I moved out of our house one year ago today. One year ago was the last time I sat on my old red couch. It was the last time I enjoyed the living room with the bay window, the fireplace, and the walls I’d painted the most soothing light greyish blue.
I miss the light we used to get in the living room and kitchen. It was bright and cheery and pulled the outside into our home.
“Our home.” I say our home but it was never our home.
It was a house that had potential. That is all.
It could have been a wonderful home. If I hadn’t lived in it with a manipulative, controlling narcissist, it could have become a beautiful home. As is, it was just a house. A structure.
It, like me, wasn’t allowed to have a heart or to have any life to it. It, like me, only existed as a status symbol to the Narcissist.
I miss it, though. I miss the couch, and the fireplace, and the size of the rooms. I miss the garden out back. I wish I could beautify the front yard and the house the way it deserved.
I can’t, though. That part of my life is behind me now, and it’s for the best.
One year ago today I had coffee on my comfy old couch with the gas fireplace warming the living room.
I didn’t sleep well the night before but I woke up excited anyway.
I was terrified the Narcissist might find out what I was up to and stay home from work to try to control the events of the move.
He didn’t and almost everything went smoothly that day. The movers came and took the heavy furniture and boxes and put them into storage. A friend came and we loaded up both our cars with everything I planned to bring to my temporary accommodations.
I wanted to be vengeful and she talked me out of it. I wanted to take all the toilet paper with me, in retribution for him having taken all the toothpaste a few weeks earlier. She convinced me I would feel better in the long run if I behaved with integrity, and she was right. We vacuumed and swept before we left. We straightened up after ourselves.
We did what was right because it was right, not because the Narcissist would ever notice, or care. He wouldn’t withhold punishment because of it. It was simply the right thing to do.
And then we went to leave and my car wouldn’t start. The battery was dead. We needed to wait an hour for AAA to show up with jumper cables.
There were a few neighbors out gardening that day. Not any of the few I’d ever spoken to before. Total strangers. When I tried to ask if they had jumper cables they were awful to me. Suspicious. Unneighborly. They wanted nothing to do with me.
Their behavior would be my last memory of the neighborhood I used to live in, the life I’d hoped to lead.
One year ago this morning was the last time I had my morning coffee on my comfy old couch while the living room was warmed by the gas fireplace I loved so much. Later that day, I was living with close friends who had agreed to take in me and my cats.
I wish I could say it was all behind me as of that day, but the truth is the opposite. Granted, I finally could relax a little. But the hardest parts were about to begin.
Once I was able to get out of survival mode, the reality of my experience started crashing down on me.
I had been in a high adrenaline state for so long. Emerging from it left me raw and shaken.
It’s where I am still today.
I am an abuse survivor. I am recovering from being in an abusive relationship.
I suffer from PTSD and depressive tendencies as a result of Narcissistic abuse.
This is my first time stating these words. I have eluded to it. I have never stated it bluntly. I am, even now, full of fear, guilt, and self-doubt.
It’s been one year. I wonder how many it will take until I feel like myself again. I wonder if I ever will. I feel it’s unlikely.
I was in an abusive relationship. I was psychologically tortured and broken. I became a shaky shadowy wisp of what I had once been because of narcissistic abuse.
One year ago today my recovery could truly begin. Today it still continues.