Worth the Wait(36)

I was in love. Lance was my knight in shining armor. He was going to save me, give me a good life. He was so patient, so kind and loving as he waited out the days for my eighteenth birthday. With my future before me, and Lance waiting in the wings, I was able to get through those three months knowing what was waiting for me on the other side.

On the morning of my eighteenth birthday, I woke with a sense of happiness I’d never experienced before. It was finally the day. My life would start.

I went to school that morning, my senior year coming to a close in less than a month. Lance showed up at the front of my high school as I was walking up, holding a dozen long-stemmed red roses. When I worked my shift at the restaurant that afternoon, he was there with the most beautiful heart-shaped pendant necklace. After clasping it around my neck, he gave me my first kiss. The sweetest, most romantic kiss ever. It was truly the stuff of fairy tales.

Later that night, he drove me home, accompanying me inside. It was the last time I’d ever step foot inside that house again. As I packed up what little belongings I had, my father ranted and raved that I would never be allowed in his house again if I left with Lance. That was fine with me; I had no intentions of ever seeing either of my parents again for as long as I lived.

“Gary, just let her go,” my mother pleaded. I could hear the excitement in her voice as she spoke. “With her gone, things can go back to how they used to be. We can be happy again. She’s the reason we’ve been so miserable!”

“Shut your fucking mouth, Nancy!” my father hollered. “You’re both fucking poison. I should have left you both years ago.” He stepped up to Lance as we headed for the front door. “I should be thanking you. You’re taking this worthless piece of shit off my hands.”

Lance took my hand in his and led me away without so much as a word to my father. He dropped my bag in the trunk of his car and walked over to open my door for me before going around and climbing into the driver’s seat. As we pulled away, I looked back one last time. My father was rushing out the door and climbing into the cab of his truck, my mother close on his heels, crying and begging him not to leave. He shoved her to the ground and climbed in, peeling off to whatever bar or whatever mistress he was in the mood for. Something deep in my gut told me he wouldn’t be going back, that he was leaving my mother for good. And as we pulled around the corner, away from that horrible house, I couldn’t find it in myself to feel sad for her.



The abuse began so subtly, so methodically, that it took me looking back on that time to realize just how bad it had been. Lance managed to alienate me from anyone else in my life, but he did it in a way that made me believe it was my idea.

He’d talk about the time I spent with friends and co-workers. He’d lay on the guilt, making me feel as though I’d neglected him until I pulled away from anyone who could have taken my time away from Lance.

I became so obsessed with making him happy that I hadn’t even realized I’d made him the only person in my world. Everything I did was to please him. My sole reason for existing was Lance. Unfortunately, by the time I realized what was happening, I was in too deep. I had nowhere to go, no one to turn to for help.

I’d mistakenly thought I could rectify the situation simply by talking to Lance. One night I voiced my concerns about not having a social life outside of our relationship, so sure he’d understand my dilemma and support me in building a life outside of us.

The problem was, I’d unknowingly tied myself to the worse kind of abuser. As the years passed, it became evident that Lance was even worse than my father. His abuse started out mentally and emotionally long before the physical violence.

It had been three years into our relationship before he’d even taken his hands to me. But the night I brought up wanting to spend more time with friends was the night everything changed. My face was so bruised I’d had to take an entire week off work before the swelling and discoloration went away enough for me to cover them with makeup. He’d come home from work the day after with an engagement ring. He got down on his knees, crying and begging, swearing over and over it would never happen again. And like a fool, I believed him. I accepted his proposal, naively thinking that nothing like that would ever happen again.

I was so very wrong.

The beatings grew so frequent that I was let go from my job at the salon for missing so much work. I had no money, no friends, and no family. I was, once again, well and truly alone.

I was trapped.

Every time he hit or kicked me, it was my fault. My fault for burning dinner, my fault for knowing how to push his buttons, my fault for not understanding the stress he was under at work. He thrived on letting me know that I was the reason for his anger and violence. He was the second man in my life who I’d turned into a monster.