My current (non-abusive) musician husband was struggling over new ways to be inspired. He asked to see my old poetry, and I said yes without much thought. So he got up on the step stool and unearthed my archives from the storage closets in our bedroom, and I thumbed through a folder from the years I was married to Jerkface.
I hadn’t read those poems in quite some time, and quickly remembered why. They were difficult to read. So full of pain and confusion. Through my decades-old writing, I could discern the timeline of that abusive relationship – from obsessive intoxication, to bewilderment and panic, and finally to the part where I had helped him nearly kill my spirit and my unique self.