“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 7th
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 7th
(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.
