I learned early that crying only fueled him. Tears were entertainment, proof his “lessons” were working. So I stopped giving him what he wanted. Not because I was strong — because I ran out. My body simply refused to waste water on a man who treated pain like a sport.
So I adapted. I smiled. I laughed. I smirked — as he called it — at the absurdity of the world he was trying to build around me. Sarcasm became my shield, humor my rebellion. If he wanted obedience, he got a grin instead.
One of the clearest examples was the kitchen skating rink incident.
He decided it would be hilarious to put the ice maker into overdrive until the entire kitchen floor was buried in ice. The fridge spit cubes like a slot machine paying out. The kids slid across the floor on their feet, knees, and whatever body part hit first. They were soaked, shrieking, slipping, laughing. From the outside, it looked like chaos in the fun way.
But I knew what came next. My part of the game.
When the ice melted into puddles and the novelty wore off, he announced it was time for me to “fix it.” Not clean — erase. Make it look like nothing had ever happened. No trace. No evidence. No reality.
The mop and bucket became my prison guards. I scrubbed until well into the night. He wandered in occasionally to inspect, pointing out invisible mistakes, asking if we had any ice left because his water was warm.
That was the moment it hit me — the sheer ridiculousness of it all. He had flooded the kitchen with ice, turned it into a playground, and now wanted more ice because his drink wasn’t cold enough.
I laughed. Hard. So hard I woke the kids, who came running to see what they’d missed.
That laugh wasn’t joy. It was survival. It was my mind refusing to break the way he wanted it to.
And I carry that humor with me even now. Laughing at my past helps me put it in perspective. That’s not me anymore.
But the laughter? I’m keeping that — this time for the right reasons.
Still standing, refusing to get another ice maker,
K.
I'm Still Here. Somehow... 