I always wondered how I would feel.
To receive the news.
That he was gone.
She said she thought I should know.
He was sick, and he was dying.
The Bad Man is dying.
My life flashed before me in that moment in time. My four years of terror, my four years of fear, my four years of pain ~ A Sad Existence ~ The Atrocity that was once my life.
I felt void of feeling in that moment in time. Then a twinge of pre-tears. And then nothing all over again.
Eventually relief of some sort. He will never be able to find me now.
For eight months, I googled the obituaries of the Sierra Foothills.
For eight months, I wondered if she would tell me he was gone.
I did not want to ask.
I travelled very far to clear out the storage over and over again these past two months. The process was slow, and I am still not finished. For I found journal after journal with such horrifying, raw incidents of abuse. I found microcassette tape after microcassette tape documenting the abuse from harassing voicemails to my own live audio journal. This time I could not listen.
The rusted edge of my gray spiral notebook reminded me of how long ago I endured this terror ~ this travesty ~ the crisp pages from 21 years ago documenting the stalking, the abuse, the reconcilation, the break-up ~ over and over again. I tried so hard in those early days to get free. I prepared privately with the advocates for three more years after that first year together ~ as the abuse escalated each year like clockwork ~ an annual upgrade to all the pain ~ all the humiliation ~ all the degradation endured by me.
The horrific examples of cheating followed by the first physical violence actually being inflicted by her ~ the other woman who suddenly wanted him back after he had his hold on me. The terrifying memories of those pages built the foundation of my blog, and the stories typed up in a frenzy were practically an exact duplicate of those words unseen in 21 years. I was horrified to read that he told me his male friends wanted to drag me down the driveway by my pony tail after that violent incident with the other woman. For I was to blame for being kicked so hard on my leg ~ blow after blow after blow ~ that the bruises were there for weeks ~ from ripe purple to banana yellow ~ all documented by the Walnut Ave Women’s Center with an old polaroid camera ~ faded images in a dusty file in an attic somewhere now.
The purging, the packing ~ reliving the horror of those days ~ led to vivid nightmares at night. The Bad Man came calling in my dreams. I sensed the time was near.
I googled the obituaries today. And there it was. Born October 4, 1948. Died March 14, 2022.
He was finally gone. Out of my life forever. The terror is over. He can never find me now.
