The Lost Letters: The Dark World of Narcissistic Abuse

Sanctuary

It's late. Everything is closed and it's dark. In the industrial orange glow of a solitary street lamp, I wait at the back of an empty mini-bus, its interior aglow in garish pink and blue neon lighting. I'm the last of the passengers to leave and am glad to escape its condensation-soaked interior.

There is a strong scent of wood burning in the heavy air. I inhale, grateful to cleanse my lungs of the ripe odour of unwashed humans. The air tastes of silence, and long, dark nights and quiet, unchanging days. Of a place locked outside of the passage of time.

A two and half hour flight from London. Five hours on a train, then another hour and forty minutes crammed into a sweaty mini bus stopping and starting its way towards Slovakia and the mountains of southern Poland.

Cocooned in a muggy drizzle of foggy air I eye the deserted bus terminus. It's very small. My bags hit the ground with a loud smack and my attention lurches back to reality. The mini bus driver gives me a dirty look loaded with Polish condemnation. I want to apologise for the weight of them but I don't know how. No one speaks English here. No one.

He slams the rear doors closed. It sounds resentful.

Without a word, he leaves me under that ugly orange street lamp, gets into the empty bus and drives off in a thick cloud of dirty exhaust. The handful of others who were on the bus have already departed for their fireplaces and hot showers. I am alone. It's very dark. Panic touches my spine.

What the fuck have you done?

I don't answer. Because I know it's not my voice. It's his. And I know if I answer, it will only get worse for me. It always does. He always wins. Even in my head.

Even now.

One year exactly after the day our divorce was finalised, it's still not over.

That's why I came here, to a place where I would be vulnerable, alone, and safer than I have been for a very, very long time.

I came here to heal, to write this book. But right now I am freaking out. Old triggers are lighting up inside me like fireflies, threatening to set me aflame in terror. I can hear his voice rising, mocking me, derisive, calling me a stupid cunt, and a selfish asshole for doing a stunt like this in the middle of a pandemic, saying I deserve to be tricked and left alone in the dark. That he hopes I die here in the gutter of Poland where I belong. I close my eyes to shut out the noise of him, to concentrate, like when you turn down the music when you're driving to focus on where you are going.

Just breathe. He will come. You are OK. You are not a stupid cunt. You are brave. You are courageous. It's not a gutter.

Footsteps approach. I turn, my heart pounding, fear eating me alive. A man pulls his medical mask down so I can see his face then he lifts up his phone and in its white glow I see my Airbnb profile photo.

Darek.

The brother of the woman who owns the flat is there to collect me as promised. I don't bother to hide my relief. I smile. Giddy. Elated. Safe. Safe. Safe. I practically run to get away from that street lamp, from the bad words that were inside me. But they follow me, as they always do.

But not for much longer, because I have a plan to end the tyranny of the toxicity my once-husband buried within me.

I have learned that in silence, there is doubt, and where there is doubt there is control. Words will liberate me from the lies. The pain. The sorrow. The hopelessness.

Words will become my weapons in this silent battle to restore my life to myself, and this fight is not only for me but for every woman who is enduring, about to endure, or is in the aftermath of her endurance in one of the most hellish scenarios imaginable.