I have safeguarded myself through the courts. A restraining order has just been extended for another year — because the evidence, the risk, and the history demand protection.

If I was the one who supposedly attacked him, as he’s whispered into ears that still want to believe the best of him, then why didn’t he go to the police?
Why hasn’t he rushed to file for divorce?
Because it’s all lies. Smoke and mirrors. Control dressed up as victimhood.

He won’t divorce me — not because of love or conscience — but because in our entire married life, he never once did what I wanted. Not once.

Meanwhile, his partner sits in the aisles — wondering, waiting — hoping that divorce papers will mark the next chapter of their “relationship.”
Please, by all means — hurry up.
Set me free.

I no longer want to be associated with this man.
He is, to me, an embarrassment — a symbol of everything I’ve outgrown, everything I’ve survived.

I don’t want his name.
I don’t want any connection.
It is humiliating being called his wife — and I say that with all the dignity that comes from finally waking up and choosing myself.

When people say things like:
“Isn’t he Mr. Miserable?”
“Mr. Obnoxious?”
“Mr. Rude?”
“Is something wrong with him mentally?”

I stay silent. I refuse to explain him anymore. He is no longer my concern.

I wanted out a long, long time ago — but like everything in life with him, he has made it as difficult as possible. Because that’s what he does. That’s how he operates. That’s what makes him tick.

Well — tick somewhere else.
Be Mr. Angry. Mr. Abusive. Mr. Controlling. Mr. Obnoxious — with someone else.
Because I. Am. Done.

Done with the drama.
Done with the games.
Done with being married to a man who weaponized cruelty and called it love.

This isn’t just an ending.
It’s a reclamation.