I Would Have

30,000 Feet

Song for this chapter is:

30,000 Feet- We Three

"But I know that you're not perfect, 'cause perfect isn't real
But if something could be perfect
Yeah girl, it's the way you make me feel

*Isadora*

Isadora was half a bottle of American Honey in. Normally, she didn't drink a lot. But with what she was going to tell him, she needed to not feel anything. To not react.

Her pen in hand, notebook in her lap, dogs by her side, she begins to write. Her therapist said it would help her process everything. Sometimes it did. Not this time.

I suck with words, verbally I mean. So it works better if I write them out. I will warn you. It'll either p-ss you off, make you hate me, or you'll pity me. None of which I want to happen.

I should've left the first time. I didn't because there was this voice in the back of my head, "What if you deserved it? Maybe if you were better, he wouldn't do this." So... I stayed. I tried to be better.

I snore. Always have. Even when I weighed 135. One night, he shoved me out of bed. I split the back of my head open so badly I needed stitches. Probably should've gotten them, but they would've asked questions.
Should have left when he threw his jeans at me, he split my eyebrow and grabbed my wrist so hard I did have to be seen for it. A month in a soft brace for the fracture. Told them I'd "tripped going up the stairs". I don't know if they bought it.

When I got Ida, he couldn't handle her. He'd spend his off time not doing anything, despite agreeing to let her out when I was at work. I'd come home and she'd be in her kennel, she wouldn't have been taken outside all day, it would be a mess. The apartment would be destroyed. Nothing would be done. I'd work, come home, clean, mind the pups, fix dinner, clean more, shower, and head to bed to do it again the next day. Only for the next day to be a repeat.

We moved on post. That was my fault though. Our lease was up, and the landlord lost our pet deposit. She expected us to pay another. So... we moved. First week, I did every single bit of the unpacking. He was off due to COVID issues with his company. He did nothing but sit on his PC. Everything fell on me. I could leave for work with the apartment spotless, come home, and it would be trashed. It was like he was intentionally destroying everything. I can handle mess and clutter, he literally would TRASH it. It was exhausting.

I started seeing my therapist, and told him about the comments he made. Constantly, like:

"You're so messy. Messy wife."
"I want you to be thin, I want a thin wife."
"Do your makeup like this. I want a tiktok wife."
"Why can't you pick up more?"
"You should do better."
"Maybe if you tried harder I'd be attracted to you."
"I wouldn't get so angry if you were better."
"I wish you'd just kill yourself and get it over with."
"Fatass.
Bitch.
Moocher.
Marrying you was the worst mistake of my life.
I hate you.
You disgust me Fatty."

The list goes on. It was never ending. He would gaslight and trigger me and then laugh and smile like it was funny. I'd be in tears with Ida in my lap, calming me down, and he would be laughing at my reactions. He got off on it. I was diagnosed with ADHD, anxiety, depression, PTSD, CPTSD, and BPD, and it got worse. I tried to manage my reactions and how I handled it, I took the medications, and it still got worse when he'd treat me poorly. Like it was my fault.

We were on post when I was trying to organize my things for court. He was pissed off at me for having a day off, and he shot the wall behind my head when I looked down. If I would've looked up, it would have killed me. Maybe it would've been better that way.