I’m shaking. I can’t stop shaking. I’ve been shaking all morning.

It’s days like today when telling myself I’m fine and I have moved on that are the hardest. Like I’m being slapped in the face and forced to acknowledge I’ll never be fine; I’ll never fully move on.

I shouldn’t be expected to move on. I shouldn’t be expected to accept the situation. I shouldn’t have to be fine for the sake of being fine when I’m not always going to be fine.

I’ve successfully gone 6.5 years without having to be the one who sticks around when my ex visits Evelynn. Yes, visits. Always visits. Those first few years, I got away with my parents being the ones while I either, more often than not, left the house to work out or hit up a yoga class and do some retail therapy—and I racked up the debt to prove it—anything to take my mind off the fact my kid was meeting with the man who hurt me; or, I would hide in my parents room or the basement, areas off limits to him and Evelynn. His voice would carry through the halls, though. I couldn’t drown him out when I wanted him drowned.

When we moved out of my parents, by this time my ex had cancelled enough on my daughter that his visits were down to only twice a month. Every other weekend Evelynn would go to her grandparents for two to three days and for a couple hours one of those days my ex would see her there. My parents didn’t know at the time what he had done, only that he had hurt me but not the extent or how exactly. They haven’t seen him or had to deal with him since finding out this fall.

By the time the pandemic came around and Evelynn and I moved in with my most recent ex, A. was a saint at letting me leave the house and he be the one to deal with the baby daddy. Until A. caught her dad talking negatively about us and A. to Evelynn; her dad made E. feel bad for calling A. “daddy” or “Andy dad” and A.’s parents Grandma and Grandpa.

Now, I’m forced to be in the same room as him. Forced to watch him interact with my daughter. Forced to witness the man who raped me on my birthday simply because it had been too long for him and it felt too good to him. Forced to wonder what he could possibly say or do if my daughter was ever assaulted or worse.

Nothing, he could do nothing. That same night of my birthday, a guy at the bar had grabbed my ass hard, full palm, and he did nothing to the dude. Two girlfriends, however, had words to say and drinks to throw and we had to leave the bar.

I spent the drive here telling myself I’m okay. I’m okay I’m okay I’m okay. I spent the drive here trying to focus more on the road than the lies I was telling myself.

I’m not okay. I am never going to be fully okay.

I have moved past many things regarding this situation but the more I’m forced to see him or hear his voice, the more I’m pushed back into that bed and the harder it is to ignore my daughter’s dad raped me because it was more important for his dick to feel good than me begging for him to stop when I felt as though I was on fire.

We met at a restaurant today. Always public places. I won’t allow him in my home, I won’t even tell him where we live. He’s not allowed in my space. When I was with A., it was different. I had three bulldogs and a beast of a man. It didn’t bother me that he had to enter our home. Since the breakup with A., it has all changed. Parks and restaurants only. The first time was at a pizza joint, and I sat there and read. I couldn’t eat, didn’t even try to attempt it.

I never eat well on days when he comes around. I have to force it. Sometimes it stays down, other days I can’t even try.

Today we met at a restaurant for him and Evelynn to have brunch. I sat at a separate table. I ordered her food for her to ensure it was gluten free safe. I sat here writing this damn blog and dealing with all the conflicting shit roiling through me.

And I puked.

Drank more coffee. Failed to control the shaking. Succeeded in controlling any frustrated tears.

Frustrated as hell over the situation.

I hate him. “Hate” is not a word in our vocabulary I allow to be spoken. I find it poor choice when there’s so many others that can better articulate our emotions. Yet, I hate him. There is no other word accurate enough. I have struggled with accepting the fact that I will not only always hate the father of my child but also the fact that I am allowed to do so.

Evelynn has begun to ask why I don’t like her dad and it’s been draining. I don’t want her to know, I don’t want her to know how her dad betrayed me or became a monster. I don’t want her to know the hell her dad is capable of doing to a woman. I don’t want her to have to experience the emotions behind all of this bullshit. We only tell her that he hurt me and that I’m allowed to not like him but that doesn’t mean she can’t like him.

The strength it takes for me to tell her that completely drains me. There’s a voice in my head screaming, “LIES! BULLSHIT! KEEP HIM AWAY!” There’s a quieter voice in my head wondering why he can’t disappear already. Right now, all I can think about is how I would love to drown out the noise with some Jack Daniels and friends. Surround myself with people who support me not hurt me. Fuck a guy who if I told him to stop mid sex he would do so because he understands and respects consensual sex. I want the intimacy of feeling loved and appreciated.

Not a toy.

It’s been a struggle dating this season because of the comments guys make on my body. I like me, I’ve worked incredibly hard to become me. I’ve pushed past physical obstacles to build strength and correct issues. It hurts when guys only want me for my body after Evelynn’s dad did what he did to me. I can have a sexual relationship with a man, not date them, and they still respect me for more than my body, where we have a strong friendship. Yet, I’m struggling with this concept of gaining weight, fat not muscle, to make the comments stop. I don’t mind if a guy wants my body—me­­—as long as he’s not objectifying me.

That’s how this began. That’s how he felt the need to rape me in the first place.

He didn’t respect me to stop. He didn’t see me as human to care. I was nothing to him.

I am not okay.

I won’t look at him. I won’t converse with him. He’s been in the mode of kissing my ass ever since A.’s and my breakup. It’s eating at me. I want nothing to do with him.

I refused to even have us walk out of the restaurant with him.

Back home, I’m better. Still shaking. Not as sick. Secure.

I’m not always okay. I’m strong because I choose to always move forward. I choose to pick me. I choose to look for the good. I choose to look towards tomorrow. I choose daylight over nightmares.

I might not always be okay, I wasn’t okay for most of today or last night leading up to this day, but I firmly believe I will be okay. I will be more than okay. I will not be defined by a nightmare.

I will be okay. I am more than a body, I know this. There exists in me more light than this nightmare.