To my Pancakes

My fashionista girlfriend who bounces clothing sizes and loves to shop gave me five garbage bags of clothes. For many years after leaving “our” home I wore the abused woman’s uniform: baggy, dark, plain, nondescript, body hiding, hideous. I would have looked homeless if a funky smell were present with a few holes, and I put my head down with a hat and glasses. I am blessed that my lovely friend gave me all her clothes fitting my stress-induced size, too small for maternity clothes which I often donned long after the babies were toddlers. Adding the clean new clothing to my abhorrence for laundry and my inability to spend money on anything I deemed frivolous— not to mention the whole avoiding nudity thing— I wore the flattering garments.

This resulted in being seen by people other than my mother and my children. I  held my head just a bit higher and realized that I have not looked at a man above chest height in years. (That’s quite a great accomplishment as I stand taller than many of them.) I’m being seen as a woman again, which is no longer something I enjoy. More importantly, I am someone people speak to. My demeanor is not always screaming, “Please do not approach. I will frighten and scamper off faster than Bambi frightened by his reflection.”

My pancakes. I know--one is all that is allotted, but with my damage I am destined for a future of only pancakes. I will most likely not make it past the newly minted millennial means of flirting via the text message. It feels safer. People at an arm's length. I can no longer be touched and I do not have even a little bit of the former me who had faith in the decency of other people. I am not sure I even have faith in myself beyond the biological desire to protect my children at all costs to myself. To the Perv and Tiny Tim thank you for seeing me as someone desirable, even if only fleetingly. 

The computer guru who must spend too much time on Tinder with his shockingly fast super perv texts. Our exchange of numbers was not a pretext on my part. I did need help with my tech as I had been told I was under surveillance with no ability to acquire privacy due to the self proclaimed skills of my abuser. A person I can only nickname. His powers being impressed on me to the level of The Candyman. That if by saying his name too many times he will manifest and wreak more havoc.

The single father I offered to babysit for. I did enjoy our flirting via text. I wish my subconscious had not named you Tiny Tim, due to the resemblance you had to the horrid human I shared my life with. You scared off fairly easily by my commentary on a _____ jesus and my feelings I admitted were misguided but present of my celibacy being tied to my children’s safety. You missed the part where I admitted I am aware of the flaws in my logic.

Finally and mostly this is the actual explanation I sent to my neighbor who refuses to be scared off. He left his number taped to my door with no subterfuge about his desire to date. I should not have replied, but I am human. I do like the idea of someone, almost anyone, thinking of me. I like having a person who is kind to me even if I feel that kindness is a crock of shit due to the damage I carry in my soul.

To my third pancake: thank you for still being interested even if your desire to still date me screams, "He must be another Con Man." No matter the red flags I blatantly fly in your face, you still reply. You make me feel like a special person while simultaneously I am sure you cannot be trusted. You make me feel I could potentially someday be loved by another adult not related to me or set up again for abuse. My feelings on anyone who is kind being the angel and devil on my shoulders. I sent you the message below and you still smile and talk to me, you continue to text and I reply with more baggage. I like you as a person and you seem nice and safe, but there was a time I thought the monster was nice. That he was safe. Instead, everything was a mirror of me, a lie. He ruined me. Destroyed my faith in not just people, but my God. He made me doubtful of the intentions of everyone. I sent you this message after I made multiple attempts to sabotage your view of me. I began by showing you just enough damage so that you would see who I really am without the help of the fancy clothing, but still feel inclined to call the police if he comes here to kill us and you hear our screams. I could have just written, “You seem nice and that seemingly wonderful attribute is now a Red Flag.”

Instead, I wrote:

Thank you for offering to carry my groceries yesterday. You continue to make me feel just a bit better in the fear and darkness I live in, the abuse I cannot escape because I have children with our abuser, forever tying me to a person who enjoyed and continues to relish causing me and the small ones harm. You seem decent. I wish I were still the person I was before I chose poorly.

In my fantasies, I have a romantic life,

but in the real world I have been hiding for years. I have only been reactive and not proactive, to avoid angering The Beast, the monster who harms his own children. I am still trying to figure out if I can keep the small ones safe in this state, where a child’s right to a healthy and safe environment is trumped by parental rights. He cannot ever be alone with either child. That is a hard thing to achieve. I have had multiple attorneys tell me that murderers and rapists get visitation going onto describe multiple horrific documented cases of abuse to illustrate. A top custody attorney told me, “The system is fucked. Your children are fucked. You are fucked. This could easily cost 80 Grand, successfully proving abuse, and the split at the end of a grueling trial most likely will remain 50/50.”

I would love to go on a date, but right now any alone time I have is devoted to my custody case to save my kids. The kids are why I hide. This is why I should never have stood up for myself. I should have continued taking whatever abuse he heaped on me in order to protect them. According to council, the courts won’t protect them, but I have to make them. I have no other options.

I wish I could go out on a date and compartmentalize all my baggage for one night, but it is always there. Every moment of every day. Every night as I struggle to sleep, waking with nightmares where the monster is hurting me. Harming the small innocent new victims I provided the Sick Fuck. I’ve spent almost a decade being severely abused. To find me attractive, you must have White Knight Syndrome (she says with a smile and no judgement) because I am a damsel still in the dragon’s claws forever impaled, unable to take a full breath, slowly dying.

This is way too much of an answer for a simple question, but it is who I am. Sometimes long-winded and newly upfront about the abuser who lurks and plots for the sole reason to hurt me. Uncaring for the life he manipulated into creation to achieve ultimate control and the life he forced both in creation and into entrance to the world to continue his reign of evil. I used to cover for him. Never again. I cannot be ashamed of what I let him do to us for years and still fight for my kids’ lives.