Today is a hard day for me: it's the seventh anniversary of the due date I was given when I learned Ben and I had gotten pregnant. On the one hand, I am grateful that there is no permanent bond tethering me to Ben. On the other, I feel the loss of the child that is not here.
For a fleeting moment, I thought of reaching out to Ben because he's the only other person who might remember the significance of this day. This is an old (and bad) habit. I've given into this type of impulse in the past at times when I was not clear on malignant nature of his behavior. From those experiences, I've learned that contacting an abuser in a weak moment is a terrible choice that opens the door to manipulation and invites further abuse.
It was easy to reject the impulse to contact him this year because I have access to truth. Knowing the extent of his lies and betrayal, and recalling that he has also leveraged other women's personal misfortune or tragedy (e.g., divorce or death of a loved one) to start or attempt to start abusive relationships, made the right choice glaringly obvious. On days like this, it is easy to appreciate how fortunate I was to see Emily's text message in June. Pulling on that string unraveled his fabric of lies and provided much needed clarity.
That I ever thought Ben was the only one I had to turn to for consolation about the lost pregnancy, when he was the very person who decided it must end is absurd. It speaks to how much perspective I lost and how isolated I let myself become. I'm working to make sure I never find myself in a comparable position in the future.