From Hell.

Looking back at some older posts, I came across my description of how any attempt from me to get to the truth of things, would end. 

His threats to walk out when I tried to talk about how I was feeling because I didn't know the truth, went beyond my threshold of endurance. I believe now that albeit unconsciously, he did this to prove his point 'that I was too mad' . And he had to see it this way because this narrative was theirs - this narrative was precious for him.

Devastating for me.

Weaponized epistemic injustice...

Otherwise known as gaslighting.

It took me seven months to get to this place. 

Seven months of being lied to.

Seven months because I couldn't just shut up, I would not let him verbally abuse me without showing him how much it hurt me, without speaking up for myself. At the time I wouldn't act as if the visions I had, the feelings I had were untrue. I would not internalise his view, I would not call myself mad. 

But it was a close thing.

Six months later, in May 2020 I discovered that he had been lying to me for a year, and that in November 2019 he had started  'giving her lifts home' and going into her home while her husband was away.

When I found out the truth the feeling of relief was indescribable. My visions and feelings had been startlingly accurate. Everything now made sense. I could be OK.

But back in November 2019 the sense of it, the aura of it, the feeling of it made me feel as if I was living with Blue Beard. Intuition and common sense had placed the key in my hand, and I kept on trying to open the door so I could see what was actually happening, so I could take back control of my reality. He knew that I'd would never have agreed to marry a Bluebeard - he knew that. 

So he'd lied to me when I asked him to tell me why I should be his.

When I found out the truth I could see that it was as if our marriage had taken place under a contract in which someone had already agreed for me that I'd never show distress or fear or pain when my husband was elsewhere, doing what ever he pleased with whoever. 

I had of course asked that when we had problems, we would re-negotiate. I'd asked for us to agree to be together, never to lie or pretend about devastating things that could have health implications.

In the Bluebeard story, the locked room is full of the bodies of his murdered wives. Now, in November 2019 he was murdering his love for me, murdering his image of me as 'the one'. The key was my way out. The door was blocked, I was trapped watching him psychologically dismember me...

How did this play out in his mind?

He couldn't bring himself to tell me that 'he'd found THE ONE again....' 

He couldn't tell me that his experiment of living with someone from a different culture, hadn't worked. 

He couldn't tell me that he wanted to go home now - partially because his homelife as a child had been empty and cold. 

And he knew what going back would mean - he would really be a person he really didn't like. 

He couldn't tell me because he thought that lying made it all OK, that somehow there would be a happy ending?

No he had to lie...or else we would both see the situation as it is!

The best I can say about him is that in Jungian terms, he found the courage to embrace his shadow. By stepping into his dad's role, by accepting that he actually is the person who he wanted to love him, to see himself as the person he needed, to become a person who cannot provide wisdom and protection. 

He stepped into his own shadow - accepting through enacting - negligence, prejudice and cruelty. 

In his family, or so the story goes, it is the wife's role to be the protector (through lying to the dad) and to act as the cup of sympathy and empty folk wisdom!

You can see why our marriage ended!

I am so very glad that he has gone.

21st November 2019.

Please!

A word I've been using a lot.

Please.

Please don't do this, please don't be angry, please hear me, please help me.

Please don't be angry comes before.

Before terror, before Hell.

And I'm not hysterical yet, I'm not in terror, not yet.. 

I know that if he speaks to me with disdain and voice full of warnings I am going to start keening, I cry as if bereft, a woman weeping for her lost love. I cannot understand what has happened, who took my beloved from me? 

Why is this man treating me in such a cold, cruel way? 

I say, "Please, don't talk to me in that way" and he walks out the room.

That's when the keening begins; grief overwhelms me, the full weight of abandonment. I am a child again and no one will come...I cannot, will not accept his disdain - but by speaking up I open the gates of Hell.

The pattern is old and entrenched, and I am well into despair. 

"Please don't do this" is when he puts on his coat and says, his voice quiet and low "I'm going". 

That is when the tsunami of panic hits me and I shatter. 

At this point I will not, cannot let go of him. 

I hold onto his legs, I am hysterical. 

He says - voice controlled, quiet and low "let go, fuck off, just get off me" and I'm screaming in terror. As his tone becomes more angry he shouts at me "I can't even leave my own house, fucking hell, just fuck off!" My eyes are shut, I'm holding on to the fracturing edge of the universe. I'm holding onto nothing, no one. No hand reaches out. No kind word is given. Between my arms, he is nothing except a tiny shard of splintering mirror glass. Hologrammatically it contains all my memory of love. It fixes me above psychic dismemberment and crushing, above the taste of blood, above my absolute ending. 

I am hanging above slow grinding cog wheels into which I will fall if I let go.

I cannot let go...

The end of pain is nothing to fear, end of all hurt. 

I want him to kill me.

He isn't that kind of man, he doesn't hit me, he wont kill me. 

And I will not let go, and this is making him hate me. 

I wish he would kill me for then I'd be safe. 

I wouldn't be making living worse.

How did it come to this. 

Why did I say the wrong thing. 

I should not, must never speak... 

Now only death is safe.

And now is not safe, nothing is safe.

Grief overwhelms me. 

I give up. 

Black despair slows my heart, I crawl as if through air as thick as mud, upstairs. 

Lights off.

Into the dark where I crouch, on my knees, head to the floor trying so hard to be as small as I can. 

Unseen. 

Silent. 

Trying not to drown in my tears, and to not make a sound.

Silenced, bound and gagged in bonds of fear and poison.

And so dear reader, this is a postcard from Hell. I've been camped here, slowly traveling closer and closer to the inner circle of psychosis since May. 

I need to describe this to myself, for myself if I'm going to get through this...