daylight savings: a tale of escape

“Sometimes I wake up on the edge of the bed, teetering between warmth and the frigid, flat floor. Milky light pours in through the cracks of those filthy blinds, cascading about crooked nooks and cavernous crannies, failing to give me any idea of safety … or a sense of security. The old familiar lumps of clothes scattered around the room give way to fantastic, ghoulish faces staring at me in the dark … mouths gaped open, hissing deprecating chants that strike me down. The tears start to burn my warm, flushed face while I frantically grasp around the bedside for my phone, a lighter … anything to shed some brightness onto my demons … anything to make them vanish back into the piles of laundry needing nothing more than to be washed, and not exorcised.

At this point I’m convinced the pink elephant has taken sanctuary upon my chest, my breathing becomes shallow … full of trepidation and agitation. Thousands of golden, microscopic moths flutter in the back of my throat … their powdery scales drying my mouth, swelling my tongue, and revoking the instinctive need to cry out. My thoughts become rabid, soaking up the cerebrospinal fluid, forcing my brain to dilate violently like an angry puffer fish after a dastardly attack.

With freezing, numb fingers and weighted down limbs, I push around the bed to find my partner. He is fast asleep, snoring uncomfortably, but snoring nevertheless. He is where I should be, dipping into REM and escaping the trials of the mundane … the stupidity, the ignorance, the feeble-minded dolts dribbling out their latest monstrosity … he is asleep, the lucky bastard.

Even in this panic, a pea-sized voice of rational persuasion peeps into my ear, and I become aware: this is the madness knocking on my door. It is always there, lurking in the shadows of my ribcage, hiding behind my pancreas … gnawing through my heartstrings. Rearing its putrid face again, it’s telling me the time has come. Soon I’ll be trapped in another cocoon of disruptive elation or sludgy despair … I won’t know which until morning, and the only clue I’ll have to my own existence will be the rumpled sheets on my side of the bed. “

I wrote that some time ago, but the scenario is a frequent occurrence, and I’m finally able to truly speak out as to why. March 7^th marks an anniversary for me, and its bittersweet nature is always difficult to wrap myself around. The mixed emotions surrounding the date are none too easy to express, but I’m tired of holding it all in, so … here goes.

Four years ago, right now, I was stranded on the side of the highway. My station-wagon failed me again, and I was freezing. I called my (ex) husband, begging him to come fix the car, or come fetch me at least. I sat there, silent and still, for nearly 2 hours before help arrived. He couldn’t start the car, even though he fancied himself a genius, and I ended up phoning my dad.

Even he couldn’t get it started, and time wore on. Finally, the brilliance of my ex came full circle when he decided to misuse his company credit card, and call for a tow truck. I figured it wouldn’t be my problem after today, because I had plans to leave him. I arranged for the girls to be with my dad and step mom so I could finally finagle a much overdue escape. I kept my mouth shut, and a feigned smile on my face; if he knew something was up, that would be the end of me. Of course, little did I know, the potential end of me was drawing near.

     We ate some very late dinner, Subway, because I refused to forgo sustenance again – and we watched “The Happening”. He found it truthful, a definite possibility. I feel asleep. He shoved me awake, and told me to go to bed if I was going to just nod off during “our time together”. I happily obliged, sleepily shuffling myself to the mattress on the floor, curling up with my back against the wall. I slept like that for years, because I didn’t trust him, because I never knew what was going to happen. He came in just as I had closed my eyes, and he wanted something from me … but, he always wanted something from me. I had learned early on that “no” was not an adequate answer, and that he would take what he wanted … so I learned to give in with glazed over doe-eyes, disappearing into thoughts of a hopeful, happier time while he slowly fucked away another piece of my heart.

     I fell asleep at some point shortly thereafter, and the next thing I knew, I felt tugging on my head. I opened my eyes, still foggy from sleep, and realized he had me by my hair. I was drug out to the living room that way, my head already aching, and he dropped me next to the coffee table. The screaming was incoherent at first, and I looked up at the clock to see it was 4:13am. The computer was on, I could smell a burning cigarette … I rubbed the back of my head staring up at his enraged face. It was beat red, veins popping out of his neck, nostrils flaring … truth be told, I had never seen him quite this angry. I instantly realized what I was in for, or at least what I thought I was in for; the standard beat-her-up, knock-her-down session, but that it was not. He started bellowing at me again, something about Yahoo! Messenger, and that’s when I saw he had hacked into my account.

     My stomach dropped into my feet, my heart started racing, I became dizzy with fear … he had found the conversations, the ones where I finally told someone what was going on, that I had planned to leave that weekend … it all made sense, and the adrenaline rushed through my body like a swarm of angry bees. In an instant I became hyper aware of everything, including the fist that was headed directly for my chest. The air was knocked out of me, and I foolishly tried to stand up, ready to confront my long-term attacker. He grabbed me by the hair again, dragging me about the room, my arms flailing, my feet kicking … then another blow to the side of the head. I felt faint, flushed, and nauseous. For the following hour I was punched, kicked, pinched, slapped, and thrown – all the while being emotionally hammered into the ground.

The verbal spits were predictable, but hurtful nevertheless. They just solidified how he had already made me feel about myself, nothing new – but it stung. During the first hour I attempted to get my own throws in there, failing almost every time. It had started storming, the clock read 5:20am, and that’s when things really started to get terrifying. He seemed to have calmed some, thinking I was coming to my senses, preparing to apologize to him and make promises to stay … until I got dressed. In a flash, he was out of his chair again – grabbing me by the shoulders and slamming me into the wall. I tried to fend him off when he started punching me in the arms by grabbing his guitar, and holding it out like I was going to hit him with it. He easily snatched it from my hands, and in one fell swoop, right over my head it came. I fell to the floor again, literally stunned. He stood me up, screaming in my face … I could feel his vile spit against my cheeks … and I slapped him across the mouth. He grabbed me by the collar of my shirt, swung me around, slid his hands under my armpits, and hurtled me into the wall. I sat on the floor, in that spot, catching my breath, while he took a knife and cut the cords to the computer. This was his first attempt at denying my ability to get help.

I got back up, started for the other room, grabbing my coat and the only cell phone we had. He pulled me back by my hood, forcing the coat off of me. I tried to dial 911, but he took the phone from my fumbling hands and dismantled it – tossing pieces in various places. He then proceeded to laugh while tearing my clothes off. He dared me to leave the house with my fat, ugly body exposed – so I ran outside. I stood in the driveway, the hardest rain of the year suffocating my screams for help, stinging my skin. I thought of running to the neighbors, but nobody was home, and my options were nil. I went back inside, and thankfully a brief calm came over the house. We screamed at each other while I was putting on new clothes, then he fell to the floor, sobbing and begging for forgiveness. I just stood there, for once in the five years we were together, and looked at him objectively. I felt detached, the whole thing was surreal, and as he was begging me … he failed to pay attention to the fact I was slowly picking up the pieces of the dismantled phone, and putting them in my pocket. It was 7:30am, and I was tired.

When he realized I wasn’t going to bite, he pushed me onto the bed and held me down by my wrists so hard I thought they were going to snap under his weight. He spit in my face, screamed at me, kneeing me in the groin … everything he could do to shake so much fear into me that I’d stay. He threatened to kill the kids, or kidnap them at least. Swore I’d never see them again. I laughed at the notion, which was a mistake, because he quickly flipped me over onto all fours … and started choking.

The nook of his arm was pressed against the front of my throat, his whole weight dead against my back, and his mouth next to my ear. I tried to take slow breaths, but everything got blurry and dark … a fuzzy tunnel of light was all I had to go by, and I felt myself slipping. Visions of my daughters rushed through my head; their birth, first steps, first words, first smiles ... I was slipping faster, trying to keep that image in my head … then he whispered “if I can’t have you, nobody can”. With that he gave a strong pull against my throat, I made one final attempt to breathe in, and it all went black. When I came to, I thought I was dead, but then realized his arm was still against my throat. I mustered up enough strength, my last hoorah, and pushed him off of me … managing to crawl into the kitchen. He had hit his head, and was momentarily stunned.

     He followed me into the kitchen, grabbing a butcher knife and holding it against me … I told him he would never get away with it, that he’d spend the rest of his life in prison, but he just laughed and laughed and laughed. He let his guard down for a moment, and I was able to get the knife from him. I backed up a few steps, holding it out in front of me, watching every move he made. He told me to kill him, to go right ahead, and I thought about it. I really mulled it over, but decided against it in the end. He didn’t deserve death, and I sure as fuck wasn’t going to give it to him.

     He threatened suicide, I talked him down. I wasn’t going to let that bastard die on the floor after 5 long years of constant abuse, and especially after what had just happened. Things died down some, he stopped hitting – mainly out of total exhaustion. It was 8:45am. He flopped back on the bed, staring at me. I was sitting in a chair about 4 feet away, holding my sides, trying to keep the crying minimal. Every muscle in my body was on fire, every joint was inflamed, every piece of me was sore. I looked down at my feet, and very quietly told him I needed medical attention immediately. He sat up slightly, looking concerned. I promised I’d tell the staff at hospital a false story, and that I would be home later. I dug for some change, told him I would take the bus, and to try and nap while I was gone. I gathered my coat and purse, kissed him goodbye to keep the idea of my return in good faith, and walked out the door.

The air smelled of damp earth, thunder in the distance. I started limping my way down the sidewalk. He watched me, knowing I had to take the 5 minute trek from our home to Wal-Mart nearby to catch the bus. He continued to watch me slowly crawl my way down the street, and finally out of eyeshot. Those were the longest 5 minutes of my life.

     I reassembled the phone, called a friend, and went to hospital. I didn’t phone the police because I didn’t want sirens … I didn’t want him running. I just wanted to be safe, away from him, and warm. The officer that took my statement (8 pages long) promised me he would make sure my ex was arrested that day, and he kept to his word. There were several photographs taken of me at hospital, and a few taken by an (ex) friend the day after. I was sent home with a diagnosis of concussion, deep contusions, neck sprain, pelvic sprain, and bruised ribs. My ex spent 3 weeks in jail. Three. Only three.

I’m currently writing a book about the whole relationship, as this is just one incident that ended it all – and tomorrow, March 7^th (his birthday, no less) marks the day that I fought for my life, and left. It’s a day I will never forget.

Now, for the first time ever, I'm showing these pictures en mass.  There are more, but these are what I have in my possession.  They speak for themselves.