Ben.

It's ironic how the mind works. In no time someone will have you thinking you're in love. Or was it me who made myself believe that? Regardless, I was there.

I was heartbroken from the start. One week in, he cheated. It may not have actually been cheating though. He was still living with her and carrying on a relationship with her. She was confused about my role and needed me to back off. Pfft. A couple of months in this same "ex" tells me he is still legally married to a different woman; this turned out to be true too. He swore it was way too difficult to get a divorce. Every few months there was another, older child who he failed to tell me existed, nor could he place who their mothers were. There was this time he wanted to go a work thing, everyone was bringing their significant other; except him. He didn't want me there and some female co-worker had invited him.

All along the way were unhappy occurrences. He stole from me constantly, cleaned out my child's piggy bank, lied, spent my money after mismanaging his own, spoke badly to me and about me (if he even spoke of me at all). All the times he pretended like I was an idiot... or the times he claimed I was crazy; any of those moments should have made me run for the hills, right? Nope. I stayed. I stayed when he yelled, cussed and played mind games. I stayed when he broke my things. I stayed when he pulled my pajamas off and forced himself onto me after my clear protests; he only stopped because I was crying and it "turned him off so fucking bad." My existence simply annoyed him yet he wanted the things I provided for him and a household, like a vehicle and decent job that paid bi-weekly.

Finally, I snapped. Picture this: I'm down on my hands and knees, scrubbing cat vomit off the carpet. I think we had argued over who was going to clean it, I don't know, but tensions were high. He was standing over me and said "You are such a dumb ass." That was it. I set the cloth down and walked away, grabbed a box and started putting my things into it. All the while he screamed and threatened me. I. Just. Kept. Packing. Finally found another place a couple months later and never looked back. Three years give or take some. About one thousand and ninety-five days, wasted. Wasted in the sense that almost none of them were genuinely happy days. I wasted time letting my daughter see me unhappy and being mistreated. At least that's over now.

I wish I could explain what the hell had come over me. Was I on drugs for those years? Was I maybe in a coma and having a nightmare that just got progressively worse? I really don't think it was love that caused this. Love, as defined, is a feeling of deep affection or immense pleasure in something. Neither of those feelings existed after the first couple of weeks. I wasn't stuck. I didn't need him for anything, I carried him. I carried all of his crappy moods, his baggage, his untruths, the crazy. It was all mine to bear. Mine to hide rather.

I finally decided I had to tell my mom what was going on. In case I went missing I needed her to know he was the one who did it; this is one of the most terrifying truths I came to realize about him. He would follow me in his vehicle if I left home, put a tracker on my phone, and got physically abusive over being blocked on Facebook. All of this after I told him I was moving out. Sometimes I think about how truly lucky I was he didn't escalate to that point. I was scared every single night we were stuck in the same apartment with him. All the weapons in a home; kitchen knives, hammer, screwdrivers, our guns, bare hands. How would it happen? How would I die? Would he go after my daughter? None of those are thoughts people want to have but shit changes. It changes so gradually but quickly at the same time. I will never understand how I loved this person when I never should have.