The (no) fun house

Have you ever been in a fun house? The kind with the weird, wavy mirrors that make it look as if reality is wobbly? The kind that positions mirrors strategically so that reality bounces off of its own reflection a million times over, creating a cascade of unreality that makes it hard to know exactly where you’re actually at?

I know exactly what that feels like. Except I’ve never been in a fun house. Real life is weird enough for me.

I left an abusive marriage. Textbook abusive in some ways. And fun-house-new-frontier abusive in others — ways that leave me, and others, baffled. Still. Because there is no end.

I’ve had strangers lean into me, after interactions with him, and tell me to be careful. This, after a brief glimpse of the fun house. Not even full immersion. I’ve had professionals, who have seen some crazy shit in their careers, warn me to be safe. I had friends, before I left the marriage, try and stage interventions. Multiple times.

And after I left, one of them confessed that she would wake up every morning fearing something had happened to me while she slept. Reality was challenging, exhausting, abusive and isolating. It was one he chose (and still chooses) not to believe, even though it was one he constructed.

I lived in his fun house. Until I chose not to anymore.

I was scared, for a while. Scared of what he would say about me to cover his ass, which was tied up with multiple domestic violence convictions. Scared of what people might think when they heard it. Scared that my kids might begin to believe the things he tells them about me.

And fear is normal. I was groomed, for years, to believe in it. And abusers are some of the best campaigners. Image is everything. It outweighs truth.

But my head is beyond the fear now. It took a bit of reprogramming, for sure. And still does. I still need to bounce situations around, and question an unreality, as if I’m deciphering a foreign language.

But that’s growth. Learning new ways. Learning what to fear and what not to. Knowing that the truth is more valuable than even his most creative unreality. Picking up on certain intentions from miles away, avoiding traps and positioning myself for safety. Recognizing the games.

Understanding, that like a classic abuser, he will be relentless in his attempted pursuit to isolate me — from success, from support systems, from my kids and from upending his precious unreality.

The truth, though, is incredibly powerful. It’s so powerful that those who don’t know it, avoid it, choose not to accept it. At all costs. Because, it burns.

I started writing about abuse, and the growth that comes from leaving it, years ago. Years now. And it must sound like nothing has changed since then. But, that’s wrong. I have.

I don’t live in his fun house anymore, despite his best efforts. I’m free of it. And if for some reason I’m dragged in, by obligation, I know better how to navigate it.

With truth. I focus on that. Always.

Even when someone else’s fun house is confusing and scary and sad and just fucking weird. The truth never changes. It’ll be your constant. Focus on that. Know it. Feel it. Be it.

You can. I did. And still do.