The Fear Ends Here

This weekend reminded me just how exhausting it is to live in this cycle.

I had a family party on Saturday, a big, special celebration. In the days leading up to it, I almost didn’t want to go. I hate the way I look at the minute. I’ve put on so much weight, I feel disgusting, like I don’t belong beside all the beautiful women around me. And when he calls me “Ms Piggy” the cruel nickname he throws at me it doesn’t help my confidence.

But I wanted to feel good, just for one night. So I booked in with Charlotte Tilbury to get my makeup done with a friend. I thought, if I can’t change my body right now, maybe at least I can feel beautiful again for a few hours. And it worked. Looking in the mirror, I felt like a different version of myself. Almost like I was in my twenties again. Excited. Free.

Getting out the door, though, was stressful. He had been ignoring me for three days straight, punishing me with silence, and when I asked him if he could drop the kids to and from a party, he wouldn’t even lift his head. I asked again in front of my daughter, and he ignored her too. In the end, I had to scramble and make other arrangements with parents. By the time I finally got there, I was already drained.

Maybe that’s why I let loose. For a few hours, I escaped. The party was fancy, with catering, bar staff, champagne flowing non-stop. The laughter was endless, the music perfect, and I even found myself dancing with a friend’s walking stick like it was a pole. Silly, harmless, pure fun. I laughed until my cheeks hurt, and for those few hours, the weight lifted.

I didn’t get home until five in the morning, and by the time I had tea and toast, it was six before I crawled into bed. I woke later to check on the kids, but of course, they were still asleep — teenagers love their lie-ins. I smiled, thinking how good it felt to just be me for a night.

But then the house rattled.

Music blared from his room so loud it shook the walls, even though he wasn’t in there, he was downstairs, letting it thunder through the whole house. I begged him to turn it down, but he ignored me completely, like I didn’t exist.

That’s when it hit me. This wasn’t about music. This was punishment. For staying out late. For laughing. For remembering who I am without him.

And when he finally came back, the switch had flipped again. Suddenly he was chatty, sitting too close, rubbing my arm and my leg even when I asked him to stop. He kept saying he was sorry, but never once said for what. Not for ignoring me. Not for ignoring the kids. Not for making us invisible for days. Just “sorry,” like that word was enough.

The truth is, I’m exhausted. I sit there numb because I don’t have the energy to argue anymore. Sometimes I think the only way he’ll ever get the picture is if I move out, but I don’t have the money for that yet. So I stay. And the cycle keeps spinning.

I’ve been told my weight gain is stress, high cortisol, my body’s way of surviving in constant fight-or-flight. Maybe once I have a new life, I’ll feel good again. Maybe I’ll find myself again.

What I know is this: love isn’t supposed to feel like punishment. Love isn’t supposed to cost you your joy. And the longer this goes on, the more certain I am that I deserve better.