Faded Promises, Old Stories

He would say that, with a sweep of a hand, she would wipe away three hours of good conversation, all for nothing. He would state that she was so weak that even the most simplistic encounters would send her into irrational world.

heart bandagedIrrational world was that place of burning where rubbing her nose in the aftermath of another woman’s questionable company was perfectly fine form. He’d call it an “oh by the way”, moment. With an offhand remark, she would find that all the efforts of heart to heart pleadings to be respected and first in their world, as promised, were real only in that moment promised – again.

When the band aids were eventually placed over that particular woman and event of dispute, it wouldn’t be long before a new one would be forged. The madness of each occurrence, unquestionably innocent fun as far as he was concerned, smoldered like a burning hill of buried refuse for her.

He would tell her, you have my heart, they don’t – that is my bond. He either couldn’t or refused to see that his offer was really – you have my heart, but not my word.

He was utterly clueless that her heart could only beat easily within the protection of his word.

He made her choose between the bonds. She couldn’t. The offer being held up was the willingness to be thrown back into her deepest wounds at the whim of his choices.

He called them misunderstandings. He didn’t become any more adept at understanding the losses of his word were always another addition to her scars. He didn’t notice how each one of those moments added another layer to the darkness around himself.

Each time she tried to show how there is sharing a heart, and then there is sharing a heart. It enraged him – all those moments of her questions and begging for understanding. He said, he will not have his deficiencies trumpeted forever. He will not be questioned. How dare she!

And then finally, when she was fully broken, “a histrionic mess” as he called her, finally there was relief. It wasn’t the triumph of all bonds finally being met.  It was the moment he opened the door to one more misunderstanding; it was that one that plunged the final dagger through their love.

He railed at her rage and demands for why. There is no good reason for that why, though. It was just thoughtless ease – scratching an immediate itch for control. At the height of the newest bitter dance, he made light of the ugliness of her scars and promises were renamed as plans and plans change, he said. Deal with it. And, by the way, you’re going to have to find a place in our home for my ‘friends’ too. Your insecurities are not my issue, grow up.

He told her she was so naïve and just a lonely, miserable, control freak. He told her she’d always been wrong, and it turned out that all the previous band aids were really nothing more than duct tape placed over her face. He said all the times she felt relief and rejoiced when he’d heard her, was only his hard work to ‘shut her the fuck up’.

By then, he had to have known she wasn’t meeting his expectations either. Her song had never changed; she’d only asked for what he swore he was, but he was certain that he’d applied more band aids than anyone else ever and so demanded extra consideration. Besides, he said, you know no one has ever loved you like this before – and so remained oblivious to where all her scars had begun.

It’s funny now, how this knight in Viking armour insisted on the relationship early on.  He worked so relentlessly and diligently on the wooing and promise building. He had to have her then, but why bother after duct taping her the second or third or fourth time?  Wasn’t that just as much hard work as would have been in meeting the promises anyway?

As it turned out, not really. It’s never that simple. In the end, his manliest work was to find all kind of ways to show her how little she mattered…


October is Domestic Violence Awareness Campaign Month.

A heart-felt thanks to Ned Hickson, for his continuing support for DV situations and to fellow blogger,  Jeanette for helping someone -right now- to escape an abusive situation. Help if you can. – https://www.gofundme.com/225yf6vg


About Blog Woman!!!

Once in a while I can rock a thought. I simply believe in what I stand up for. I'd most like people to know that surviving the trials of mountains and monsters is more than resilience - it’s a path to your destiny. On a mostly weekly basis I throw out a grab-bag of facts, ideas or creativity; like a box of chocolates wrapped in ribbons of occasional profanity.... In other words, it's my party I can fun if I want to. So, waddya say, can we talk?
This entry was posted in Bullying, Coping, Life, love, Storytelling and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

9 Responses to Faded Promises, Old Stories

  1. Paul says:

    Thank You.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Ned's Blog says:

    Very powerful. Very real. Very appreciated, Robyn.


  3. Lynn says:

    Robyn, this is such a powerful post. Thought provoking & brave. Thank you for sharing.

    Liked by 1 person

  4. NotAPunkRocker says:

    Thank you so much for so many things, Robyn ❤

    Liked by 1 person

    • My pleasure to have been able to do anything at all. Seems like we should be able to do so much more when it’s needed, right? I admire your standing up for her and taking action. xox


  5. anawnimiss says:

    This is beautiful, Robyn. Thank you for writing.

    Liked by 1 person

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