I am now in the final two weeks of living with my abuser. I’ve had an apartment secured for a while, but it’s not available for 13 more days. As my exit plan approaches (background and context here and here), things are getting worse.

I have not told him I’m leaving, of course; you can’t tell them until immediately before — that’s how these things go. But I think he can sense something, because the abuse is escalating.

We talk a lot about the emotional obstacles to leaving an abusive relationship, and they are formidable, but I’m not sure we address the logistical barriers enough. For example:

How do you find somewhere else to go if he wants to know where you are every second?

How do you protect against him seeing an incoming call or text from a number he doesn’t recognize? You can’t risk him using whitepages.com, which he will definitely do, to trace that number back to the property management office of your new apartment.

How do you keep him out of your phone and your computer?

How do you orchestrate a move without letting on that you’re moving out?

I’ve had all these problems with my husband, and so far I’ve found a solution to all of them. The solutions are obvious and accessible, but as someone who, prior to this relationship, did not have much need for technological secrecy, I honestly wasn’t aware of them.

As a programmer, I appreciate technology and everything it does for us, but I understand the concern about how easy it makes secret communication. The fact that my i-phone allows me to turn off notifications for individuals without turning them off for everyone seems to practically invite people to have affairs.

I had an affair once myself, which is why I’m in this awful situation, but I had if before I ever had a smart phone, so I simply wasn’t aware of all these new features.

Here are the ways I’ve used them to protect myself while I’m trying to get out:

I switched my unlocking method from passcode (which he knew, of course, because he insisted upon knowing it, and which he frequently used to check up on me) to fingerprint. Fingerprint is fast and easy, so it’s easy to justify using, and of course he can’t get my fingerprint. I also changed the code, of course, but so far he hasn’t asked me for the new one.

I turned off notifications just for the few people who know my situation and who are helping me get out — he’s paying close attention now, and an increase in the frequency of communication with these few people will raise his suspicion.

I use the address of one of these people as a shipping address for necessities for the new apartment that I’ve been ordering through the Amazon app on my phone.

I’ve used the “notepad” app on my newly-secure phone to strategize a list of exactly what I need to take when I leave and where it is, so that when we get to that moment, which I know is going to be frightening and fast-paced, I’ll already have a plan to get out of the house as quickly as possible.

I have programmed the local police department’s number into my contact list, just in case.

I’ve made several recordings of the abuse as it’s happening, using the voice memos feature of my i-phone, and I’ve downloaded all of them to my google drive (I secured my laptop with a password also — it’s inconvenient for me to have to sign in every time I open it, but it’s been a lifesaver to know he can’t get into it). I hope I never have to share these recordings with anyone — they are humiliating and painful — but if I need to prove things to protect myself and my girls, I’m prepared.

So is all this sneaky and deceitful? Yes. Do I feel good about any of it? No, of course not. It’s an ugly, ugly game I’m playing, but I sure as hell didn’t choose it.

I’m violating my own principles and values every day by the way I’m living right now, and that’s difficult to confront; I once loved this person with all of my heart, and even now I don’t want to hurt him, don’t want to deceive him.

But I can’t live here like a prisoner any longer. I can sense that I’m standing right in the intersection — we need to get out now, or we will never get out. Domestic abuse is a gradual slide, a progression whose downward steps are imperceptible until you land at the bottom of the hole and he takes away the ladder.

I’m afraid I’m close, and it’s really dark, but I have to use what little light there is to climb out. Now.