A Day in the Life of Me

Let me take you back to January—a chilly month made even colder by the realization that my emotionally abusive husband wasn’t going to change. Not for me, not for himself, not for anyone. So, I finally called it. Marriage: over. Me: exhausted but determined. Him: apparently viewing “I’m done” as “please circle back and try again with even more drama.”

Now, let’s be clear—I wasn’t expecting miracles. I figured we’d trade a few obligatory post-breakup tax season texts and then drift off like sad little ships in the night. But my one act of decency—responding to a simple message—apparently lit the Bat-Signal for Operation: Win Marcia Back (spoiler alert: it did not succeed).

He came at me with, “I don’t think I’m good for you, but I love you and I’ve changed.”

To which I responded, “If you don’t think you’re good for me, I believe you.”

Whiplash Alert: He immediately snapped back with, “No, you said I wasn’t good enough for you.” (Sir, that’s not what I said and you know it. What I said was, “I deserve to be treated better.” And that’s not a slight—it’s a basic human right.)

Fast forward to March. The “Let’s Just Be Friends” stage. Oh, you sweet summer child—by which I mean me. We texted. We chatted. He told me about his book, his health (liver cancer), his demons (back on drugs), and I played the supportive “friend” role, probably because I hadn’t fully realized that I was in a rerun of a show I’d already canceled.

Then I filed for divorce. And wouldn’t you know it? Suddenly, he wasn’t my friend anymore—he was auditioning for a role he had long been fired from. Husband 2.0. Shiny. Contrite. Love-bombing like it was going out of style. And I saw it for what it was: a desperate campaign to rebrand the same broken product.

Let me remind you of his greatest hits:

• Pressured me into a pregnancy I didn’t want.
• Punched walls.
• Pushed me from behind mid-fight and called it an accident.
• Called me names, cut me off mid-sentence, and isolated me from everyone I loved.
• Made me feel so worthless that I tried to end my life.

But now, magically, he was reformed. Fixed. Healed. Y’all… I was not buying what he was selling.

Then came Saturday, June 14th. I’d spent the day doing something powerful and positive—attending protests and a Juneteenth celebration. I came home, texted him that I was safe (he’d been concerned about the violence), and asked about his day. What I got back was… a novella.

In his words, he:

• Woke up crying.
• Punched a wall.
• Dislocated his own shoulder and had to put it back in place.
• Told his mom off in a way that would make a sailor blush.
• Blamed his mom for everything that’s gone wrong in his life.
• He declared his eternal love for me. In the same breath, he made ominous “they won’t be safe” threats to anyone who said something bad about me.
• Wrapped it all up with “But I smiled when I saw your text, so that’s cool.”

Let’s just say the red flags weren’t just waving—they were doing the macarena.

I calmly called out his behavior. In response, he doubled down with another chapter of The Man Who Changed, But Not Really. He explained away the violence as “standing up for me” and “being human.” Sorry, but if standing up for me involves punching drywall and issuing veiled threats, then I’d prefer you stay seated.

And let’s not forget the classic DARVO tactic he deployed (Deny, Attack, Reverse Victim and Offender). He wasn’t violent—he was passionate. He didn’t manipulate—he listened. He didn’t punch a wall—he expressed feelings. At this point, I was expecting him to tell me it was the wall’s fault.

Let’s be serious for a second: Abusers rarely change. Statistics suggest it’s around 5%. That’s with consistent effort, accountability, and therapy. These do not include gaslighting their ex with Shakespearean monologues of martyrdom.

My gut had been whispering for a while, and now it was yelling: “Girl, run!”

So I did the only thing I could. I ended the conversation. I reaffirmed my boundary. And I reminded myself that I don’t owe closure to someone who broke me and then handed me a bow like it was a gift.

What I hope you take from this:

• You’re not obligated to be friends with your abuser. Not even if they’re sad, sick, or say they’ve “changed.”
• Violence is not love. It’s not passion. It’s not “just being human.” It’s a big red flag wearing a flashing neon sign.
• Trust your gut. If it feels wrong, it probably is. No amount of sweet words can cover up the truth behind someone’s actions.
• You are allowed to leave, stay gone, and never look back.

Stay strong. Stay smart. Stay safe. And always choose you.