The Ghost He Became — And the Fire I Survived

Chapter 1: When the Smoke Cleared, the Real Fire Began

As COVID restrictions lifted, most people were chasing freedom but for me, it felt like the beginning of something darker.

My ex-husband was no longer connected to the brothers he used to fish with, but he didn’t slow down. Instead, he found a new obsession, hunting. Another escape. Another addiction disguised as a “hobby.”

We’d built a connection with a family from my women’s gym. For a brief moment, it felt like he might grow, he spent time around my friend’s husband, and I watched him try, try to be a dad, try to show up, try to fit into something healthy.

But it never lasted, because once the lights dimmed and the visitors left, the alcohol that was already flowing, began to increase then the anger would come out. Sometimes it showed up during those social moments with a sharp word, a look, a controlling comment. Other times, it waited until the door shut and we were alone.

Still, I stayed, because it wasn’t always like that.
There were moments of softness. Moments where he apologized, admitted fault, said the right things.

But he never followed through.
Never truly changed.
Never took real accountability.

It became a cycle: harm, apology, manipulation.
Then harm again.

And worse, I found myself lying for him, covering up what I saw and hiding the things I discovered. His business was funding his personal pleasures, and instead of stopping, he got better at hiding it not only from me, from his family, from everyone.

Chapter 2: Enter the Cult and the Collapse of Reality

Then came the client.

At first, it looked like just another work contact, but it quickly became clear. This was different. This was dangerous. He was drawn in by promises of status and excitement Fishing trips turned into something else entirely, parties on the boat or at the club, drugs consantly, drinking, late-night binges.

And worse, it came with an ideology. One that told men they were kings, that women existed to serve. One that glamorized control, silenced voices, and fed addiction. It was a cult, wrapped in testosterone and ego, and he became obsessed. Mesmerized and changed.

I knew the moment I met them; these weren’t just dodgy people. These were predators, they saw his weaknesses and pulled him in hard.

What scared me most?
He brought it home.
To me.
To our children.

What used to be weekend fishing trips became biweekly cocaine- fuelled benders.
His business? It crumbled.
That was the plan, to make him dependent, to feed him false hopes then to feed the drugs. To feed the chaos, he wouldn’t escape, and he didn’t want to. He loved the lifestyle.

And we paid the price.

Chapter 3: A New Home, A New Hell

When we moved from Emu Plains to Austral, I lost more than just a home, my friends that I felt so escape with my children, but I lost my independence.

I had been building something of my own. A small business, being source of pride. A way to support my children and give us a life that didn’t depend on anyone else. I worked late nights, sacrificed sleep, and poured my heart into every order, every detail, every step forward. It wasn’t easy, but it was mine and it mattered to me.

We were pressured to move closer to his mates; the excuse was work. The truth? He was pulling us closer to the madness.

From Emu Plains to Austral, but I refused to rip my eldest son from the one piece of consistency he had: his primary school. So, I drove him, every day. Morning and afternoon, not having much day left after an almost 2-hour trip, twice a day. I packed bags, loaded the car, made lunches, buckled seatbelts, beat the traffic, just so my child could keep one shred of stability in a world that felt like it was always shifting.

While I drove, cleaned, shopped, and raised two boys, he vanished.

Drunk. High. Missing. Rarely home before dark.
And when he did come home — it wasn’t him.
It was a ghost. A shell of a man I didn’t recognize.
Agitated. Cold. Detached.

I made sure the boys were already in bed before he walked through the door. I’d tuck them in, kiss their foreheads, and pretend everything was fine, because I remembered what it felt like to grow up around rage. I remembered hiding in bedrooms. Listening for footsteps. Holding my breath when keys knock on the door and I swore I wouldn’t let that cycle repeat.

But protecting them meant absorbing the impact myself.

In all of this, my business, the thing I had built started to collapse. He didn’t celebrate it, loosing what he called “just a hobby” was now gone. Dismissed it with a smirk. Because the truth was, he didn’t want me to have something that he couldn’t control or gain from.

The move was the final blow. With the chaos of relocation and his growing control, I couldn’t keep it going. There was no space for my dreams.
He just made sure I was too overwhelmed, too exhausted, and too alone to keep it alive.

And in doing so, he got exactly what he wanted, my full dependence. But still I paid the bills with benefits, and he played whatever roll he chose on the day.  

Chapter 4: Controlled by Men Who Never Had to Say It

At first, he told me about the fishing trips. I still hated them, but at least I knew. He’d say when he was going, who with, and when he’d be back. It wasn’t respectful, but it was something, there was still a thread of communication, even if it was worn thin. But then something shifted. The updates stopped. The transparency vanished.

Instead of hearing it from him, I started receiving messages and phone calls from someone else. His mate. The one who owned the boat. The one who seemed to enjoy reminding me, without ever saying it directly, that I wasn’t in control and I was meant to be submissive. That I didn’t matter. That he had more power over my husband than I ever would.

It wasn’t just disrespect; it was a statement.
A tactic. A warning.

If I asked too many questions, if I voiced too many concerns, knowing the world and how it worked, the message was clear: something would happen to me or someone I loved would be used against me. Because of this, I chose not to put my boys and myself at an unwanted risk.

They didn’t need to use threaten me with words, they used indirect ones.
Their games, their deliberate dismissal was enough.

So, I did what I’d always done — I went quiet. Again.

I stopped asking.
Stopped challenging.
I buried my instincts, shoved down my panic, and swallowed the truth building in my chest. I took on the weight of everything I couldn’t say, the lies, the cover-ups, the things I was seeing but couldn’t expose without risking my children’s safety. I carried secrets that didn’t belong to me, and a growing ache that told me in every breath that something was very, very wrong.

But I buried it, because silence had become my safest option and every time I stayed quiet, I thought I was keeping the peace.
But really, I was being erased, one trip, one excuse one secret at a time.

Then came the final shift. He started working at 5 a.m. — leaving the house by 4:30. But when he came home, I wasn’t allowed to see him, not allowed to text or call, and I would receive a call when he was 5 minuets from home requesting, I open the garage so he could go straight to the shower, moving like a ghost. I asked questions and i got blank answers or he would say things, then chase that with don’t say I told you or forget that. For six weeks straight, we lived in the same house, but he was no longer my husband, just a haunted shadow passing through.

Chapter 5: The Invitation Wasn’t Love — It Was Leverage

 It was around this time that I started quietly planning my exit. I knew I couldn’t stay forever. The danger was too great. The drugs, the control and the lies, it was poisoning everything. But just when I started pulling away, he switched tactics again.

He invited me to come on one of the trips. At first, it felt like inclusion. Like maybe he wanted to reconnect, but it wasn’t that. It was a test. A trap. He knew I was drifting, and he needed to reel me back in.

He played the nice guy role. Told me to come have fun. Let loose. But I knew the truth: he wanted to monitor me. He wanted to say, "Look, you're a part of this too," while still making me feel like I didn’t belong. Because when I got there, I wasn’t a guest — I was a servant.

I poured drinks when they asked.
I prepped the food when they barked instructions.
I didn’t sit. I didn’t rest. I didn’t speak unless spoken to.

I stayed on my feet, in motion constantly, wiping benches, passing cups, keeping my mouth shut. I didn’t want to be a burden, and I didn’t want to be a problem. I just wanted to keep the peace and get through it.

But in every moment, I could feel it, the storm building.
The way they looked at me like I didn’t matter, the way I knew this wasn’t about inclusion, It was about power and about making sure I knew my place. Worst of all, I knew now that getting away wouldn’t be easy.

I was in their territory, and they weren’t just reckless, they were dangerous.
They didn’t see me as a person. I was an accessory. A prop. That trip didn’t bring us closer. It showed me how far gone he already was and how deeply I had been pulled into a world that never intended to let me out.

Continue to The Ghost He Became — And the Fire I Survived Part 2