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Beyond the Beaten Path

Life After Strife

By Bill Codi | Gypsy BloggerPublished 4 years ago 5 min read
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Author: Bill Codi

By the time I returned to St. Louis, after nearly a decade in Chicago, half of my life savings was gone. I was a ghost of myself. Finally, I was free from my husband after enduring years of atrocities.

I left that morning, February 22nd, 2014, after he took my name off the bank account where my paychecks and investments were being routed. The night before, I played “sober sister” to a group of hard-partying friends. At one point, near the end of the night, my card was declined after I tried to charge a Sprit. I thought it must have been a bank error. I tried to transfer funds to checking but an error message popped up repeatedly, making it unable for me to reset the online banking password.

The next morning, my husband sat me down and said, “We have to have a talk. I decide what happens to the money from now on. I’m going to take an allowance. That’s how it‘s going to be. If you need something, you ask me first.”

That man didn’t work. He hadn’t a job for more than 2 weeks during our 7-year relationship. Over $40,000 in savings and well over $10,000 from my own hard work was in the account we shared. Everything in our home, in our bank, were all my contributions from the Fair Trade business I built alone. I taught myself how to sew one month after I delivered my child and struggling to breastfeed. Everything we had I earmed with every ounce of gumption I could muster. All he contributed to was online gaming profile.

I’d had enough. I already suffered years of systematic manipulation, unspeakable acts of deviance, physical and emotional violence; a gradual attempt to break me down and destroy my spirit. I‘d reached a trespass. I overlooked his sociopathic behavior for too long and now he was trying to take control of the only freedom I had.

Without hesitation, I was out the door and on foot, sprinting through the busy streets of Wicker Park while holding my 14-month-old daughter closely. I barreled through crowds of zombie fried hipsters, tightly coddling my baby, until I found the nearest ATM. Luckily, I was able to withdraw the maximum amount ($450) before he changed the debit card’s PIN from our PC at home.

I returned to our second story flat out of breath, heart racing. This was my only chance. With my littl girl, I grabbed as many of our belongings as I could fit in the Jeep, then sped toward my childhood home five hours south.

A contested divorce and heated custody battle ensued, devouring more than four years of time and my well-being. I would’ve payed him to walk away had I the means. I was battling a sociopath whose intention was to take custody of my sweet child, my reason for living. No one wins a fight like that.

Six years later, I’m happy to say we’re safe, but I’ve nothing to show for the war I fought. Not the italian linen furniture, authentic Persian rugs, artisan crafts. All the years of art, journals, photos, tools, and memories I had collected since childhood. Not the Fair Trade company, green products, and cloth diaper business I’d built by myself. A decade of blood, sweat, and tears all lost to a greedy, power hungry, spoiled sloth.

I mean, I was on top. I interned under the Chicago Bull’s sports columnist and Chicago PR’s finest, Zizi Papacharisi. I was the only student journalist with my own column in UIC News. I was making music and art every night, performing choir concerts while my daughter slept in her sling, sleeping in the recording studio and practice rooms. I was the most successful student in my graduating class on a full ride scholarship from the Honor’s College. My years long career with Roadruner Records scored me a field merchandising position making $46 an hour doing what I love.

When ugly shit happens, you become a cancer to society. As if your horrible circumstances are contagious and everyone you loved avoids you like the plague. The only friend who stayed by my side through everything went to prison 3 years ago. We were the good kids. I don’t know what happened.

The only people who come around now are hungry for an energy boost. Trying to feel better about themselves, pretending to be a god among men for one day never to be heard from again. Even some of the friends and family I’ve known all my life turn out to be an energy suck or abuser. At some point you don’t have anything left to give and everyone will still take, take, take.

The world tried to swallow me whole and I keep breathing. I know for better or worse things will change. Sometimes, you get buried so deep it is hard to see the light overhead.

I’ve never needed people before. I think I do now. I’ve lost everyone, everything I ever cared about in some capacity. Since I moved back, I’ve only had the pleasure of coming in contact with broken men, empty promises, fake smiles.

I used to be somebody. Even if I was nothing special to anyone else, I used to be something to me. I’m so filled with gratitude that my daughter and I have our own space. A chance to thrive. I feel like I’ve lived a hundred lifetimes.

Now, I’m sitting alone in a cornfield, trapped by circumstance once again. Another great loss, another traumatic series of events. Another failed relationship. Another child, a little boy I named Weylin, “son of the wolf”. A lone wolf, I certainly am.

Six years I’ve been back in my hometown. I’m happy for what I have: my kids. But I’m human. I’m a woman. More often than I want to admit, being “mommy“ isn’t always enough. I need to exist.

I can feel something, nagging and starved, inside my being. That familiar “lost and wounded“ feeling. Loneliness. I feel like a ghost. An enigma. I don’t know what it is. I’ve never felt this before. I imagine this is what heartbreak feels like but I can’t claim to have ever known romantic love.

I still feel that fire. So much life, worlds upon worlds living inside my skin, that I have to keep in a box. When will it be my time? If we lead by example, what am I really teaching to my children? Only time will tell...

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About the Creator

Bill Codi | Gypsy Blogger

Star-crossed artist, closet singer-songwriter, open clairvoyant, INTJ, type O-, aspiring corporate sellout. A lil bit country. A lil rock & roll. I was Wednesday Addams before it was cool. I am Jill’s wasted talent.

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