The Things You Don't Own Anymore

I've started over many times over the last decade.

Building, collecting, clinging, dreaming. 

And then- trashing, destroying, forgetting.

Repeat. 

Repeat.

Repeat. 

Everything you left, every time, I discarded. I wanted nothing left to remember you by. 

Delete the pictures. Delete the songs. 

Crumpled love notes at the top of an overflowing bin. 

I drove the long way to avoid our places. I swore off anything on which lingered your touch, your scent, your ghost. 

Trash. Destroy. Forget. 

But with each repeated cycle, as I threw away pieces of you, with them I threw away pieces of myself.

My favorite songs. 

My favorite foods. 

My favorite clothes. 

My favorite memories. 

Trashed. Destroyed. 

Forgotten. 

And here I am again, looking at the remains of what you left in your hurried escape, and the old pattern tugs on me. 

Nostalgia stirs my core. Fights a battle with my disgust. With my regret. With my anger. With my grief. 

Oh, to start a life with a blank slate- to begin with that innocence, that wide-eyed optimism, that blind trust that you never earned, respected, or deserved. 

But that blank slate is a lie. An imagined possibility that does nothing but rob me of the things I loved. 

So I won't be trashing- not this time. I won't destroy the little pieces of rubble you left behind. 

I don't want to forget. 

Because I own these things. 

I own my memories. 

This song isn't the one we listened to together. 

It's just one that I love.

This restaurant isn't where you took me.

It's a place I love to eat.

This room isn't the one where you first kissed me. 

It's just a room- and you don't come here anymore. 

This wine isn't the one you brought home for me. 

It's my favorite wine. 

This spot on the couch isn't the place I sat when you announced your grand exit. 

It's just my favorite place to sit. 

This bed isn't our bed. 

This home isn't our home. 

This family isn't our family. 

My emotions aren't yours. 

My time isn't yours. 

My thoughts aren't yours. 

My decisions aren't yours. 

They're mine. 

And you own nothing of mine anymore. 

23 Not-So-Obvious Red Flags

There's a lot of obvious red flags in relationships. For instance, if the guy you just started dating tells you that he lives on the street and sells drugs for a living. Red flag. Or that girl you've been texting tells you that she lives with her ex-boyfriend but it's totally platonic. Red flag. Obviously. 

But there's a lot to be said for red flags that aren't so easy to detect. Maybe it's a marriage, or a friendship, or even a parent or sibling relationship- something isn't "right," but you aren't sure what it is. Or maybe you don't even know something is wrong. But if you're reading this, you probably do, on some level. 

So here's a list of passive, not-as-obvious red flags that you are in a toxic relationship. 

1. YOU QUESTION YOUR MEMORY 

You consider starting  (or actually do start) to write down what was done and said so you can go back to it later. They say something and then later insist they did not say it. You often wonder if you're making things up or going crazy. 

-"I never said that!" 

-"That never happened." 

-"I don't remember what you're talking about.

What this is: gaslighting

2. YOU HAVE CIRCULAR ARGUMENTS 

Your arguments don't seem to get anywhere. You can't keep track of what you were talking about. You get lost and confused often in your fights and can't get back to the real issues easily. 

What this is: often the result of gaslighting and red herring arguments 

3. GOOD ADVICE FAILS

Conventional conflict management advice backfires. You try to implement strategies such as fighting fairly, using better communication, using active listening, etc, but still find yourself in as much, if not more conflict when using them. You word things carefully, but they are repeated back in a negative way. You think they don't work or you are bad at them. They say they are doing them when they are not, or they reject the merit of the idea altogether and refuse to participate. 

-"I feel very misunderstood lately," turns to "you said I don't care about you!" 

-"I feel like I'm carrying a lot of the weight in the chores right now." turns to "you accused me of being lazy!" 

-"I need you to listen to me," is responded to with "you're the one who isn't listening!"

What this is: a sign to run for the hills! (Truthfully don't have a good answer for this one yet.) 

4. YOUR WORDS ARE USED AGAINST YOU

Things you said in good moments are brought against you in later arguments. Events or conversations are twisted later and used as ammunition against you. You feel afraid of things being taken out of context or misrepresented later on. You find yourself saying or thinking things like, "don't bring this up later!" or "I know you'll say something about this next time." 

What this is: manipulation 

5. YOU FEEL HESITANT TO ACCEPT HELP

They help you a lot, but you feel like there's always strings attached- even if you don't find out until later. You feel uneasy when accepting help from them, or you feel like a burden for asking for help. They assure you they want to help in the moment, but later say you are using them or taking advantage of them. You feel overly dependent on them but don't know how to stop.

-"After everything I do for you..." 

-"You don't appreciate how much I do for you." 

-"You're so ungrateful!"

-"You wouldn't be able to do anything without me." 

-"At least I..." 

What this is: manipulation 

6. YOU REGULARLY MISUNDERSTAND INTENTIONS 

They say explicitly hurtful or rude things, but then backtrack later and say you misinterpreted it. You feel guilty for being hurt or offended.

-"That's not what I meant!" 

-"You're so sensitive." 

-"You're always overreacting." 

What this is: gaslighting 

7. YOU QUESTION YOUR SANITY

You begin to wonder if you're crazy. You try to self diagnose or even seek out professional help. You believe you are mentally ill even if it can not be confirmed that you are. You may be diagnosed with depression and/or anxiety.

What this is: often a result of gaslighting

8. YOU FEEL CONDITIONALLY LOVED 

You are afraid of losing their love if you don't act a certain way. You are afraid to show anger, sadness, or other negative emotions for fear that they will withdraw attention or affection. 

What this is: manipulation; bad boundaries 

9. YOU FEEL RELIANT BUT MISERABLE

You are unhappy in the relationship and yet find yourself terrified of losing it. You feel stuck between wanting things to change and being too afraid to rock the boat. You feel like you would fall to pieces if you lost them.

What this is: often codependency and/or trauma bonding

10. YOU FEEL ON EDGE

You feel like any argument could be your last- you try to resolve all conflict in fear of abandonment. The relationship seems to always be teetering on the edge of ending. 

What this is: often a result of conditional love 

11. YOU ARE OFTEN CONFUSED 

You would describe your relationship as complex. You aren't sure where you stand or how you are doing. The dynamics of your relationship feel complicated. 

What this is: often a result of gaslighting 

12. YOU CAN'T LIVE UP TO EXPECTATIONS 

You feel like you don't understand how to make them happy. Nothing seems to work, even when you do exactly what they tell you they want from you. You feel like a bad partner/child/friend on a regular basis and don't know why you can't get better. 

-"If you really loved me, you would..." 

-"I work so hard to love you and you never return it." 

What this is: "changing the goalposts" 

13. YOU WALK ON EGGSHELLS 

You are afraid of bringing up any complaints or touchy subjects and try to rehearse them to make them non-confrontational. This doesn't work, and you end up in fights anyway. You don't know how to avoid confrontation. 

What this is: manipulation; often the result of  abuse

14. YOU FEEL ISOLATED 

You don't feel like you can discuss your relationship with others honestly. You feel ashamed of the problems in your relationship.

-"You are the only one who feels that way."

-"If you asked anybody, they would agree with me." 

-"No one else seems to have an issue with this." 

What this is: isolation

15. YOU ARE CONFUSED ABOUT YOUR PROBLEMS

The issues you have with them are the same ones they have with you. You are confused about who is actually displaying each problem. They accuse you of being certain things (being irresponsible, untrustworthy, cold, dismissive, etc...) that don't feel true about you. The things they think about you are things you think are true about them. They accuse you of untrue things and then say you're dismissive if you defend yourself or ask for specific examples. You feel like you don't understand yourself. 

What this is: projection 

16. THE RELATIONSHIP BEGAN WITH A BANG

Premature "I love you"s, tons of attention, flattery, showering with gifts and compliments, talk of "soul mates" and rushed talk of "forever." If the relationship is not still in an early stage, this has worn off and you no longer are so wonderful. 

-"You're the only person I truly love." 

-"You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."

-"You're perfect."

What this is: "love-bombing"

17. YOU HAVE TO DEFEND BASIC CONCEPTS OF RESPECT

You find yourself having to explain basic concepts of human decency- why behaviors or words are wrong or unfair. You are treated badly but told it's not bad. You are questioned when you point out that their treatment is hurtful. 

What this is: often a sign of a lack of empathy 

18. THEY DISPLAY INTENSE STARES

They give you unnerving, unusually intense eye contact- especially in times of conflict or intimacy. You feel intimidated by or fixated by this stare. You may interpret this as a contemptuous glare, or as intimate or sexual intensity. You might catch them staring this way at another person with whom you know they are angry.

What this is: could be a "reptilian stare." 

19. YOU FEEL OVERLY DEPENDENT

You only feel "okay" if they are "okay." Your emotional health depends on theirs. You make decisions based on what they would think- even down to what to wear or what to buy. You avoid making decisions they would disapprove of. 

What this is: codependency 

20. YOU MAKE EXCUSES FOR THEIR BEHAVIOR

You rationalize their bad or questionable behavior to yourself or others. 

-"They didn't mean it like that." 

-"If I would stop ______, that wouldn't happen." 

-"I know they really love me." 

-"People just don't understand them." 

What this is: rationalization; could be the result of a trauma bond 

21. YOU FEEL REQUIRED TO BE TRUSTING 

They demand or expect your trust after they've done something to lose it or before they've proven themselves trustworthy. You feel guilty for questioning them. 

What this is: bad boundaries 

22. THEY HAVE LOTS OF "CRAZY" ENEMIES 

They indirectly or directly blame ex-partners, old friends or estranged family members for all problems in the relationship. Labels any people they've fallen out with in their past as "crazy," "manipulative," or "toxic." 

What this is: usually a sign that they are the common denominator 

23. YOU FEEL REPEATEDLY PULLED BACK

If you're mad, need space, or even try to break off from them, you find yourself getting sucked back in when you don't want it. They are suddenly kind, remorseful or reminiscent of the good times when you pull away. They promise to change, but the change doesn't last, if it happens at all. This cycle of breaking away and being pulled back happens repeatedly on a small or large scale in the relationship.

What this is: "hoovering"

If a lot of these ring a bell, seek out help! Don't make excuses any longer; fight the shame that comes from feeling defective or confused. You deserve to be in healthy relationships! You are worth it! 

The Cost Of Silence

I wish you would have spoken.

I wish, in those moments when the world demanded your silence, that you would have fought back.  

That your voice would have gotten louder. That you would have insisted that you be heard. 

I wish that when your eyes were opened to the cruelty, you had the courage to tell your story. 

That you would have exposed the truth. 

That when you were no longer in the grip of confusion and control, you would have known to speak out for those who had not yet escaped. 

For while you were silent, standing out in the light, 

I was still in the dark. 

My vision was shrouded by manipulation. My mind muddied in deceit.

I knew nothing of my prison.

I knew not that I was held hostage to the insanity, to the dysfunction, to the pain.

I was told that the darkness my eyes saw wasn't there. That the pain I felt was self-imposed. That the coldness and isolation was a figment of my imagination. 

And I believed. 

But had you called out to reveal what you knew- could I have followed you into the light? 

Could you have convinced me that the darkness was real? That I wasn't asking to be hurt? That I was cold and alone and I needed to escape? 

But your silence made them comfortable. 

For no one wants to hear of pain. No one wants to believe that humanity isn't always humane. That people are capable of despicable things. That some hearts are pumping poisonous blood. That their perception of a person could have been so wrong. That wolves do wear sheep's clothing. 

No one wanted to know the things you felt then, alone in that dark cage. 

It's shameful, they said.

It's unfair. 

Don't speak unkindly of others, they told you. 

Don't reveal your scars. 

They're ugly, they said to you.

Hide them away. 

Heal in privacy. 

And so you did. 

And your silence gave them comfort.

But their comfort came at a cost. 

And that price was paid by those still gripped in the confusion of the darkness. By the scars they now bear.

So now that I find myself in your shoes, here in the light, I will not be silent. 

I will not shelter in fear that those who still believe that the wolf is a sheep will find my stories unnerving. 

I will not listen when they insist that I am the predator. 

That my words are unfair and unkind. 

That my scars are ugly. 

No, I will be calling out. For there are many still sitting in the dark. There are many still lost in the murkiness of toxicity.

I will tell them about the darkness. About the control. About the pain and confusion and the manipulation. 

I will tell them to follow me- to follow my voice. To come with me to safety. 

For silence only feeds the oppressor. 

Pain and Relief

I was dangling from a cliff when he found me. 

I didn't call to him for help; he came running. 

"I'm here," he told me sweetly. And he reached out his hand. 

"Don't look down," he warned me.

I didn't. 

I didn't know what was beneath me. I didn't want to know. I didn't have to now.

I clung to him with shaky hands. He began to pull me up. Slowly. Slowly. 

"I will be safe," I thought. 

I could trust him. No- I must trust him. For without him, I would find myself hanging from the edge again. He was my hope. 

I felt like I may have enough strength to pull myself over the rocky ledge- almost - but then he stopped pulling. He looked at me with interest as I hung there, looking back. 

"Do you trust me?" He asked me. 

"Yes!" I replied earnestly. 

I sensed his hesitation. Why didn't he believe me? What had I done to lose his interest? 

I felt his grip loosen on mine. And then, without warning, he let go. My body lurched downward. My arm swung desperately to the rocks in front of me, grasping the ledge for support. My other arm clawed up to meet it. 

"Please," I begged him, "don't go. I need you."

He paused. His eyes peered deep into mine. Would he save me? Was I worth saving? 

My arms throbbed. My clenched fingers ached. 

"I will do anything!" I pleaded. 

Then he reached down, his hand clasped mine, and he pulled my body up towards him. He held the weight of my body as I hung there, hand in hand, legs dangling over the unknown. 

Relief washed over me as the pain subsided. 

"Thank you," I breathed. He almost smiled. 

But his smile turned quickly. 

His grip loosened, then released, and I clawed at the jagged ledge. I caught myself on the rocks. My hands stung from the impact. 

"No!" I yelled to him, "No! Why?" 

What did I do? Did I say the wrong thing? What did he want me to say?

Confusion set in with the panic and pain. My hands were scraped, my fingers numb. My shoulders pulsed with adrenaline and desperation. 

"I will do anything!" I said as I had before.  But this time, he didn't reach back down for me.

No, that wasn't it. That was the wrong thing to say. So I fumbled for another way to convince him to come back to me. 

"You don't have to save me," I said halfheartedly. "You can go." 

But upon hearing this, he reached back down and pulled me up, closer to him. So close I could feel safety in my grip. So, so close. 

My muscles unlocked from their grip. 

The absence of the pain washed over me like a wave.

Ecstasy.

"I'm sorry." He said sincerely. "I care about you." 

"I know," I said after a moment. He must. Why else would he keep coming back for me? 

He pulled me closer to him. My body relaxed and let him hold me. I closed my eyes and breathed. I almost forgot I was still halfway over the cliff. 

Until I felt his hand twitch. 

My eyes sprung open. What was it? Was he having second thoughts?

He looked unsure.

Was I too trusting? Did I take him for granted? What did he need from me? 

No. Nothing.

No, he changed his mind. He wouldn't let go. 

His fingers tightened again around my wrist. Relief poured back into my body. 

I needed to know what it was that was making him doubt me. I needed to prove to him that I was worth it. I was worth saving! 

But was I? I wondered. 

Maybe he was right to doubt me. 

What had I ever done to earn his love? I didn't deserve him. 

And yet, here he was, holding on to me. Saving me from the pain. Keeping me safe. 

Loving me. 

But it didn't last. In an instant, he let go, and I found myself clinging to the ledge once again, bruised and scraped. My elbows began to bleed. My fingers were raw. The pain overwhelmed me. 

It was so sudden! I wasn't ready!

I looked at him in hopes of understanding this game we were playing. 

"What do you want from me?" I strained to ask as my body ached and swayed from the rocky ledge. 

He held out his hand to me. For the first time, I wondered if I really wanted to take it again. He would just let go. I knew he would. 

But the relief. 

Ah, that sweet, beautiful relief when I was no longer clinging to the edge. Had I ever felt anything so powerful? So intense? The more intense the pain, the greater the relief when he held me again. 

I couldn't resist. I couldn't stay in this pain. I needed him. I needed that rush. I needed that relief. 

So I grabbed him, all the while knowing that soon, he would let me go again.

 But maybe not as quickly. Maybe he would give me some time to rest. 

And he did. For several minutes, I hung there, held up by the strength of his arms. 

Waiting. Waiting. 

One arm holding on for life. 

The other anticipating the next fall. 

It was predictable. 

It came as I knew it would. 

The pain was familiar. 

Drop. Reach. Claw. Cling. 

Aching. Throbbing. Shaking. 

I felt my body numbing. 

The pain dulled. My tired body surrendered. 

And I said nothing. 

Waiting. 

Waiting. 

He'll be back. 

He always comes back. 

Relief will come. 

It always does. 

He seemed unnerved by my numbness. He watched me dangling there in silence, glued to the side of the cliff. Fingers locked in stubborn desperation. 

"I made a mistake." He said with sincerity. And he reached out his hand to me. 

But my numbness had overtaken me. 

Maybe I didn't need him after all, I thought. Maybe I can climb up without him. 

So I ignored his hand. And I swung my body, lunging for a foothold. 

Missing. 

Swaying. 

Hanging again. 

My body reminded me of the pain I was in. 

My mind remembered the ecstasy of the support he offered. The release. I needed it. 

I couldn't do it on my own. 

"If I grab your hand," I said, "you have to pull me up. All the way this time. No more back and forth." 

He nodded. "Of course. No more back and forth. Trust me." 

So I did. And with that, he grabbed both of my arms, and he pulled me up. Over the rocky ledge, away from whatever lay below. Away from my pain. 

My body reeled, sore and worn down. 

But that rush. That wonderful rush of euphoria when the pain was gone- it was almost like it never happened at all. 

So we stood there at the edge, he and I. 

And I fell into his arms. 

My rescuer. He saved me. He loved me. 

I wanted to hide myself away in him. 

Tie myself to him. 

"Never leave me," I whispered to him. For I knew now that I needed him to live. I needed him for survival. 

I was weak. I would surely have fallen to my death without him.

I owed him everything. 

We stood for a long time, I in his arms, recovering. Healing. Resting. 

And then- 

I felt his body move forward. I stepped back. 

He stepped forward again, and I back. 

Forward. Back. 

Forward. Back. 

My heel felt the ledge, and my body lurched towards him. I clung to him in sudden terror. 

"Please!" I begged him. "Don't let go!" 

I felt the anticipation of the pain setting in. The rocks digging into my skin. My muscles aching, holding the weight of my body. No. I didn't want to do it again. I couldn't. 

He took a step back. I stepped forward into him. 

He embraced me. A smile flickered across his face.

"What are you afraid of?" He said sweetly. "I was only walking towards you." 

I must have imagined it. How silly of me. 

I shook my head. "I'm sorry," I said, "I overreacted." 

"I told you," he reassured me, "no more back and forth. I meant it."

The reality of that security set in. He loved me. 

No more pain. No more fear. No more agony. 

So we stood. 

No more pain. 

And we stood. 

No more pain. 

Only relief. 

But we stood, and we stood, and a sense of uneasiness took over me. This relief didn't feel like it used to. I felt numb. Lifeless. Void.

Did he even love me anymore? How could I know? I looked in his eyes, and they looked as numb as mine. What happened? 

Perhaps it wasn't the relief that I wanted.

Perhaps it was the pain. 

Perhaps it was the fear that felt so wonderful. 

The intensity. The rush. The euphoria.

My body craved it. Begged for it. I didn't want to go on in this numbness- I needed to feel alive. I needed to feel that love again.

So I backed up. Just a step. And he followed me forward. He wanted this too. I could see it. 

I backed up. Just a little closer to the edge.

His feet followed mine. 

I felt the fear creep up my legs.

It felt horrible. 

Wonderful. 

And without a word, he took me by the arms and held my body out, leaned over the emptiness. My breath escaped from me. I dug my nails into his arms.

"Don't let go," I said instinctively like I had so many times before. 

He hesitated. I felt the panic wash over my body. Then the pain. Then the numbness. Then the waiting.

Like a script.

Like we both knew our part and played it well. 

He held me there for a minute. Debating. 

For a moment, I thought it was going to happen. He was really going to drop me off the side of this cliff. My stomach flipped. Would he really do it? 

And at the very moment I believed he would, he suddenly pulled me back into him. We tumbled onto the dirt together. 

I lay on my back, eyes closed, as the weight of the fear was lifted from my body. It felt surreal. It felt better than any time before. His love was so tangible. 

So real. 

I needed more. 

So we did this dance. Backwards, forwards. Pain, relief. 

Because anything less than pain felt like numbness. And only relief felt like love.

Pain, relief. 

Agony, ecstasy. 

Anxiety when it left. Euphoria when it returned. 

Pain, relief. 

Pain, relief. 

Until the day it stopped. 

The day when the cycle ended. 

The day when he walked me to the edge of the cliff, pushed me off, and walked away. 

And I fell. 

And in the moments before I hit the ground, I was sure I would die. He was never coming back for me. I would never survive the fall. 

But I did. 

I did survive. 

Because it was as I hit the ground that I realized that this cliff I had been clinging to wasn't a cliff at all. That the drop he had been saving me from wasn't far. That the pain I suffered from hitting the bottom wasn't half as agonizing as the pain I suffered from avoiding it. 

That he wasn't my rescuer; he was my captor. 

That I wasn't his damsel; I was his prisoner. 

That relief isn't joy.

That the absence of pain isn't numbness. 

That intensity isn't love. 

Perhaps he will go back to the cliff someday to see if I'm waiting there. To see if I'm clinging to hope that he may come back for me. 

Perhaps he will find someone else there instead. Some young girl who believes she needs to be rescued. Who doesn't know the difference between love and pain. He may find her there, breathless and desperate for his outstretched hand. 

But he will not find me. 

The Broken House

I am always fixing this house. It seems that every time I turn around, there's something new that I've missed. Loose bolts. Broken floorboards. I don't understand what's happening. I spend my time waiting, watching for these things to break. But I seem to miss it each time. 

He tells me it's me. He tells me I've been wearing this house down. That I've been putting this poor house through hell. That the wear and tear of my continual use is breaking it down, one piece at a time. 

I shake my head in disbelief. How is it that I could have missed this? I've been so vigilant. 

So I tread more carefully. I don't put weight on creaky floorboards. I tighten up screws before they loosen. I seal up the cracks in the walls. I board up the windows. 

But each time I turn away to mend a broken spot, I find that the places I looked away from have begun to break down again. I must be moving too much. I must stop walking. 

So I sit. And I make sure only to move when I must. Only for the most necessary things. Only when the rain starts and I desperately try to patch the leaky roof. Only when the wind blows and I board up the doors. Only when my foot falls through a weak floorboard and I patch it back up fervently. 

He looks around at this damaged house. He reminisces of the place it used to be- the place he built for me. It was perfect, he says. It was strong. What have I done? How have I let things come to this? 

I hang my head in my hands. My mind races. 

What have I been doing? How could all of my tireless prevention have led to this? 

He points out that I've begun to walk with a limp. I had felt my body slowing, but I didn't understand why. But there it was. Thud. Thud. Thud. My lead-like leg uselessly dragging behind. It's ugly. 

He looks at me disdainfully, like an owner looks at his dog before he puts it down. 

He tells me that I need to get help. I nod in agreement. I begin thinking up a plan. I must go out for help. But no, then who will take care of the house while I'm away? No, I must stay. 

I must call for help. Loudly, as we are so very far from others. I don't remember when it happened that we became so isolated here, out in the wilderness. I swear, when we moved in, there were neighbors just down the road. Family used to live nearby. But one by one, each moved further away. I will have to be very loud. 

I call. I only hear my own echo. No one hears. 

He shakes his head. His disgust is written on his face as he looks at my leg. 

"Call louder," he tells me. "Why aren't you trying?"

I strain my voice until it cracks. I want him to see how hard I'm trying. 

He doesn't believe me. He says I'm not trying hard enough. I ask him to help. He says he can not. What can he do for such a significant injury? Call louder. Quickly, for time is running out, he says to me. 

I scream. I beg for someone to hear me. I go to the boarded up windows and bang my fists against the splintered wood. 

"Please!" I plead, bloodying my fists in desperation. 

"Don't you care about me at all?" I hear him say quietly. I turn to meet his gaze. I see a match in his clenched fists. 

"Of course I do," I say weakly. He turns from me. He says I do not. He says that the burden of my injury is too much for him to bear. That I should have gotten help earlier. That he's suffered greatly. That while I've been calling for help, the house has begun to deteriorate. That in my selfishness, I've neglected the repairs. How could I do this to him? After everything he put into this beautiful home? How could I be so selfish? 

I apologize profusely. I had no idea. I will try harder, I promise. I will call louder. I will walk on this leg even if it doesn't work. I will fix up the house quickly. I will restore it to its former beauty. 

But as I make my promises, I see that he's already struck the match. I ask him what he's doing. 

His face is sullen. He looks remorseful. 

"You made me do this." He says, and he throws the match at my feet. The old wood beneath me lights up, and I begin to stomp the flames with my one good leg. I plead for him to help me. 

He says it is too far gone. The house is broken. It's too late, he tells me. 

My feet are burning. I continue to stomp anyway. It's not too late, I scream to him. But he has turned away from me. The flames spread quickly on this old, dry wood. I see his figure through the smoke. 

He is pouring something on the floor. 

I recognize it distinctly. 

Gasoline. Everywhere. He pours it haphazardly around me. Fire surrounds me and licks my skin with its stinging heat. My screams turn to bloodcurdling shrieks and gasps for air. Please, I beg him, please don't do this. But he looks at me through the fog of smoke and says, "I can never forgive you." 

And with that, he walks out the door, and bars it shut behind him. 

I watch as this tattered house erupts in flames around me. The thick smoke chokes me and chars my lungs. I will die here, I know. I feel the life slipping away from me. 

In one last desperate attempt to live, I claw at the thin, brittle walls and rip the wood from the frames. Light pours in through the hole I made. Smoke pours out, and clears the air enough for me to make out a shape on the ground. I peer through the thick, poisonous air. I see iron links bolted to the floorboards. I reach down to touch the scalding hot metal, and pull the chain. I feel a tug on my bad leg. 

My hand trails the links backwards from the floor. Link by link. It gets closer to me. Closer. Until I feel my own leg, clasped in the grip of an iron lock around my leg. By the light peering through the hole in the wall, I see clearly now. I see my injured leg chained to the ground. How long have I been captive here? How long have I been pulling this chain around? Why didn't I see it before? These unanswered questions spin with the clouds of smoke around my head. 

I try to free myself from the lock. It is securely fit to my ankle. The flames are closing in, threatening to burn me down with this condemned house. 

I pull on my leg. The iron cuts into my skin. I pull harder. It cuts me deeper. 

A glimmer catches my eye. I hold my hand up to the light and see my ashy fingers wrapped around a key. How long I've been holding it, I don't know. I don't have time to remember. I slip the key into the lock on my ankle. It releases, and I find that my leg is not injured after all. It was only weighed down by the grip of the chain. 

I throw myself into the broken wall with what little strength I have left. The wood splinters and breaks. My body tumbles through and I roll onto the dirt. 

Smoke and ashes follow me out. 

I get to my feet and I begin backing up slowly, trying to make sense of this turn of events. I loved this house. I worked so hard for it. How could all of my efforts have gone to waste? How could it all be lost so quickly? 

And that's when I see him. 

I see him throwing rocks at the burning house. I see him breaking the windows, one by one. I see him busting holes in the walls. 

And I realize he's been doing this for years. Throwing rocks. Breaking windows. Breaking down the house. Ripping it up when I was turned away. 

He calls out to me, "You did this!" 

I shake my head. No. No, I didn't. 

"You made me do this!" He yells. 

I back up further. 

"Look what you've done to me!" He cries. 

And instinct takes over. I run. I run away from the burning house. I run away from the chain bolted to the floor. I run to the open field, the flames at my back, the smoke rising in the distance. 

And the further I run, the clearer the air becomes. I can breathe. I feel the cool air on my skin. I had forgotten what it felt like. 

People are rushing to the scene of the fire. He will tell them I did this. He will tell them about my limp. He will tell them how I let the house fall apart. He will tell them how he had no choice. 

He will not tell them about my chain. 

He will not tell them about his rocks. 

He will not tell them that he left me there to burn. 

He will point to me running in the field and say, "see? She ran. Look what she left behind." 

But I will keep running. Because I am liberated. I will run until the flames flicker into nothing. Until the smoke is but a memory in the distance. 

Because I am free. 

Our Third Home Birth

7:30 AM

I woke up extra early on the Fourth of July. I was 41 weeks and 2 days pregnant, and I had been feeling like my body was about to "go" any day. I was feeling it so much, in fact, that I went to Target the night before and bought myself a bunch of postpartum things I needed- a new nursing bra, a comfy shirt, some postpartum underwear (if you've ever had a baby, you know what I mean). 

As I woke up that morning, I felt like it could be the day. I had been sleeping lightly due to cramping. Getting up and moving around, I recognized them as mild contractions. I didn't time them, because past false-alarms from my previous births had left me a bit jaded.

My husband brought me breakfast, I texted my midwife and birth photographer to let them know I was having some deep contractions, and I went back to bed. I made the mistake of not doing this with my first two labors. If it was real, I knew I'd wake up for it. 

And I did- the contractions got stronger and more consistent, waking me up about every 10 minutes. 

10:15 AM

I was tentatively confident that I was in early labor. I couldn't sleep anymore, so I got up to get myself and the girls dressed and ready for the day. In between contractions, I did my hair and makeup, got dressed, put the kids in their Fourth of July dresses, and did their hair. I could feel that labor was coming on stronger every minute- the contractions were getting deeper, and I was less and less able to focus on my other activities. 

I was leaning over our couch during one contraction as my three year old sang a little song. Something like, "I'm helping Mommy, I'm bringing her a pineapple, and a castle cake..." (The plush pineapple and Lego "castle cake" were brought and placed by my head as she sang this). She hugged my head and stroked my face with her tiny little hand, and that may have been my favorite contraction of the entire day. That moment stuck with me for the rest of my labor. I went back to it multiple times, when the contractions were much harder, and it kept me grounded. 

It wasn't long after this that my three year old announced, I think partly in reaction to my pain, "I want to go see Grandma." We had already planned on the girls spending the night at their house that night, as a second "practice run" for when baby came. My three year old had been saying that she wanted to be there for the birth, but we all had a sneaking suspicion she might change her mind. And she did. Grandma's house was just so much more fun than watching mom wander around, having contractions. (Who could blame her?)

12:00 PM

The girls left with my mom, and I went back upstairs to my bedroom.
The real world started its transition of drifting away and I began falling deeper and deeper into Labor Land- that space where time both flies and doesn't move at all- where the only reality is that which is happening in the body. 

My contractions were getting stronger each time, but were still irregular. 9 minutes. 8 minutes. 12 minutes. I had my husband text my midwife to keep her updated. 

The next two hours I spent laboring (still inconsistently), trying various things to cope with the growing intensity. 

I got in a warm Clary Sage bath at some point, and tried to drink a mug of organic grass-fed bone broth (you know, the really expensive good stuff) that I had been saving for labor. It was a shot in the dark, as I had, in my previous labors, never been able to eat or drink anything (that wasn't practically forced on me) due to terrible nausea. I got a few sips down before giving up on it and going back to ice water. 

I went back to bed, and found that the pain was so much worse lying down. And so, back to laboring on my knees over the side of my bed I went. It was the only position I could tolerate, and I was still trying to get baby boy to turn. He was posterior, as he had been for the last week. We had been trying lots of Spinning Babies techniques in hopes that he would turn, to no avail. (We were planning to do acupuncture in a few days, but he beat us to the punch!)

2:00 PM

My contractions had begun to come closer - 6 to 10 minutes apart- and the back and pelvis pressure had set in. That posterior baby wasn't messing around in there! I coped (a little) with a heating pad laid across my lower back/pelvis.

4:00 PM

My husband had been in contact with our midwives over text, and around 4:00, they arrived to check in. I don't remember much of what they said or what they did. They were minimally important in my head. Jen (my primary midwife) put pressure on my hips to relieve some of the pain from the back labor. They checked on baby's heartbeat with the Doppler. They had me eat some saltine crackers with my water to make sure I was taking the water in. And then they went downstairs to let me labor in my dark bedroom with my husband. 

I felt close, but I didn't trust my instinct. I had felt close with my second labor several times and was crushed and infuriated when it just kept going and going- 5 hours longer than my first birth.

I told my husband I wanted to go to the hospital. I said I wanted an epidural. I said I couldn't do this- that the back labor was too strong and I couldn't labor like this all day and night. He told me I could do it, that I had already done it, and that I needed to not say that anymore if I didn't actually want to be taken in, because they would have to take me to the hospital if I was truly asking to. (It's that whole "consent" thing... such a pain, right?)

4:30 PM

My birth photographer, Monet, arrived soon after. I was half-aware at this point, mentally. I should have known how far into labor I was by this lack of clarity, but, well, I was too far gone for that.  I saw her and thought "hello," but couldn't say it, so I put my head down on my bed and had more contractions instead. (Sorry, Monet!)

Time and labor moved on. I cried a couple of times. I snapped at my husband to STOP TOUCHING ME (once that I recall). I noted all the changes in my body- I had been spotting, I began to lose my mucus plug, my legs felt truly unhinged from my hip sockets, I was shakier and more nauseous... But I tried to not project how close I was to the end. I didn't want to be wrong. 

I had gone from breathing through my contractions to humming through them, to moaning through them, to roaring through them- and then one came that stood out to me. It was so deep and so intense that I was completely silent through it. I knew it was significant but I was too far away to recognize why. It passed, and I rested for what seemed like a long time. Then another one. So intense, so long. I wondered if I was in transition and then pushed that thought away. 

I had the thought to labor over the toilet (and pee, because I need to pee what seems like hundreds of times in labor- is that only me?). Sitting brought on an intense contraction and I yelled for my husband to help me. I wanted to hang my arms around his neck- as I had done in my labor before. The contraction passed and I felt the baby move very slowly but very deliberately. I knew he was moving down (and I know now that he was rotating anterior, although I hadn't known that at the time). 

My eyes were closed and my mind was in my womb with him.  
Yes, baby, I said to him, yes, go down. Right there. 

I envisioned him moving his head into the birth canal and heading downwards as I felt his body moving in me. 
And suddenly, POP. 
My water burst, he rushed downwards, and my body surged into an intense contraction. 

Duke yelled that my water had broken. The midwives came running up the stairs. Everyone was scrambling, moving, getting the room ready. Apparently I wasn't the only one who was a bit caught off guard.

This is it, I thought, here he comes. 

There's this adrenaline rush that comes at the end, when you know it's time. Fear, excitement, and energy all pulsing through what just moments before had been a drained and depleted body. Suddenly that tiredness lifts, and a new wave of motivation sets in.

The next contraction was equally as intense and I felt my breath puttering as he was barreling down. Those silent contractions were now replaced with guttural roars. 

"It gets a little more intense once your water breaks, remember?" Jen reminded me. "Try to have a couple contractions on the toilet to help him come down." 

"I need to get up!" I said,  "I need to move! I don't want to have him here!"'

Jen assured me that I wouldn't, and we would move to the bed before he came. 

Suddenly I had a moment of panic. 
Is he not coming? I can't do this! I'm not ready! It's harder but he's not coming! 

But the next contraction and involuntary push told me that he was coming NOW, and I stood up and said I needed to get to the bed.

 I couldn't stand up straight or walk properly, so my husband and Jen helped me waddle over to the side of my bed. I knelt down like I had been doing the rest of labor.

 5:35 PM

I had been preparing for this moment since my last birth- I wanted to breathe him out, not push. I was so calculated and alert in these moments. I let my body push the baby through the contractions, then relaxed into it. I rested, waiting for the next surge. 

And then it came, and my body decided to take the reigns. The fetal ejection reflex (which I previously didn't know existed) took over, and in one very quick moment, I had birthed that baby - head then body- completely. 

He was down below me, between my legs, where my midwife caught him. I heard him cry a gurgly little cry, which put my mind at ease, and put my head down on the bed for a second to process and breathe. 

It's over, I thought. It was a relief.

Then I looked down to see my very pink little baby wrapped snugly in a brown towel. 

"What time is it?" I asked. 

"5:35, exactly." 

I was helped onto the bed, and my sweet little Asher was placed belly-to-belly on me. I delivered my placenta soon after, and I was able to bring him closer to latch and nurse.

And thus ended my third home birth. Asher was 7 lbs 10 oz and about 20 inches long. He scored 10/10 on his Apgar and was content and alert within minutes of birth. He has continued to be much like this, even as I write this two weeks after his birth. He is a very content little human, who enjoys sleeping, nursing, and cuddling.

The birth story ends here for me. I've had to separate the two- birth and postpartum. Birth was as planned. It was hard, it was intense, but it was good. 

Postpartum begins another story completely- one that didnt go as planned, and that I've been working through processing as the weeks have passed and the fog has lifted. But that story hasn't been written yet, so I will save it for another day. 

All photos by Monet Nicole Birthing Stories