Mid-40’s  Bleeding Alone

Finding out I was pregnant with PJ’s baby floored me. At my age, it felt like a miracle—a tiny light in a life that had been anything but easy. For a few brief weeks, I pictured tiny feet, soft curls, and a second chance. That baby wasn’t just a baby—it was my redemption. A reason. A maybe. 

But of course, nothing with PJ was ever simple. He was a narcissistic stalker who thrived on breaking me down, tracking my every move, and belittling me until I was nothing but splinters. 

When I told him the news—over the phone—that my kids were happy about the pregnancy, his response was venom. He screamed that if I kept it, he’d have nothing to do with me or the baby. Said I’d raise it alone. And I knew he meant it. That phone call turned ugly. So ugly that I started bleeding that night. The next day, I lost it. 

He got his wish. 

I think I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. For nine months, I cried. I mourned the baby. I mourned the chaotic, abusive mess I’d been tangled in with PJ. He didn’t even come with me to the hospital for the D&C. I went alone. A wreck. 

I lay in that sterile room, legs up, tears sliding sideways, thinking he should be here. He did this too. But I was always the one cleaning up the blood. 

And when I saw the baby pass down the toilet—though the nurse swore I didn’t—I know what I saw. Some things, you just know. 

They numbed my body, but nothing could numb the scream in my chest. I was the one gutted, again. 

I didn’t know it then but surviving that day would become the blueprint for every battle I faced after. 

After that, I shut down. Cut off my best friend. Cut off everyone. I didn’t have it in me to keep retelling the same old horror story. “Guess what PJ did now.” I don’t blame them for backing away. I was exhausted by me, too. 

A few months later, I met someone new. MK. He was older—twelve years older—and I thought, maybe now, finally, someone stable. He was a mechanic. Seemed calm, grounded. Mature. Of course, he was also married—something I didn’t find out straight away. I should have run. I didn’t. 

In some twisted way, the fact that he was unavailable felt like space. Like maybe I could finally breathe. At first, it was easy—fun, even. 18 months of dinners, sex, and low-stakes connection. But even during the easy days, there was something sharp behind his smile. I just didn’t want to see it. 

When I tried to end it? That’s when the mask dropped. 

He glued the locks on my car. Ripped off my windowsill. Left voicemails threatening my family—said he knew travellers who would hurt my daughter and granddaughter. Drove up and down my street. Said he’d burn my house down. And one day, he turned violent. Put his size ten boots into me. 

I started sleeping with a hammer by the bed. Jumping at shadows. His voice lived in my bones. 

That was it. I’d had enough. 

I moved. Left town. Packed up the memories and the ghosts. And yeah, I wasn’t innocent in all of it—I invited chaos in like it was an old friend. Because chaos was familiar. Drama had become my shadow. Without it, I didn’t know who I was. 

Of course, I do now. I’ve traced that chaos back to its roots. To my childhood. To the wounds I didn’t know were still bleeding. 

Reflection 

The guilt I carry for what my kids lived through is a weight I’ll never fully put down. I’m lucky they still speak to me. 

I used to say, I didn’t know better. But the truth is—I do now. 

I did what I knew, until I knew better. And when I knew better, I did different. 

I’ve learned the hard way that no one is coming to save me. No man. No love. No fantasy. My happiness, my worth—that’s my job. I used to believe I needed someone to hold me up. 

But I was wrong. 

So bloody wrong. 

Maybe I wasn’t perfect—but I’m still here. And that’s enough. 

I wasn’t just broken—I was becoming dangerous. To lies. To patterns. To any man who thought I was his to control.