He behaves horribly, taking out his small-town insecurities on me, but I can’t leave him!
When my marriage fell apart, I felt like the ground had been pulled from under me. The divorce hit me like a wrecking ball—I was sure I’d never crawl out of that darkness.
The only thing that kept me from sinking into despair was work. I clung to it like a life raft. My parents, friends, colleagues—they all reached out, though Mum and Dad seemed to suffer even more than I did, watching me unravel. After a year or two, I started piecing myself back together, slowly becoming the woman I’d been before the whole mess.
And then *he* stormed into my life—Gary. Because of him, I’ve lost everyone who mattered, and now I’m stuck, unsure how to escape this nightmare. I wouldn’t say I was head over heels—no, it wasn’t like that. But I enjoyed his company. We’d stroll along the pier in our little town by the Thames, and he seemed so straightforward, uncomplicated. It was nice having him over—he’d fix the leaky tap, tinker with my knackered old car (which I know nothing about), while I cooked dinner and we chatted about anything and everything.
Maybe I’m just making excuses, but bit by bit, I let Gary worm his way in. He moved into my flat in Bristol, and everything went downhill from there. It drove me mad how he never held down a job—either getting sacked or quitting, always moaning about his bosses. His mates, a bunch of loud, drunken louts, dragged him to the pub, and he’d bankroll their rounds even when he could barely cover his own bills.
Life with him became unbearable. He’d bring home dodgy blokes unannounced, never asking if I wanted strangers in my flat. He couldn’t care less if I was exhausted after a shift, whether I had it in me to cook for a crowd or even put the kettle on. One by one, my real friends—the ones who’d stood by me in my darkest days—stopped visiting. And if anyone *did* drop by, Gary acted like a proper berk. Even alone, he ruined everything—snapping, making snide digs, taking his frustrations out on me.
He never stopped whinging about how life had dealt him a bad hand—growing up in some backwater village near Manchester, dropping out of trade school without a qualification. And he took it all out on *me*, glaring like I owed him something, demanding money for fags despite not earning a penny. Everyone told me the same thing: *”Emily, he’s using you—kick him out!”* But I dug my heels in, insisting they were wrong. Deep down, I knew they weren’t. Admitting it just hurt too much.
The oddest part? Sometimes I think *I’m* the one using *him*. Yes, he’s insufferable, but without him, I’m terrified of being alone. At 43, options are slim—who’d want a divorced woman with a battered heart? I can’t face life like some lonely sparrow, drowning in the silence of an empty flat. So I put up with it. His antics, his endless moaning, the stench of stale lager on his breath. At least when he’s plastered, he doesn’t kick off—just passes out on the sofa, giving me a few hours’ peace.
Why don’t I leave?
Every day, I ask myself the same question. Love? No, that’s long gone, if it ever existed. Fear? Probably. Fear of solitude, fear no one else will ever knock on my door. Gary’s like a millstone around my neck, but for some reason, I cling to it like a lifeline. I see him lashing out—shouting about arrogant city folk one minute, muttering that I’m too polished for him the next. And I stay quiet. Stay quiet and ladle him soup, even though inside, I’m boiling with rage.
Mum and Dad don’t ring as much anymore—they’re tired of repeating themselves. Friends have vanished like they were never there. It’s just me. And him. Sometimes I watch him snoring in his chair and think, *”Emily, is this really all you deserve?”* But I push the thought away. At least he doesn’t hit me, doesn’t scream at night—could be worse, right?
Tell me, would *you* choose to be alone in my shoes? Could you start over at my age? I don’t know the answer. For now, I just carry on as best I can—with him, with his small-town bitterness and my quiet despair. Maybe one day I’ll find the strength to walk away. Or maybe I’ll stay trapped—a prisoner of my own fear and his rotten temper. Only time will tell.
