the great fuck-this escape 🖕🙂 (part three: restraining orders & revelations)

✶

part 3

the part that still
blows my fucking mind—
when i finally filed
for a restraining order?

i didn’t want to.
i felt fucking bad—
isn’t that insane?
because i didn’t want to
fucking hurt him,
or fuck up his life 💀💀
despite (!!!)
(his confirmed, explicit, violent fucking crimes)
his absolute lack of fucks—
while directly
fucking us over.
fucking threatening me.
fucking draining the accounts.
fucking harassing me—
repeatedly.

but not to see his kid.

ok bro.

yo—
i didn’t dream of being
“that wife in court.” ✨
i wanted him to get normal.
to stop lying.
to stop draining my money,
promising GI bill tuition 🇺🇲
and to be a fucking dad,
then bailing to texas
for a job (lol)
and then fucking school?
never sending shit—
while i’m left broke,
raising our baby alone,
stack of fucking bills
wondering if he been cheating
the whole goddamn time,
with the office gremlin
or literally just
fucking anyone
who gave
him any
fucking attention.

but the day i filed?
yo—
they asked,
“have you ever had one before?”

i said no.
they said,
“wait, you’re in the system.”

💀🔪📂

turns out,
the O.G. asshole—
my dad—
obviously had
restraining orders
in the same fucking county.
the same courthouse
where my father’s name
sat on fucking DV files
is the one where
i had to drag my
nine-months-postpartum
fucking body
to protect myself
and my daughter
✨from my own goddamn husband. ✨

that was the
most wack-ass
fucking foreshadowing.
violence is apparently
genetic ✨
in this bloodline,
and i was
the one
who had to
slam the fucking door shut.

and once i did,
reality hit:
the house i thought
we’d hide in
from one monster—
immediately becomes
a danger zone
with the goddamn original,
fucking obviously.
so now,
it was me,
my daughter,
and a cycle i refused to fucking repeat.

so i packed my shit.
alone.
no squad.
my mom suggested
i move into a shed.
a literal fucking shed.
while me and my baby
bounced
between couches,
cars, and nowhere.

just like she did.

and still—
heroes showed the fuck up.
not many.
but enough.

my best friend.
the one with a
golden fucking heart.
the one who,
when i told her everything—
the spit in my face,
the truth from the c-section
with two black eyes,
my dad’s house of childhood terror,
the monsters in both men—
she didn’t cringe.
she fucking nodded
with goddamn tears in her eyes.
and suited the fuck up.
because:
she got it.
she checked in.
she understood the motherfucking assignment.

when i had to cut
when i got that fucking call?
bitch just looked at me
mid-fucking-road-trip
michigan to colorado—
this down-ass
ride or fucking die
just handed me
her fucking credit card
didn’t say a fucking word—
and without a fucking
second thought,
helped me:
dump the car,
hop a fucking plane,
and literally rip my daughter
out of new jersey
after my family tried
to leave her there?

nah,
over my goddamn dead body. 🪓

so i did it. ✂️
i got the fuck out.
twice.
and when i got back,
she was waiting.
cleaning my fucking condo,
making sure we had
a safe place to land.

lending me her goddamn sister,
raising funds for furniture,
calling her mom and dad to send help,

bro.

my fucking heart.

another hero:
the bad bitch who flew in,
bought fucking everything,
helped me set it up,
held my kid for a week straight—
no questions asked.

but that’s it.
the rest?
during this era?
true fucking villains.
family who left us on our own—
and tried to leave my goddamn kid—
in the same fucking environments
that fucked me up,
while gaslighting me into thinking
that shit was “normal”
or “unchangeable.”

nah, i don’t fucking think so.

🥊🤡

not this time.
not my kid.
not this life.

final fucking betrayal? ✨
because it only took one second—
seeing them try
to normalize her being left
with that abusive fuck—
for me to realize
nothing
they did to me was okay.
not then.
not ever.
not the abandonment.
not the minimization.
not the “probably your fault”
family fucking motto. 🤡

and the fake-ass “friends”?
🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀
the ones who swore
they’d be fucking “aunties”?
the one who brought me
a bagel like twice and
texted from down
the goddamn street
on my birthday
but never lifted a fucking finger
when it actually mattered?
they don’t count.
effortless, empty, performative bullshit.

the only real support i had?
strangers online.
the people DM’ing me,
sending late-night venmo payments,
voice memos,
rooting me on when no one in my bloodline would.
@samseesworld gave me an audience,
but you gave me courage.

and the men?
fucking mistakes.
all of them.
babydaddy with his “combat hero/ivy” delusions.
the random-ass
“maybe-he-won’t-suck-this-time”
fucking distraction
who turned out, shockingly,
to be another
fucking manipulator.
because all of them
proved the same shitty thing:
they never loved me.
not even for a second.
they just wanted to fuck,
to lean on me,
to use me for stability
i didn’t even have left to give.

when i fucking needed help.

so that’s where they all go—
into the fucking trash can labeled mistakes.
not partners.
not boyfriends.
not chapters.
not even fucking footnotes.
just fucking mistakes.

✶

escape part three is fucking transparency:
heroes are rare.
villains are fucking everywhere.
and the system?
built to watch you die slowly
unless you turn your pain
into fucking evidence.

the escape continues—
but the next chapter?
it’s not just survival anymore.
it’s goddamn retaliation.

it’s fucking justice.

🥀