “useless lazy cunt.”
Four years. I’ve never seen him wash a dish.
But in his version of reality, I do “fuck all.”
When I said I don’t clean his side of the bed because he never cleans mine, he threw something at me as hard as he could. I didn’t even see what it was.
It whizzed past my head and hit the bed near me.
I laughed. Because sometimes laughing feels safer than flinching.
“Keep it up,” he growled.
“Or what?” I shot back.
That’s the part people don’t understand.
When you live in abuse long enough, you stop shrinking.
You get tired. You get reckless. You start daring the monster.
Not because you’re brave. But because you’re done being scared.
And the worst thought of all?
Part of me wished he’d just hit me again. So I could finally call the cops and not second guess myself.
That’s how twisted it gets.
You start needing the bruise. You start wanting proof. You start thinking impact would be easier than this constant psychological erosion.
Morning comes. No hot water. No way to do dishes. No way to mop. No laundry.
“Lazy,” he mutters. “What a shit family.”
Tells me to get out. Says he doesn’t want me here.
But I’m the one who cooked dinner. I’m the one who actually does dishes. I’m the one who faces the chaos instead of locking myself in the bathroom for four hours to avoid parenting.
He makes busy work. The kids tear the house apart. And somehow I’m the villain.
That’s the cycle.
Deflect. Explode. Blame. Demean. Repeat.
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