There is no healing.
I recently heard this phrase while watching TV, and it has been replaying in my mind ever since. Within the show, they were discussing a person’s struggle to heal from narcissistic abuse and how they could never truly heal without hearing the abuser say the real, concrete facts of what they had done.
How can you heal when you aren’t even sure what you are healing from?
If you’ve read any of my writing before, you know that this type of abuse is something I dealt with in a past relationship. It has been almost eleven years since I first met this person, and eight years since we ended our relationship.
I have been trying to heal every day for the last eight years.
I’ve come incredibly far since being in that relationship, but I am nowhere near healed. When someone does everything they can to manipulate you and the reality you live in, you begin to question everything about your life and yourself. There are so many memories from the time we spent together that I no longer am certain of. Did he really say these horrible things to me, or am I just making this all up? Was it nearly as bad as I’ve been convincing myself it was, or were we just not compatible?
I have no way of confirming any of this for myself, as I deleted, destroyed, threw away everything I had from him. I have no texts, no emails, no cards, no voicemails. I have nothing tangible to help myself remember that what I went through was real. I only have my memory, which is unfortunately one that was partially taken over by someone else.
How much of what I remember actually happened? Is it worse than I remember, and I’ve just blocked out the majority of the time we spent together?
I do, however, remember the exact moment I realized I would never be able to win against his manipulation. I either had to go along with the world he created or know that I would be blocked, belittled, and broken up with until he decided he wanted me again.
The day I found out I was graduating summa cum laude should have been a day of celebration. I was so happy and proud of myself for achieving that, and I immediately told my boyfriend the news. I don’t remember if he ever said congratulations, but he made sure to tell me that I did not in fact receive the highest honor possible; he did. He graduated magna cum laude. Confused, I told him that summa cum laude was actually the highest honor, and he continued to tell me that I was wrong. He had to be the best one. The smartest one. I could not have achieved something higher than him.
I did a quick Google search to confirm that I was correct; I was. But I realized that it didn’t matter if I was correct; it would never matter what I believed or what was actually true. I was living on his terms in his world. So, I was not the smartest. He was.
I reluctantly agreed that he did in fact graduate with higher honors than I did.
He chose not to attend my honors ceremony. He chose not to attend my graduation.
He did not invite me to his.
That moment is a sickening one to go back and think about. The fact that someone could lie about such a well-known truth is honestly terrifying. And the fact that I had to go along with it in order for him to not get mad at me is just so sad.
I was so sad and exhausted; I just gave up at that point. My brain would be sending off alarms and screaming at me, and I just had to pretend that none of it was happening. I had to accept his reality in order to keep the peace.
So, why didn’t I leave sooner? That is the question people love to ask those who are abused. I’ve had a therapist tell me I wanted to be abused, so that’s one answer you can believe if you choose to.
I didn’t leave because I did not think I would ever find anyone else. I had only been in one other actual relationship before that one (and I have not been in another real relationship since). I was lonely. I was already struggling with my body image and my mental health in general, and I had finally found someone who wanted to be with me. I couldn’t risk losing that. Which, if you have never been in an abusive situation, you may not understand. But, there is often some good part of this person that will draw you in and keep you there. There is often something they might offer you that you feel like/truly can’t have on your own. There is also the fear. The fear of being alone. The fear of finding someone worse. The fear of what comes next after the relationship ends.
The fear of what they would do to you if you left.
So much fucking fear.
I still have so many of those same fears today, all of these years later. I have so much anxiety centered around dating, relationships, and sex because of this experience. I find it difficult to trust anyone, and I am constantly worried that people are mad at me and ignoring me. I’m afraid of being around people drinking a lot because he was an alcoholic, which makes so many social situations incredibly difficult for me. It is easier to not go than to put myself into those situations and have to explain to everyone why I am not drinking and why I have an aversion to being there in the first place.
I am afraid that I will never go back to who I was, that I will never heal. And I think that’s why this phrase has stuck with me so strongly.
There is no healing.
I don’t expect to ever hear from him again and to have more than the generalized apology he gave eight years ago that everything was his fault said to me. And I am not sure if I want to. I think about what that conversation would be like fairly frequently. Sometimes, it’s just me screaming at him, finally having my turn to talk about everything I needed to for so long. Other times, it’s calm. I simply ask him if I am remembering things correctly.
But would it matter if he told me that I was? I’m not sure. I suppose having reassurance would help me learn to trust my memory again. But it also feels like one of those situations where the damage is done, and all I can do at this point is try to pick up the pieces and move forward.
It has been a very slow eight years of moving forward. I may never heal back to the person I was before I met him, but maybe I am not supposed to. Maybe instead of hoping for a magical day where I wake up fully healed, sparkling and back to the person I was at the age of 20, I should be focusing on the little ways I am making progress.
Does this progress happen every day? Absolutely not. Some days are a disaster. On other days, I feel amazing. Healing is turbulent. Life is turbulent.
There may be no healing, but there are repairs. There are chances to build yourself back up again.
I won’t wake up shiny and brand-new. I won’t forget the way that he hurt me. But I will put myself back together. I might look and feel a little different than before.
But I will be back.
Maybe there is no healing, but you can always come back.
