Seems like I’ll never wake from this nightmare, I let out a silent prayer, let it be over. –Christina Aguilera, Walk Away

I’m probably a little bit notorious for writing blogs that are considered somewhat scornful. I’ve made a habit of using my blog as a sort of cathartic process in which I can work out the problems that ail me. And maybe in a way, I use it as a tool to say the things that sometimes I’m afraid to say. Maybe it’s that I sometimes want to get things off my chest but wonder if going to the person in question is really worth the time. Or maybe it’s that I’ve been way too nice for way too long and hurting people isn’t really my favorite thing to do.

Being too nice has become something of a problem for me; it’s enabled people to walk all over me, ghost me for a few months and then come back begging for plans, and create a false sense of security when it comes to friendship. Blogging helps me say what I mean to say, when I mean to say it, and it gives me the comfort of really doing so in a well thought out and mature manner. It also allows me to write in a way that is confidential, never giving away the guest star’s identity, save for my abusive ex-boyfriend because really, who cares about him, am I right? Is anyone really offended when I sit here and tell the truth about him?

I guess that if you do, you could always go on the internet and complain…

But I’ll be honest, I have a temper. And sometimes, again, if I’m honest, I let my Italian blood get the better of me. I can be snarky and cold. I can be vicious and unforgiving. And if it suites me, I can be just as hurtful as anyone has ever been to me. Maybe even more so.

But I can admit that because it’s not something I like about myself. And it doesn’t rear its ugly head very often. So for the most part, you guys are safe. (Most of you, anyway.)

But October is a different month for me. Ever since I was able to escape the prison my ex-boyfriend literally held me in, October has been a really important month for me. It’s his birthday and it’s also Domestic Violence Awareness Month. Tell me there isn’t irony in that.

When it comes to this month, when it comes to the subject of my ex-boyfriend, there are no holds barred. I don’t care if it makes me a “petty Betty” and I don’t care if people roll their eyes every time they see me throw up something related to domestic violence awareness. I don’t care who is reading it and I don’t care who runs to him and shows him. I don’t care if he denies it and I don’t care if it hurts his feelings. I don’t care if it makes people judge him or God forbid, take a second look and wonder what he might really be like. And I don’t care if it brings about questions in either one of our lives.

I don’t care. As far as I’m concerned, he has more than earned his scarlet letter. I pray that he suffers for it and knows what a piece of garbage he is. Next month, I might be a bit more reserved when I’m voicing my concerns about people but right now, I don’t care.

My rage is burning so hot, I’m sweating, friends.

If she ever tries to leave again, I'll tie her to the bed and set this house on fire. –Eminem ft. Rihanna, Love the Way You Lie

Well, the other day, I was out working in my old neck of the woods. It’s definitely not my favorite place to go but it pays the bills. I’m not the type of person to sit around and deprive my family. I will work and do whatever I need to do, within reason, to support my family. I don’t just expect the rest of the world to support me because I’m pretty, white and entitled. I don’t jump from proverbial man to proverbial man hoping that he’ll pick up the tab because I’m too goddamn lazy to work.

But I digress.

When my husband drives, I tend to watch the other cars and drivers. I’ve had a staring problem for as long as I could remember. And I even got yelled at for it once at my local Starbucks. Like, I literally almost got a beat down because I have big eyes and always look surprised.

My bad.

Anyways, I was doing my usual stare at the passing cars and take a guess who drove by? That very same asshole ex-boyfriend I wrote last week’s absolutely scathing blog about. Whoops.

Again, friends: ask me if I care.

I was able to get a realllllly good look because we were at a stop sign and he was in oncoming traffic. I wasn’t surprised that he drove a mid-range silver pick-up truck, branded with a bunch of annoying firefighter stickers, and literally shining with cleanliness. If he’s anything like I remember, he cleans his car once a week, inside and out. He’s got to be proud of something, right? Might as well be an American made vehicle that attests absolutely nothing to his character.

Same receding hairline, only a bit worse. Same faux friendly mannerisms and same pretty little baby mama in the throne next to him. I stared for a long time to make sure it was him because if I’m honest, I swear I’ve seen him tons of times. Like most nightmares, I feel like I’ve seen him in the car next to me or behind me, at a restaurant or in a bar, and walking in the parking lot at my previous job. He was everywhere and nowhere.

But this time, he was real. Like, really real. And time hadn’t been good to him.

But for just one moment, I couldn’t help but wonder: did he read my blog on Wednesday? (Or really, any day this month?) Has he seen that his secret is out? Is he scrambling and calling all his friends, maintaining his innocence and reminding them of just how crazy I really am? Has he really sat and processed it, when he’s away from the public eye? Does he cry when he remembers how awful he was? Is he correcting the way he treats his current girlfriend, the mother of his child? Or is he just in denial because he thinks he’s a good guy with a bad rap?

You know me: the crazy ex-girlfriend with a serious axe to grind.

If I know him like I used to know him, he probably hasn’t read anything I’ve written because that would require having to actually read. (Come on, guys. He’s way too busy and important to read someone’s blog, my gosh.) He may have heard bits and pieces from his friends or whoever but the information is probably just getting passed along and deviating further and further from what was actually said. He’s also a legitimate pathological liar so whatever he may have heard, he’s denying and flipping it on me because why would he ever take responsibility for anything bad, even if it was a decade ago? It doesn’t matter what proof there is or who sides with me. He’s never been guilty of anything, ever.

But no matter what anyone says, he will always be the Ike to my Tina, the Joey Buttafuoco to my Amy Fisher, and the Sean Penn to my Madonna. He knows it and I know it.

You know, I was talking with one of my girlfriends the other day (who, quite coincidentally, also dated this overgrown child) and she told me this really interesting story that I had never heard before. It’s hard for me to really remember the length of time they dated but I want to say that we both dated him for the same amount of time, give or take a few months. He was a lot nicer to her (which, to be fair, isn’t saying much), probably because he actually really cared about her. I can’t honestly say the same for myself.

He didn’t seem to care about me until he lost me; until he lost control. And that’s not for sympathy. I believe it to be the God’s honest truth.

But anyway, they had stars in their eyes and a dream for the future. (If it was her and some other man, it might have been a really romantic story.) He had given her a really pretty promise ring (even more oddly enough, it was duplicate to one my dad had given me one Christmas) and promised to replace it with an engagement ring when they were ready. They were going to have the whole shebang: a wedding, kids, a family, probably good insurance through the fire department, all those beautiful bubble dreams.

I don’t know that she saw it back then but as she’s gotten older and wiser, things have become clearer to her. “There were red flags,” she told me during one of our many coveted chats. She had mentioned to me that he had confided in her, and her family, that he and his brother had “suffered abuse” as children. I’m still unsure if I believe that, only because their mother was a saint. I can’t imagine her allowing anything to happen to those boys.

But still, it could make sense. Abusers are bred of abusers. These traits are absolutely hereditary and I witnessed first hand how the dynamics were in their home. Their mother was abused and bullied by multiple members of the family. And I feel like she was just longing for something normal; she just wanted a good, loving family.

But the point of all this was that he promised my girlfriend’s parents, who are kind, warm, very good people, that he would never abuse their future children. You know, it’s hard to see things for what they are sometimes. But looking back, I don’t know why he would have ever even brought that up to his high school girlfriend’s parents…

As I’ve mentioned about a million times before, he is a pathological liar. An overcompensating one.

However, this conversation was a revelation for me. He had never told me any of this and I guess he wouldn’t have because I wasn’t the love of his life like she was. (Truth be told, we were together a long time but he didn’t share half the things with me that he shared with her, or really, anyone.) But I can’t say that any of it surprises me. He had the typical attitude of an abused child: extremely insecure but outwardly cocky, a bully to nearly everyone he came into contact with, protective of his secrets, and very motivated to live a better life than he’d been given. He was also extremely controlling and possessive, which is a learned behavior, a survival instinct.

Babies aren’t born evil; they become that way. They learn it from other people.

Moral of the Crazy: This little anecdote isn’t to promote sympathy for that abusive behemoth. Quite the opposite, actually. Because again, he took the time to explain to his girlfriend’s parents that he would never abuse his future children because he obviously knew it was shameful. Abusing children (and come on, women), is something that you just don’t do. People know that it’s wrong and they proclaim themselves innocent of it, even disgusted by it, and yet, it still exists.

So he has enough knowledge and commonsense to know that it’s not appropriate and yet, he’s abusive to literally the next woman he comes into contact with after his first big breakup. Explain this to me. Someone, please explain this to me.

You know, I still beat myself up over all of this. It’s been more years than I would really like to admit and I still have all these weird feelings about it. Guilt for allegedly stealing away someone’s boyfriend and then getting it back in spades when he turned out to be an abusive, explosive monster. Shame for staying with someone who was so awful to me and in some ways, condoning all that was happening. Embarrassment for becoming the laughing stock of our puny town, despite all he had done. Worry that given all the time that’s passed, people still view me as some scorned woman hell-bent on hurting his reputation instead of what I really am: an ever passionate, unabashed domestic violence advocate, a voice for the voiceless, a warrior for those who can’t fight for themselves.

I’ve had long talks about this with some of my close girlfriends and to be honest, it’s a prickly conversation. It’s not something that people like talking about it. It isn’t something that people even like hearing about, much less learning about and working to eradicate. It’s something that is just so sensitive that it makes people uncomfortable; it’s an awkward set of words to string together and it’s even more embarrassing for victims to come forward about. No one wants to hear that their friend or family member was abused. And even more so, people don’t want to hear that their “boy” was allegedly beating his girlfriend for years. These aren’t the conversations that people like to have and although it seems like this year especially, more and more women are coming forward with these types of allegations, they’re still shamed.

Because it’s his word against hers. Because it’s embarrassing. Because it changes lives and ruins careers. Because it makes people uncomfortable and testy.

It’s something that I obviously wish had never happened. It’s something that I sometimes feel like I brought on myself that day I decided that my high school boyfriend was no longer good enough for me. It’s something I feel sorry for because I did stay with my abuser way too long because I loved him and I wanted it to work out. Because I had uprooted my entire life, ran away from home and temporarily dropped out of college, and quite possibly caused the stress that led to my dad’s many heart problems.

I had something to do with all of this. I mean, after all, I picked him, right?

But I have to remember and tell myself over and over again that we are not our circumstances. I don’t look like some of the places I’ve been because quite frankly, I’m not the same girl I was back then. I’m more than just my tragedy and as my sweet, aforementioned girlfriend mentioned to me that same night, “You got out, you had the strength to do it; you should be proud of yourself.” And you know what? Maybe she’s right.

Because I took what I had been given, through my own choices or otherwise, and I got out. I focused everyday to make my life better and although I still have bad days now and again (don’t we all?), I’m still working hard to make things brighter. I went to college to advocate for women just like me and instead of just whining about it, I’m doing something about it. I’m showing my daughter everyday what a healthy relationship looks like and I’ve learned more about the impacts of domestic violence on children than anyone could ever write a college textbook about.

I’m doing it, y’all. And he didn’t stop me.

No one is going to stop me.

Well, he loved his whiskey and his fist loved my face. So I buried that man, they won’t find a trace. –The Wreckers, Crazy People