Love Letters to My Past: Enough to be Loved
Too many nights I laid awake scared of the silence that hung out in my house.
TW: This post mentions topics of domestic violence and suicide.
I love the soft snore that rings above my husband as he lay next to me.
It’s obvious to me he’s here and sometimes, I need that reminder when I’m stuck conversing with the ghosts in my mind.
I refuse to take for granted the peace he brings me. Too many nights I laid awake scared of the silence that hung out in my house.
Once when I was younger, I remember observing my grandpa take my grandma’s car for gas. I thought, “how sweet.”
She was perfectly capable of doing so but he did it just because. He’d fold the laundry and tell me how much my grandma cares about “all you kids” more than we could fathom. His face beamed with pride that his wife loved and to him, that was enough.
It was enough to be loved.
Between 17 and 21 I found myself in a relationship that drained me in every way imaginable. Financially, emotionally, physically. I wore ignorance like sunglasses, looking away at every flag. It altered my brain but I remained resilient despite it.
I’d hold onto the moments of connecting over music or eating out together and think “this is good, this is a good relationship.” Yet the crockpot I cooked chicken in ended up down the apartment stairs because I told him I needed help around the house.
I was not enough.
“You are way too good for him,” my future husband would say to me as we drove one night to get the group of us Taco Bell. I remember thinking how nice he was and envying his ability to buy us all food.
Little did I know he'd be tied to me forever in the most spectacular way.
One night in the basement apartment of my ex, I found myself depressed more often than not. I didn’t know I was depressed, I didn’t know it wasn’t normal to want to immediately sleep upon coming home from work so that life would be over quicker. This boyfriend would tinker with his box of junk electronics he was fixing for extra cash and ask me how much my paycheck was. We relied on my paycheck since he couldn't hold a job for a number of reasons excuses.
After a while, I started fibbing and shaving off a few dollars of what my pay actually was so I could keep it for myself. Unmarried and 19, I was burdened with paying his medical bills, and the $300 in credit card balance that I had was the “reason we would never succeed.” He hung every cent I spent on anything he didn’t approve over my head.
One time, my card declined while I tried to buy a box of tampons. I didn’t know he needed to upgrade his computer for his project. I’d protest his spending but he always found a way to wear me down.
I recall a day we got McDonald’s and I had ordered an iced coffee. His Ford Mustang would shake and it smelled faintly of fast food.
“They forgot to give me a straw,” I said while in the passenger seat. He told me I didn’t need it and took the lid off.
A few minutes later he abruptly stopped the car and my coffee spilled everywhere. “If you’d stop buying these stupid coffees!” He yelled.
Tears silently rolled down my face as I’d turn out the window, wondering how I could make it all better.
I never saw him as the problem, I only saw me as the flaw.
At 17 my mother called me a whore and ordered me out of the house. Dad came home to find me gone and called me to come back. At that point, I was convinced I should be living on my own with this boyfriend. My pride and ego was determined to prove how our love was real and I didn’t need my mother anymore.
I’ve always needed my mother.
“How do you like your coffee?” Was one of the first questions my husband asked me when we began dating years later.
Before that coffee was an impromptu coffee date in December of '16 with my out-of-state sister, my lifelong best friend. She hung a metaphorical mirror in front of me and told me that I wasn't happy, that I wasn't the bubbly ball of life I once was.
She was right and my quest to prove everyone wrong was beginning to end.
After that tearful conversation with my sweet, well-meaning little sister, I found the courage to leave but, I did not have a plan.
Tears streaming down my face after losing my mind from yet another argument with my ex, I stood in the doorway of our new apartment we could barely afford and said, “I don’t think we are working anymore.” While sitting reclined on the couch my grandparents gave us, he smirked and said “yea, I was thinking the same thing.”
Immediately, we began separating our things. He told me “you still need to pay me half for rent.”
“Okay.” Half was nice, I was paying full before.
“I’ll be moving out as soon as I can.” I tell him as I get ready to leave for work one morning.
“You can’t move out until June,” which was six months away.
“It’s in the lease or else you have to pay all that rent.” His voice elevated as he towers over me.
Panicked, I begin to wonder how I’ll mentally survive 6 more months with him. Somehow, someone gave me the brilliant idea to call the landlord and ask for myself. This ex had a way of manipulating the truth and I was still climbing out of his web.
“Hi,” I’d nervously begin the phone call with the landlord while my ex wasn’t home.
“I was wondering how to go about breaking the lease. You see we broke up and I’d like to move out, but I don’t know how much that will cost.”
“Honey, that won’t cost you anything. Your name isn’t on the lease.” He said kindly.
Now with hindsight I think he knew I wasn’t in a good relationship. He always saw me dropping off the check, taking care of the trash, occasionally asking for an additional day until I got paid.
That night, I texted my ex and said I was leaving. He immediately came home and made a point to show me his gun. Scared, I went to my room and cried myself to sleep.
“Dad,” I’d softly say into the phone while rubbing my puffy eyes.
“Oh, hi Elizabeth.”
“Can I come live with you?” My voice about cracked. I was 21 and desperate to start over, scared to go back to a home that hadn't felt like home in 10 years, and worn down by the racing thoughts that held me captive.
That January night while my ex was out, I packed everything I could into my 2001 Pontiac with a broken window and temperamental heat. I had to leave before he got home and would try to convince me otherwise, or worse.
Despite paying for virtually everything our whole relationship, I still left my ex a check for that month’s rent. In my mind I thought this would have us leave on good terms. He’d see I’m not a shitty person that screws him over.
A rebound, a house, and a college degree later, I found myself living alone in a quaint little city working a dream career. I thrived after crawling out from the thumb of a man who could barely accomplish a day's work without calling off.
“So how do you like your coffee?” My future husband texted in response to my Snapchat picture of a coffee shop.
When he called me weeks later after I attempted to ghost him for fear of rejection, I found myself rambling away for 2 hours.
“So where are you staying now a days?” He asked.
“Okay hold on,” he paused while I giddily walked barefoot in my loft, feeling that hopeful feeling one does when they meet a new love interest.
“Oh cool, you’re only like an hour. I can be there in about 2 and we can go get ice cream.”
“Wait, really?” I was taken aback by his spontaneous commitment to come visit me.
The rest is history, honestly.
Some days I will say to my husband, “you are my good karma.” Because to me, I went through what I went through because of series of choices and in the midst of that I connected with him, and he found me when we were both free of toxic relationships, and now we share a loving life together.
I don’t recall a time he’s ever threatened me except when I brought a 2nd dog home. “Elizabeth, I swear if you get one more dog.” He’d attempt to say sternly while cuddling the fluffy little pup.
How lucky am I to have a love that gives me all this room to breathe.
He’s folding the towels when he says out of the blue, “I love you.”
In that moment I felt full circle: I am enough to be loved.
Domestic violence is often in plain sight yet hardly visible, even to those experiencing it. I spent a lot of time denying I was a victim of domestic violence until I learned through some trauma-informed classes while training to become a CASA Volunteer that I was one. If you found this post because you were searching for relatability in a relationship I just want to say this: tomorrow is a new day that you deserve to enjoy without fear, live it.
If you need a friend, please message me, I'm always here.
-Liz