Shelby Criswell
“He just needs a couch,” my oldest child’s guitar teacher said about his tattoo artist/musician buddy who had overstayed his welcome.
I’ve taken in a lot of strays in my life.
A few months later he wasn’t on my couch anymore.
At first I thought it was cute with the subtle, joking jealousy. It was really good feeling like someone wanted me. With all of themself. Who doesn’t want to feel wanted? Toxic love is…intoxicating. And I knew he was sick after a while because I’d have to call to make his appointments so he didn’t cuss out the person answering the phone when he got frustrated at the medical system. Appointments he rarely attended.
“He is sick,” I said. “I can’t abandon him.”
Break up.
Police.
Reconcile.
Lose friends.
Break up.
Police.
Rinse and repeat.
A year and a half later I sat in an ER getting seven staples in my head and worried about how I can afford to fix the door that was kicked in. Again. Post-chemo, at 42: “By the way,” someone said. “You’re pregnant.” Everything in its entirety crashed into reality.
Decisions.
The violence that was subtle and boiled slowly until it spilled over and ruined all my dishes, earrings, sunglasses, car tires, bank accounts, jobs, guitars.
Dignity.
All of it hit me harder than any of my history training, MMA or street outreach in shady areas of Albuquerque. I felt like I was taking off my training wheels again. I didn’t know who I was anymore. My life revolved around anticipating an adult’s needs and saying the right thing at the right time while living in near-constant anxiety that I was doing something wrong. The morning routine of making sure everything was executed to his standards: food, coffee, clothes he approved, makeup. Three bottles of water in the car, two for him, one for me. I could never get it right. I tried so hard but you can’t really hit a moving target with someone not able to be consistent in expectations and temperament. No one goes into a relationship accepting terms that develop into abuse—they just show up.
Evolve.
“I can love him enough to heal him.”
Everyday mantra.
I truly thought I could love him out of his jealousy and anger, out of mental health struggles and the trauma he experienced.
Mission.
You can’t love anyone enough to fix them, except for yourself—and that’s hard work at the cornerstone. Fifteen tattoos and a baby later, I’m doing OK. I pretend some days, but I’m alive and my child is safe. And he doesn’t even know her name; it’s just time and distance and acceptance.
He was, at the time, my best friend. Days spent together during quarantine, skateboarding in empty parking lots and discovering some new comedian, remembering old songs and marathoning them at 2 am.
Inside jokes.
The fact that even writing this makes me put more weight on the “good days,” and warps how bad it really got. The disappointment on faces that loved me when I resurfaced all happy love-drunk because “we worked it out!” The nights I felt like all of my existence would be OK if I could just go hold him close and be warm and feel like I meant something to someone. To him. Honestly? I still love and sometimes miss him. The hardest thing I’ve learned in my life is to say goodbye—on many levels, during many circumstances.
No one truly understands domestic violence unless they have experienced it. It’s embarrassing: “Why didn’t you just leave?”
Do not victim shame. It’s not that easy, and even therapists don’t understand unless they’ve lived it. And anyway, I tried. Running barefoot through alleys in bad neighborhoods, hiding behind Dumpsters cause he took my shoes, keys, bag and phone. But he would show up with my favorite pen and coffee the next day with tears and puppy eyes.
The utter confusion born of feelings you never thought you’d ever experience. Wanting to hold and comfort a person who was breaking down in the car at a parking lot over guilt and that mark they left on your face; asking you to stay in the car so no one sees it. Again. Wanting to console a person who was blubbering sad because of what they did that hurt YOU. Wanting to say, “It’s ok,” but not saying that because it was not OK…but you forgive them instantly.
It’s complicated in ways unexplainable. Please don’t take it personally if someone in a bad relationship dips out.
Please still reach out. Check on them. Boundaries are important but don’t cut them out. Please don’t give up on your loved ones who can’t leave yet. They will need you when they can. I’m still rediscovering who I am, and I am extremely grateful for those who are still around and believe in me.
Laura is a mother nurse poet seamstress storyteller who loves 505 and New Mexico, fabric and humans. Jill of all trades and street outreach organizer
