The words don’t always come, but the feelings always do
In seven weeks, my sociopath husband will have been dead for one full year.
You’d think I’d feel safe. Well, I’m not going to lie to you, I did cancel my alarm monitoring service many months ago, and the anxiety has lessened incredibly. The kids feel safer. His bio-kids are safe. Their mother doesn’t have to worry. His mother and father can get off the roller coaster. Lots of worry was put to rest. The sense of desperation left.
Having said all that, I can promise you that I am not 100% free, yet. I still have nightmares. I still doubt my decisions and judgement. I have horrendous PTSD and it has bled into all areas of my life. Work, parenting, socializing, sex, intimacy, and everything in between.
I don’t think I will ever be entirely free. A little part of me will always cringe, wince, have nightmares, doubt my judgment and second guess everything. At least I don’t fear for my life anymore, at his hands anyway.
I’m still not done wading through the wreckage he left behind. Collectors still call me. He still gets mail here. There’s death certificates to be corrected (spelling error and address error), and I have to figure out if there’s a widow certificate or how that works. And he left me in a royal clusterfuck with tax arrears that came long before we met. It’s all on a shelf. In a box. Where it sits. And will continue to sit, for now.
I think I mentioned before that the one thing that did stop was that I could finally stop monitoring his schemes online to keep my finger on the pulse in case he was plotting to come back for us, as he threatened so many times. He’s not coming back. Ever. I saw it with my own eyes. I had to.
The final autopsy report is still not in, but the coroner confirmed it was diverted methadone and oxycodone, in addition to his huge prescribed methadone dose. An overdose, at his own hands. I know it wasn’t on purpose because he left his computer on, logged onto everything. His narcissist and paranoid sociopathic ways would never permit him to allow that kind of invasive background to be known about him upon his demise. No, it was a accident. It just finally caught up with him. Nobody was surprised.
I am one of the lucky ones. I got out after only 10 months of marriage together (after 18 years of friendship). He died one year later, almost to the day.
He changed my life forever; my eyes are wide open now.