After four years of sheer emotional hell, I was drained. Tired beyond belief. Who could’ve predicted the nightmare that would follow after accepting a drink at a local bar? If only I’d listened to the toll of the alarm bells. But I was drawn in well and truly.
It all started one Saturday night. I’d been on a girls’ night out, celebrating a colleague’s new job. There was plenty merriment, music and laughter.
“Hey, Jenna,” my friend Sara said, nudging me in the ribs. “That guy over there hasn’t taken his eyes off you since we arrived.”
I looked over at the bar. There he stood. Handsome, yes, and immaculate, wearing a designer shirt and jeans. I watched him take a slug from his Budweiser, his eyes never leaving mine. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he continued watching me, then gestured for me to join him. I looked away, coy.
“What you waitin’ for?” Sara insisted. “Now’s your chance.”
I shook my head. “No. He must be looking at someone else,” I replied
“Snooze and you’ll lose,” my friend warned. “Lizzy is making a beeline for him.”
Sure enough, Lizzy, a man-eater with an endless appetite, was sashaying her way across the half-empty dancefloor straight for him. No man said ‘no’ to Lizzy.
We watched as the femme fatale made her move. She perched herself on the stool beside him and proceeded to run her fingers down over his chest, toying with his shirt buttons. Cupping her elbow, he leaned in and whispered in her ear. Lizzy stiffened. Next, the man drew the bartender’s attention. A moment later, he grabbed another Bud and a glass of whatever else he’d ordered. We gasped as he edged away from the sultry siren and crossed the room. Towards me.
“Hi,” he said. “I’m Asher.” He handed me the drink. “I asked your friend at the bar what you were drinking, and she said JD and Coke. Was she truthful?”
I scoffed in disbelief. Sara quickly excused herself and went to join a very dejected Lizzy.
“Yes,” I replied, accepting the drink. “Thanks. I’m Jenna.”
And that was the start of it. My descent into Hell.
At first, everything seemed fine. More than fine, really. Asher placed me on a pedestal, telling everyone how lucky he was to have found me. He’d sit close, arm around my shoulders, gazing into my eyes and saying how beautiful I was. He bought me jewellery, perfume, clothing – all designer. I was wined and dined. Made to feel like a queen, a Goddess. I’d never had anyone treat me like that. I was… intoxicated by him. He made sure I wanted for nothing, showering me with affection. And I loved him deeply, wanting to do everything and anything that would make him happy and proud to be with me. Before long, he moved in.
The fact I was a divorcee with two daughters didn’t faze him at all. He spoiled my girls, always buying gifts for them. He was attentive, listening to how their day went at school, or joining in with their interests; badminton, basketball, cycling and swimming, even playing games on the Wii. Everything was perfect.
But soon, the cracks began to show. Of course, I was in denial. I wouldn’t listen to friends and family who warned me that he was controlling. Possessive. I’d defend him. He’s just attentive, and caring, I’d say.
But, when my daughters started to comment on his behaviour, that’s when I started to pay attention. That was when I saw beyond the veil. Beyond his façade.
Why I’d refused to acknowledge his excessive drinking and compulsive gambling, I’ll never know. Violent outbursts that came hand in hand with his habits; shouting and screaming at me - and occasionally my girls, were happening frequently. Derogatory remarks as they escalated, grew more vitriolic with each drinking session.
I noted he refused to put his name to anything. No bills, no tenancy, no electoral roll. In hindsight, that was perhaps a blessing but at the time, it was …strange.
He’d throw me a wad of notes for housekeeping and bills, but before the week was out, he’d asked for most, if not all of it back. To sate his addictions. When he drank, he blew vulgar amounts of money at the bookies – horses being his favourite. And when he lost, which was a common occurrence, he drank all the more. Then, he gambled to recoup his losses. And drank again. A never-ending spiral of self-destruction. And I was caught up in the vortex.
Weight fell off me rapidly, just like Stephen King’s protagonist, Billy Halleck, in the book ‘Thinner’ after he was cursed by an old Romani man. I can honestly say, I, too, felt cursed. By Asher! Migraines and countless other ailments lay siege to my body and my nerves were rapidly splintering. Like shards of glass, brittle and fragile.
Asher’s demands, verbal abuse, and destructive addictions all contributed to a gradual and persistent decline in my health. He’d even emptied my bank account three times, promising to give me the money back, of course - which he did - but then asked for it back again when yet another gambling faux pas flushed his finances down the Swanee. I ended up paying bank charges and dealing with subsequent demands for bills that had gone unpaid. Everything had gone from roses to shit in less than two years.
I stopped socialising with him, I couldn’t face his drunkenness, looking for a fight when there was none to be had, bringing me down in front of people. So, he went out alone while I stayed at home waiting for the call, “Pick me up. Now!”
Physical abuse would’ve been better, I thought. Those scars would heal. But the mental ones – they remained as he steadily and brutally whittled me down. Especially when I’d sob and say I couldn’t take it anymore, I wanted out.
Two years later, I was so weakened, so utterly defeated, broken by everything he’d said and done. I felt I was being erased. I had to terminate the relationship before he terminated me.
But how? I needed to do it in such a way that it wouldn’t make things worse for my girls and me. I was no longer in control of my life. I never would be when this egomaniac, who knew how to ‘play the game’ and could masterfully manipulate me was still living with us. There was barely an echo of the person I used to be.
I was too ashamed to ask family and friends for help. They’d warned me early on that he was a toxic individual, a user, and abuser, but I’d ignored them then. Instead, I sought support and guidance from self-help videos, which helped to a degree making me realise I was worth something; I could be brave and assertive and get my life back on track. Eventually, I decided to officially broach the subject of a breakup.
My daughters were staying over at their father’s when I sat Asher down to break the news. With difficulty, I fought any signs that would betray my temporary bravado. If he were to erupt with some spiteful tirade, it would be my undoing for sure.
But he didn’t. What he did, was a hundred times worse. He tugged at my compassion. He cried! Apologising profusely, his shoulders shook as he gasped and gulped for air. He admitted his behaviour was unacceptable, abhorrent and confessed to having issues that he shouldn’t have taken out on me. And he promised. Promised to never be that monster again. To mend his ways because “he couldn’t live without me.”
And I believed him! He swore blind to treat me with love and respect. Then, with all the tenderness of a truly smitten lover, he seduced me, and the rest of the day was a passion marathon, intimacy which could only be achieved through real love and sincerity. Or so I thought anyway. I believed we were back to how we used to be. Blissfully happy. Beautiful. I was euphoric.
And utterly stupid!
Within a week, he reverted to his true self, worse even, and with a tongue that would’ve made Medusa proud. What a fool I’d been. Yet, deep, deep down, I strangely wasn’t as oppressed or as broken as before. The healing process had begun, and I wasn’t prepared to simply back down, to lose what small piece of ground I’d almost made. Things hadn’t panned out as I’d planned, yet the exercise had empowered me. Incredible though it seemed, courage and hope had not entirely abandoned me.
I took the brave step of confiding in my friends. I thought they’d dismiss me for not listening months before when they’d pointed out that things were just ‘wrong’. But, to my astonishment, they lent me their support and advice. Even Lizzy came to my aid. She realised she’d dodged a bullet the night Asher rejected her, and she wanted to help me escape his clutches.
They advised I should see my doctor. My mental as well as my physical health had been ravaged by relentless verbal and emotional abuse. I was fragile. They also suggested I involve the police, but I knew they would do nothing. No crime had been committed, at least not in the eyes of the law. It was a ‘domestic’ issue. Still, knowing my friends were on my side proved to be a tremendous boost, the catalyst that enabled me to forge forward.
And so, another opportunity arose, and I sat Asher down to tell him we were finished. This time, I had my shields up. I was not going to be suckered in again. The light was at the end of this torturous tunnel, and I would remain steadfast this time.
As before, he started crying. Crocodile tears, I told myself. Pay no heed. He’s at it! Surprisingly, it worked! He packed a bag and said he was going to stay at his mother’s until he found a place of his own. He left, apologising again for how he’d treated me, and saying he’d never meant to hurt me.
For four weeks, I was free. No more coming home to a monster who shouted at me and my daughters, or who pissed in the wardrobe because he was too drunk to know it wasn’t the toilet. No more demands. No more abuse.
Then one day, he was waiting beside the footbridge I crossed when heading home from work. His excuse was he wanted to give my youngest a birthday card with some money in it. I thought I was going crumble, for I hadn’t imagined he would try such a tactic. Yet, he was devious so it shouldn’t have been a surprise. I knew my daughter wouldn’t want anything from him and that she and her sister would be devastated if I allowed him to worm his way back into our lives. I had to deflect any trick he used to try and blindside me.
“No,” I said firmly and kept walking.
“No what?” he asked, grinning and laughing, following me all the way.
“We don’t want your gifts. We don’t want you.”
He exploded! Shouting, roaring, calling me names, itemising all the things he’d bought for me. My neighbours bore witness to his behaviour, all watching with raised eyebrows and shocked expressions. The moment he realised he had a rapt audience, he stormed away, still shouting at the top of his voice, of course. Humiliating as it was, I was so grateful that others witnessed his true behaviour.
Next, I received a barrage of degrading and threatening phone calls, text messages, and letters. He said he would post intimate pictures of me so everyone would see what a slut I was. He said he’d be waiting for me one day and would ‘teach me a lesson.’ He was truly unhinged. Rejection did not sit well with him. Neither did the fact he no longer had me as his Cash Cow to bully and abuse.
It was then that fear and paranoia became my bedfellows. I kept my doors and windows locked, bolted and chained at all times; curtains drawn. I wouldn’t answer the door to anyone. I refused to go out shopping in case he’d see and assault me. Physical harm was now highly probable. And I was terrified, for I now knew, his rage could lead him beyond a point of no return.
I called the police and learned that laws had changed where domestic abuse was concerned. It was a very large umbrella under which not only physical but also verbal and emotional abuse was investigated, and it didn’t have to involve a person actually living with me; it could be a friend, a work colleague or an ex-partner – anyone at all who posed a threat to my safety. The procedure now meant they no longer knocked at the abuser’s door and just rapped their knuckles. Now, they arrested Perps, took them in and questioned them, and if need be, restraining orders would be issued, and a potential custodial sentence could follow should the victims decide to take them to court.
The decision was mine, although they advised simply telling him they were involved, (they’d issue a case number and letter to show to him as evidence) and letting him know if he called, wrote, (even derogatory things on social media) or visited, it would be an instant arrest and charge. That should be deterrent enough, they said. As a further precaution, they advised a change of locks, phone numbers, and email addresses. I did everything they suggested, including contacting Asher with the news.
Astonishingly, the threats, the calls and letters and footbridge appearances stopped. Until the day he came at me with a machete. Fortunately, I was in my car, so I locked the doors. But he slashed and hammered at the tyres and windows. The driver’s window shattered, with the blade slicing my cheek.
I escaped with my life, but I was in deep shock and left with a nasty scar; a permanent reminder of my years of Hell. Asher was duly arrested, charged and incarcerated.
It turned out I wasn’t the first, in fact, three other women had suffered at his hands, continually abused, the same ways as I’d been, although one had been severely beaten. She’d been too scared to pursue it with the authorities at the time. Asher, it turned out, got his kicks from degrading, humiliating and abusing women. For now, at least, he could do none of those things to anyone.
It still took me two more years to build up enough courage to start socialising again and to believe I could go out without bumping into him.
The fear has never truly left me. But, with help from friends, family and professionals, I’ve managed to take back control and start living again.
Gracias por leer!
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