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.

so still.

there's still a little blood on my thigh
from when he decided to take his time
no nerve for fighting
i just sat there, silently screaming in

there's still a little bruise on my cheek
from when he decided to make me feel weak
no point in fighting
i just stood there crying, silently screaming in

there's still a little ring 'round my throat
from when he decided to give me a choke
no use in fighting
i just shut down, silently screaming in

there's still a little break in their hearts
from when they begged him to stop from the start
no strength for fighting
they were so still, silently screaming for me

i give a shit, too.

i made a promise today that i've made a million times in the past few years.

i understand why everybody wants me to make this promise, and it's really for my own
benefit ... not theirs.


that promise being this: that i will never, under any circumstance, fall into the vile grips of another abusive relationship. 


you see, this upcoming march will mark the 3 year 'anniversary' that i left my viciously abusive husband.  i call him my husband because, surprisingly, we're not divorced, but that's a whole different blog.  i don't really dwell on it much these days, but it happens, especially when i'm alone.  nighttime floods me with thoughts of the shoulda, coulda, woulda's ... but that's besides the point.


i'm safe now.


that said, there are so many victims of such crimes that keep silent.  i was one of those silent people, for five long years, but i'm standing here today screaming out on behalf of the rest.  i always will.  the abuse has changed me forever, and i will fight to the ends of the earth for others to know that they deserve better, too.


the websites on domestic violence are excellent reference points, but none really go into other red flags that are usually prominent during the beginning of the relationship - the most pivotal point - the intersection that you stand at forever weighing out whether you stay or go.  maybe he/she has yelled at you one too many times, but you justify it because they're having a hard time - or they just lost their job - or they're battling addiction - or they're coping with newly surfaced parental issues that have been buried for way too long.  the excuses are endless.  maybe they've pushed you a time or two, or backed you into the wall when you've tried to stand your ground.  to an outsider, these things will look outrageous, but to you, it's .... nothing.  they love you, after all.


first and foremost, anybody that says they love you within the first 7 days is full of shit, but they've chosen you for a reason.  your self-esteem is probably so low it's dragging on the ground behind you, and that's like blood to a shark.  they pick up that scent and stalk closely behind.  predators read people, very well, and will get to know you on a very personal level - but in a subtle way.  they'll insist they care and will expect you to spill every last piece of your shortcomings and fears.  you will do this, because nobody ever listens.  odds are, you've already been a victim of abuse in some other part of your life.  coincidentally, they will share every last common interest with you, even the bizarre ones .... right down to your favorite color and the way you prefer to make the bed.  the attention they shower you with in the first few months is so overwhelming that when the "small" red flags start to appear, you'll dismiss them.  the aforementioned shoves here and there, the short tempered yelling over insignificant things, and even the constant questioning of your lifestyle will all seem protective instead of abusive, and you'll be swooned by that.  it will seem like somebody cares, finally, after all those years.

the kicker is you will have good times with this person.  if you didn't, you wouldn't stick around.  these people will make you laugh harder, smile bigger, and fall in love faster than anybody ever has or ever could (so you think).  the power of suggestion is heightened during this period, and you'll find yourself agreeing with their irrational behaviors and ideas more frequently.  you'll make sense out of it, you'll protect everything they do, and it's at this crossroad when friends and family start asking you if you're alright.  you won't have noticed your lack of interest in things you used to love, your absence at family gatherings, and friendly meetups.  you won't have even the slightest inkling of how your ideals and morals have changed, because that one person makes it all better ... even when they're slamming their hands on the table and demanding an explanation over who that old friend is you've just added on facebook.

things will go on like this for a while, and you will start questioning yourself, but shrugging it off rather hastily. 

then .... they'll hit you.


welcome to the most ridiculous point ever.  we're taught that hitting is wrong, and if anybody ever does so, to say goodbye.  but you wont say goodbye.  you'll stick it out because they'll cry, beg, plead, and promise to never do it again.  you'll believe them, hunker down, and lick THEIR wounds instead of your own.  it's a bottomless spiral from that point on.  the hooks are in deep, and you'll feel hopeless.

what happens after this can go in a plethora of directions.  the abuse will get worse, in any case.  the hitting will become steady, consistent, and expected.  you'll get used to the yelling and learn to drown most of it out, unless they're right next to your ear, or in your face .... or holding you down by your shoulders so you can't look away.  


you'll virtually stop talking to your family, and they'll notice, but won't have the slightest clue.  even if they do, they won't know what to say, and even if they did you'll argue them into the ground.  the bruises will be well hidden, and you'll double check that they are.  foundation will become your best friend, as will loose fitting clothing, long sleeves, and sunglasses.  contact with your friends will also diminish, especially with those that are stubborn and opinionated.  most of your friends will be ... your lover's friends, or mutual friends you've made together.  those are the friends that are hardest to convince you're being abused.  they'll see this suave and kind person, albeit odd at times, and will have difficulty swallowing anything negative you have to say.


soon your days will be spent inside the home.  you'll forget how to socially interact.  you'll forget 80% of the things you love.  each day will bring misery, sorrow, disgust, and self-loathing.  you might become suicidal, but honestly, you're more likely to become apathetic.  hours will run together.  sleep will be filled with nightmares and no longer be a safe haven.  sex will become abhorrent and a dutiful chore.  if you don't put out, bad things will happen.


you'll become an empty, hollow shell of the person you once were.


the abuse will get worse.  the cycles will run closer together, and pretty soon, there won't be any 'calm before the storm'.  it will always be raining.



the end result can go in only two directions.  you either leave, or you die. 


leaving seems impossible to those in that dire situation.
believe me, i've been there, and i almost died.


there are shelters and support groups.  your friends will help you unquestionably, but most won't know the right thing to say.  forgive them for that, because they mean well.  family will be supportive, but in an even worse position than your friends.  the whole scenario will probably seem foreign (obviously, specific circumstances per family will differ), but they too will mean well. 


leaving IS a viable option.
it's scary, terrifying, and you'll feel like you're leaping into the unknown.
but remember that - you've already lived through the worst of it - and it's all uphill with the first step away from that hellish life.



expect to be asked a million questions, especially the notorious "why did you stay through that?!" inquiry.
do not be ashamed to answer with an "i don't know".  it will be closest to the truth.
only time will let you understand the depths of the situation.
never be afraid to tell others you do not want to talk about it, but don't confuse this with 'never talk about it'.
the more you talk, the easier it is to cope with, and the better you'll feel. 
speak up, speak out, and be proud of leaving.  be proud of living.



if you're reading this and are currently in an abusive relationship:
there is help for you, there is hope for you, and you are too lovely of a person to continue down that road.
exercise your right to live safely and happily.
use local resources (including personal support groups/friends/family) to get out.
there is LIFE on the other side and you WILL make it.
i beg of you, my friend, to take that courageous jump forward.
you are not alone, and the relief is immeasurable.
i have faith in you, because i had faith in myself when nobody else did, and you should too.
one phone call is all it takes. 
1-800-799-SAFE (7233)

there are people who are ready to help you now.



National Domestic Violence Hotline


National Coalition Against Domestic Violence


Domestic Abuse: Signs, Warnings, Support, and Numbers


(this blog description is based upon my own experiences with abuse - personally, and as an outsider.  undoubtedly i will post more in depth stories from time to time - but take a moment out of your life to seek out other blogs of similar ilk.  they are all worth the read, and the support.)