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But that wasn’t the worst of it. When I found out about his indiscretions, he blamed me. I wasn’t putting out, my figure wasn’t attractive to him anymore. I had a fuller figure from carrying a child, ugly stretch marks and saggy tits. His words, not mine. He made me hate the body that carried our child. He made me feel ugly, worthless.
But still I stayed. Stupidly, foolishly believing that if I started working out again, if I coloured my hair a lighter blonde, just the way he liked it, and poured my body into too tight-fitting clothes I hated wearing just to please him, that he would see me again, would love me again.
But the name calling just got worse, until one day when Toby was three, he didn’t just hurt me with his words, he hurt me with his fists too.
Before Martin, I was always one of those women who would wonder why someone wouldn’t leave an abusive relationship. I didn’t understand the psychological damage that living with a violent narcissist can have on a person. He made me feel like I couldn’t leave, that no one else would love me, and on the rare occasions he would show me affection–normally when he would sense I’d grown courageous and was about to leave–he would turn on the compliments, the affection, making me believe that the man I fell in love with had finally returned for good.
Of course, he never did.
A man like him isn’t capable of love. A violent man. A man who’d rather use his fists to beat on a woman than look into himself and try to figure out why he needs to make someone else feel like shit to make him feel better about himself.
“No more. I refuse to let you control my thoughts and emotions a second longer,” I say, my words huffing out of my mouth in wispy clouds as I press my eyes shut and fall into a fitful sleep, knowing my words are empty. That I’ll never be free of the damage he caused me.
“Mama, Mama, wake up. I need to go to the toilet!” Toby exclaims, pressing on my bladder as he wiggles in my lap.
I blink open my eyes, feeling worse for having fallen asleep, not better. “What time is it?” I ask, knowing full well Toby can’t read the time to tell me.
“It’s dark,” he says, cupping his hands against the windowpane as he peers outside.
“Shit,” I whisper, clearly not quietly enough.
“Mama, you swore!”
“I’m sorry, sweetie. As soon as I can buy a jar, I’ll add a coin to it,” I say, shifting him off my lap and strapping him back into his car seat. I don’t mention the fact I have no money to do that.
“Do you need to wee or poop?” I ask, briefly considering whether we can risk dashing into the bushes on the far side of the car park if it’s just a wee he needs.
“Poop,” he groans, clutching his stomach.
“Okay, let’s see if the garage down the road is still open,” I reply, turning on the engine and starting the car up. She splutters to life, and I back out of the parking spot, heading towards our destination. It’s clear as we get closer the garage is closed. Another swear word leaves my mouth, causing Toby to burst out laughing.
“Mama, you’re being very naughty.”
“I know,” I reply, slowing the car as we drive past the garage. “I’m sorry. I just really need the toilet too.”
At least that’s the truth, about the only truth I’ve been able to share with him this past week since we ran away. He groans, shifting in his seat.
“Mama, I really need to go!”
“Okay, hang on sweetheart. There must be somewhere open.”
A couple of minutes later I notice a neon sign in the near distance flashing the words Bandits Bar in bold green lights. In the parking lot there are a few cars and some motorbikes lined up outside the front door. Not to mention a couple of beefy looking men sporting beards and leather chaps hanging around outside.
“What about there?” Toby asks, pointing to the place I have no intention of taking him to.
“I don’t think that’s an appropriate place for a child,” I say, biting on my lip as Toby releases another rather smelly fart.
“Mama, I’m desperate!” he pleads, pulling a face.
“Okay. Okay,” I reply, and against my better judgement, I pull into the parking lot.
A minute later I’m locking the car up, grabbing hold of Toby’s hand and striding over to the entrance. Forcing my shoulders back, I keep my head held high even though I’m terrified. Fake it until you make it, right? The two men smoking cigarettes cast me a look that has my hackles rising, and I almost, almost turn around but Toby tugs on my arm, hopping on his feet as he clutches his stomach.
“Mama! I’m going to shit!”
“Toby!” I exclaim.
He clamps a hand over his mouth, tears welling in his eyes as the men lingering outside chuckle under their breaths. One turns towards me, opening his mouth to speak, but I don’t give him the opportunity, instead I pull Toby into my side and push open the door into the bar.
