*This is a work of nonfiction based on actual events I experienced firsthand; used with permission.*
When I met my daughter’s father, I was very young and didn’t know him well at all when I invited him to a party that would fatefully lead us to be tied together forever.
Approximately nine months after that party our daughter was born, but not before my mother kicked me out of her house because she had wanted me to get an abortion and I didn’t want that, so I moved in with Matt, the baby’s father.
Well, it wasn’t long after moving in with him that we realized we were not compatible at all.
We disagreed on everything from religion to politics right down to the color of the sky on some days when he was being particularly awful.
He was also very protective and possessive of me. He never wanted me to go out with my friends without him, but he never wanted to come with us either, and the times he did he was a total bummer who ruined our time.
The last straw was, Matt was a horrible drinker.
He would drink a half bottle of whiskey by himself almost every night of the week and get black out drunk, and after finding him one time passed out in the hall, face down in his vomit between the bathroom and the bedroom, I was done.
The next night when he was sleeping off his whiskey, I called my best friend Angela and told her that I was packing and I needed her to come pick me up.
She arrived an hour later, around two in the morning, and I was already waiting by the curb with most of my things when she got there, and we shuffled more of my stuff out of the house and fled like thieves in the night from Matt’s place, and I never looked back.
There are a lot of lessons to be found in this story, but one should be glaringly obvious: don’t move in with men you barely know.