Hello. It's me. Whoever that is.
Who am I? Don't ask me. I don't know.
Ask me twice and I'll say, "I'm an oxymoron."
And you'll look at me sideways and chuckle. Slap my shoulder cuz you think I'm joking.
And I'll smile. Of course. Because that's what I do when I'm being completely serious, but you don't think I am. And you'll think to yourself, "She's just kidding." You think.
I'm wild at heart, but domesticated. And I like it. For the most part. Wild and free to be me in the moment, whoever she is at stroke of the clock...rockin' hard, not able to stop. And the next day: hair smoothed down, straightened out, donning a dirty apron in the kitchen whipping up brownies, rolls, roast, and salad dressing. Kissing owies and wiping noses.
Oxy. Moron.
Pissed off like a Fire Ant, but as soft as French Silk. That's also me.
Oxy. Moron.
Guns, weightlifting, and testosterone; hoorah!! Pearls, heels, and acrylic nails. That's also me.
Oxy. Moron.
Health nut, medical researcher, herbalist. Cheeto's, butt-laods of ice cream and candy binges. Yup, that's me.
Can you say, "oxymoron?"
I knew you could.
Loves people, wants to help, there in your time of need. Hates people, wants a cave to hide in, or a mountain to get lost on. Also me. That's right:
Oxymoron.
Full of hope, ready to live life, hitting challenges straight on. Wishing for eternity to come quickly, skies too gray to fly in, overwhelmed because the toothpaste lid got lost. Uh-huh. That's me.
Oxymoron.
Wait a minute. I think I have the wrong word.
Bipolar.
Hmmmmmmm....
Wednesday, September 3, 2014
Drip Drop
Drip, drop go the tears, falling to the ground.
Drip, drop go the tears, made without a sound.
Drip, drop goes the time, another sleepless night.
Drip, drop goes the rain, but one more storm of life.
Hmm, I wonder, is the thought, of other things that could be.
Hmm, Hmm, Hmm, I wonder, what will become of me.
Hmm, I wonder, is the thought, what happens when all hope is gone.
Hmm, Hmm, Hmm, I falter, not to chose that song.
What's wrong with me? What's wrong with me? I ask again and again.
Tell me, tell me, preacher boy, is it 'cause of sin?
What's wrong with me? What's wrong with me? I look into the mirror.
Everything...., Everything....., is whispered in my ear.
Hold me, kiss me, keep me safe, I whisper to the night.
But.
Drip, drop go the tears, into the silent night.
Drip, drop go the tears, made without a sound.
Drip, drop goes the time, another sleepless night.
Drip, drop goes the rain, but one more storm of life.
Hmm, I wonder, is the thought, of other things that could be.
Hmm, Hmm, Hmm, I wonder, what will become of me.
Hmm, I wonder, is the thought, what happens when all hope is gone.
Hmm, Hmm, Hmm, I falter, not to chose that song.
What's wrong with me? What's wrong with me? I ask again and again.
Tell me, tell me, preacher boy, is it 'cause of sin?
What's wrong with me? What's wrong with me? I look into the mirror.
Everything...., Everything....., is whispered in my ear.
Hold me, kiss me, keep me safe, I whisper to the night.
But.
Drip, drop go the tears, into the silent night.
Wednesday, April 30, 2014
It Hurts
I think of it like this: it's hard to do what needs to be done. Like, re-setting a bone that has started to heal improperly. It's gonna hurt like a booger and set you back a while as it heals properly, but it's the thing that needs to be done. Well, that is, if you actually want to heal to your full potential and stop limping through life.
Ouch. It hurts.
I signed the divorce papers yesterday. I woke up Tuesday morning (yesterday, of course) and knew what had to be done. Just like that. Before my feet even hit the floor, I knew. This was in stark contrast to Sunday (two days before yesterday, of course), when my heart ached to have him near, to enjoy the honeymoon stage that this vicious cycle goes through, and forget that the top of the wheel is where life falls apart in one of his outbursts of calm, cool, deliberate and damaging punishment. Sunday night I called her, my friend that's not my friend, and asked those questions my heart longed to hear good answers to: has he really changed? Is he dangerous? Is he different?
And Monday (the day before yesterday, of course), I could barely hold myself together. At work, a patient came in to the office, smiled at me and politely asked, "How are you today?" The normal response would be, "I'm fine, how are you?" But oh no, far be it from me to be anything close to normal. I simply looked at her and started to cry. I had sucked it up too many times, for too many patients, the tears wouldn't stay in; cursed tears.
Oh, how it hurts.
Yes, Monday (the day before yesterday, of course, of course), I was an emotional, exhausted, held-together-barely-by-duct-tape-type of mess. And I missed him, oh how I missed him.
I pushed the emotions to the side, like separating the food on your plate so the salad dressing doesn't touch the rest of the edibles and make the flavors meld in an un-tasteful (i.e.yucky) way. Yes, to the side went the emotions, as I searched diligently for the "logic" switch that had been eluding me for several days. Finally, I found it.
.....................................................................................................................................................................
On came Logic, sneering at Emotions, and the facts were examined, again, and though Emotions ached for things to be different, the verdict did not change. Guilty as charged.
Emotions screamed out, "But I love him! He can change, I KNOW he can!"
And Logic replied, "It's been nearly 18 years now, how much longer will you waste your time? You know he won't change unless you leave him. He's too complacent, too selfish, you know you can't make him change; you can't make a blind man see."
Oh, poor Emotions, they knew Logic was correct. "But," they retaliated, "I don't want the children to grow up without a father!" (Emotions thought she could fool Logic with this one, because she had in years past.)
"Oh, but they already have," Logic rebuked. "Look how much damage he has caused them. More than he even dares to recognize, more than he'll ever admit, more than he can bare. Neglect is the worse form of abuse, they say, and besides demoralizing his son and neglecting his daughters, he has put bruises on every single one of them; every single one. Physical bruises, of course, but much deeper and painful emotional bruises that have yet to heal. They fear him. An unhealthy, trauma-causing fear. And face it Emotions, you fear him, too."
Oh, how Emotions can't stand Logic.
......................................................................................................................................................................
Too many times I have let emotions win, and look at what it's got me. Look at what it's done to my children. Look at what it's done to me. The counselor tells me I need to forgive myself. And she's right. But I don't know that I can. I tried to stand up for my children, for myself, but I didn't do a good enough job. Once again, I wasn't good enough. I wasn't good enough for him, and now, a failure at a mother's task, I wasn't good enough for myself. I tried to compensate for his lack of parenting, I tried to be an extra good mother. But, good mothers don't let their children get hurt. Especially by their fathers. Or so I tell myself.
I wanted to love him good; God knows it's true. I wanted to love him with everything I had, and that's just what I did...to my own detriment. I poured out love, sweat, and tears for years and years into a bucket with holes, a sink with no stopper, a bottomless pit. I gave 'till it hurt, and then I gave some more. I thought that was love: sacrifice. I covered for his sins, covered bruises on children, covered scars on my heart. I covered and covered and covered. I should have exposed. I know that now. My bad.
Regret. Pain. It hurts.
When you love someone, you don't let them continue on their path of destruction. You stop them, warn them, help them get back on the right track. It's the kindest, most loving thing to do.
And that's why I signed the papers. Because I do love him. And for too long I have covered when I should have exposed. I should have gone to others when the concern I raised to his parents fell on deaf ears. I should have been braver, wiser. I should have listened to my instinct that told me to leave that first week we were married. The second year. The fifth. The seventh. And every year after that all the way up to seventeen.
His family calls me vindictive. I know vindictive, I even attempted to dress up in it and try it on for size. It didn't fit. Part of me wanted it to fit, but it just wasn't "me." It hurts to be called something you're not, but, I suppose I understand. A small part of me wants to say, "Oh yeah? You want to see vindictive, I'll show you vindictive!" But then, it falls flat, and I'm glad, because wearing someone else's ill fitting clothes is never attractive or fun.
Yes, it still hurts.
But, his family is the least of my worries. I have my children to think about, as they struggle through, so angry at him for doing the things he's done. They see what he cannot; that he is abusive. He doesn't see the PTSD he's caused them, the deep rooted issues that I, alone, after counseling sessions and throughout the days and weeks, have to deal with. He doesn't feel their pain or hold them when they awake in fear that he's coming for them with a gun in his hand. He has burned what little bridges he's had with them. It hurts my heart to see it happen. Why couldn't he have just listened to me when I read the warning signs to him before? Damn you! Why didn't you just listen to what I had to say?
Once again, I pay the price for his sin. I try to put the pieces of little broken lives back together, while exhausted and carrying my own bundle of pain, tears, and hurts. Once again I clean up his mess. I get angry. And, it hurts.
All the divorces I've known have been two people hating each other and wanting the other to suffer. Not I. I signed the papers and wanted to attach an apology note saying, "I'm so sorry. I know this hurts, and I don't want to hurt you; it hurts me, too. But, you need to change. I can't make you change. You need to see the darkness that is rooted inside of you, and put it to death. Until it is dead and long, long gone, this marriage cannot work, nor can you be a good, safe father. P.S. Let's get back together once you slay the beast."
I'm sure my lawyer would find this completely absurd. Already she thinks I am being "too nice." Too nice. Tooooo nice. Sigh.
Make it stop. It hurts.
I wish it all would work out. Oh, how I wish it would. But I can't control that. I can't control him. I can't control anything. And I accept that.
In the mean time, it hurts. I hurt.
But.
I've hurt for a long time.
A long, long, looooong time.
At least this time, there is hope for change. Paradoxical. Ironic. But here it is.
The papers are signed.
It hurts.
Ouch. It hurts.
I signed the divorce papers yesterday. I woke up Tuesday morning (yesterday, of course) and knew what had to be done. Just like that. Before my feet even hit the floor, I knew. This was in stark contrast to Sunday (two days before yesterday, of course), when my heart ached to have him near, to enjoy the honeymoon stage that this vicious cycle goes through, and forget that the top of the wheel is where life falls apart in one of his outbursts of calm, cool, deliberate and damaging punishment. Sunday night I called her, my friend that's not my friend, and asked those questions my heart longed to hear good answers to: has he really changed? Is he dangerous? Is he different?
And Monday (the day before yesterday, of course), I could barely hold myself together. At work, a patient came in to the office, smiled at me and politely asked, "How are you today?" The normal response would be, "I'm fine, how are you?" But oh no, far be it from me to be anything close to normal. I simply looked at her and started to cry. I had sucked it up too many times, for too many patients, the tears wouldn't stay in; cursed tears.
Oh, how it hurts.
Yes, Monday (the day before yesterday, of course, of course), I was an emotional, exhausted, held-together-barely-by-duct-tape-type of mess. And I missed him, oh how I missed him.
I pushed the emotions to the side, like separating the food on your plate so the salad dressing doesn't touch the rest of the edibles and make the flavors meld in an un-tasteful (i.e.yucky) way. Yes, to the side went the emotions, as I searched diligently for the "logic" switch that had been eluding me for several days. Finally, I found it.
.....................................................................................................................................................................
On came Logic, sneering at Emotions, and the facts were examined, again, and though Emotions ached for things to be different, the verdict did not change. Guilty as charged.
Emotions screamed out, "But I love him! He can change, I KNOW he can!"
And Logic replied, "It's been nearly 18 years now, how much longer will you waste your time? You know he won't change unless you leave him. He's too complacent, too selfish, you know you can't make him change; you can't make a blind man see."
Oh, poor Emotions, they knew Logic was correct. "But," they retaliated, "I don't want the children to grow up without a father!" (Emotions thought she could fool Logic with this one, because she had in years past.)
"Oh, but they already have," Logic rebuked. "Look how much damage he has caused them. More than he even dares to recognize, more than he'll ever admit, more than he can bare. Neglect is the worse form of abuse, they say, and besides demoralizing his son and neglecting his daughters, he has put bruises on every single one of them; every single one. Physical bruises, of course, but much deeper and painful emotional bruises that have yet to heal. They fear him. An unhealthy, trauma-causing fear. And face it Emotions, you fear him, too."
Oh, how Emotions can't stand Logic.
......................................................................................................................................................................
Too many times I have let emotions win, and look at what it's got me. Look at what it's done to my children. Look at what it's done to me. The counselor tells me I need to forgive myself. And she's right. But I don't know that I can. I tried to stand up for my children, for myself, but I didn't do a good enough job. Once again, I wasn't good enough. I wasn't good enough for him, and now, a failure at a mother's task, I wasn't good enough for myself. I tried to compensate for his lack of parenting, I tried to be an extra good mother. But, good mothers don't let their children get hurt. Especially by their fathers. Or so I tell myself.
I wanted to love him good; God knows it's true. I wanted to love him with everything I had, and that's just what I did...to my own detriment. I poured out love, sweat, and tears for years and years into a bucket with holes, a sink with no stopper, a bottomless pit. I gave 'till it hurt, and then I gave some more. I thought that was love: sacrifice. I covered for his sins, covered bruises on children, covered scars on my heart. I covered and covered and covered. I should have exposed. I know that now. My bad.
Regret. Pain. It hurts.
When you love someone, you don't let them continue on their path of destruction. You stop them, warn them, help them get back on the right track. It's the kindest, most loving thing to do.
And that's why I signed the papers. Because I do love him. And for too long I have covered when I should have exposed. I should have gone to others when the concern I raised to his parents fell on deaf ears. I should have been braver, wiser. I should have listened to my instinct that told me to leave that first week we were married. The second year. The fifth. The seventh. And every year after that all the way up to seventeen.
His family calls me vindictive. I know vindictive, I even attempted to dress up in it and try it on for size. It didn't fit. Part of me wanted it to fit, but it just wasn't "me." It hurts to be called something you're not, but, I suppose I understand. A small part of me wants to say, "Oh yeah? You want to see vindictive, I'll show you vindictive!" But then, it falls flat, and I'm glad, because wearing someone else's ill fitting clothes is never attractive or fun.
Yes, it still hurts.
But, his family is the least of my worries. I have my children to think about, as they struggle through, so angry at him for doing the things he's done. They see what he cannot; that he is abusive. He doesn't see the PTSD he's caused them, the deep rooted issues that I, alone, after counseling sessions and throughout the days and weeks, have to deal with. He doesn't feel their pain or hold them when they awake in fear that he's coming for them with a gun in his hand. He has burned what little bridges he's had with them. It hurts my heart to see it happen. Why couldn't he have just listened to me when I read the warning signs to him before? Damn you! Why didn't you just listen to what I had to say?
Once again, I pay the price for his sin. I try to put the pieces of little broken lives back together, while exhausted and carrying my own bundle of pain, tears, and hurts. Once again I clean up his mess. I get angry. And, it hurts.
All the divorces I've known have been two people hating each other and wanting the other to suffer. Not I. I signed the papers and wanted to attach an apology note saying, "I'm so sorry. I know this hurts, and I don't want to hurt you; it hurts me, too. But, you need to change. I can't make you change. You need to see the darkness that is rooted inside of you, and put it to death. Until it is dead and long, long gone, this marriage cannot work, nor can you be a good, safe father. P.S. Let's get back together once you slay the beast."
I'm sure my lawyer would find this completely absurd. Already she thinks I am being "too nice." Too nice. Tooooo nice. Sigh.
Make it stop. It hurts.
I wish it all would work out. Oh, how I wish it would. But I can't control that. I can't control him. I can't control anything. And I accept that.
In the mean time, it hurts. I hurt.
But.
I've hurt for a long time.
A long, long, looooong time.
At least this time, there is hope for change. Paradoxical. Ironic. But here it is.
The papers are signed.
It hurts.
Thursday, March 20, 2014
The Grand Finale
Oh yeah, the Grand Finale. The moment when the accumulation of the show rises to its peak crescendo and, wah-lah, the intensity of the total of all the sums has its glorious moment and everybody ohhhs and ahhhhs. That's where my life is right now. At its grande finale. Or towards the end of it. But there's more of gasped "oh!"'s and timid "ahh..."'s instead of the impressive "wow's" of wonder and awe.
So, ya know what ya get folks, when you start a blog and recount your crappy life bit by bit and it his the Grand Finale? Well, I'll tell you...
Because your abusive husband "doesn't have a problem" (but you do, you mentally unstable woman who can't do anything right), one night your teenager gets assaulted by him. Oh, it's nothing big, you know...just grabbing her frail frame by the collar of her pajamas, slamming her into a wall, them jabbing an elbow in her neck. There's nothing wrong with that. Infact (which is two words and not one), when your abusive husband (oh, but he's not abusive, you're the one that needs counseling, not him) recounts to you, very calmly, as if he's talking about the weather, what he's done and you say, "What? What did you do?" because you really don't know if you heard him correctly as he explained how he just "disciplined" your daughter. So, a little more arrogantly this time, in a more justified manor, he recounts "Yeah, I grabbed her by the collar and slammed her into the wall. She was being disrespectful and I needed to teach her a lesson."
Simultaneously you panic, but also play it as cool as you can. You're afraid. What will he do to you if you stand up to him right now? Will he pull that gun off his hip and shoot you like he once said he would? Part of you wants to pretend this didn't just happen. Part of you even THINKS about just climbing into bed, self-medicating with NyQuil, and.... But the larger part of you is furious. Furious. Furious!! The larger part of you screams at him inside your head, "How could you? How could you hurt MY child? You don't lay your filthy hand on MY child! NO ONE lays a hand on MY child!"
But, oh no, you don't say that out loud. You look at him and simply say, "That was wrong. What you just did is SO wrong."
You see that familiar look in his eye, the one that tells you that you're such an idiot and incapable of understanding things at his higher reasoning...that look that often comes out as a snobbish laugh when you try to discuss things with him; that degrading laugh that sickens you. He calmly tells you in a stern, semi-loud voice, "She was disrespecting me." As I move towards the bedroom door, expecting him to block my exit he questions me in bewilderment, "Are you going to disrespect me, too, by usurping my authority?" I say nothing as I leave the room.
(Yes, I just switched to first person in the same paragraph, get over it you literary nuts!)
My heart is aching as I make the short trip up the stairs and down the hall to my daughters room, secretly hoping that what Mr. Abusive (oh, he's not abusive, I'M the one with the problem) said is an over-exageration, that it's just a story, not real.
I enter her room, and she's sobbing on the bed. My heart aches. Where was I to protect her moments ago? I feel her pain, and it breaks. my. heart. She's never cried like this before. No wait, yes; one time before, when Mr. Abusive got the gun to kill the family dog....yes, she had cried like this then....
I gently put my hand on her back and ask, "What just happened?"
She recounts, through sobs, what my ears don't want to hear, the same story I heard downstairs but with the addition of "and then he threw his elbow into my neck and I was terrified!" My panic reaches a new level, while I am simultaneously calm; I feel that if I show my true anger and outrage over this, his actions will reach a fever pitch and more damage will come in more brutal forms.
My poor, terrified daughter. I want to hold her in my arms, rock her like I used to as a toddler, and tell her it's okay, she's safe now. Knowing I'm short on time, he's waiting for me back downstairs, I check her over. Red mark on her neck. I can't see anything else. She can breath, talk, perhaps her throat isn't internally swelling. I stand up and that inner strength that always finds me when I think I just can't take anymore, instructs me. I hear myself calmly saying, "Pack a bag, I'm getting you out of here. Do it quickly and don't make any noise, he can't know that we're leaving. Go tell your sister to do the same."
Calm voice outside, but inside I'm totally freaking out. Do I call the police? Will that red mark on her neck count as "traumatic injury?" He'll get arrested. She's a minor, her younger sister saw part of it, he had his gun on him. My mind reels. This is possible felony quality by Idaho statute. If he gets charged as a felon, he'll have to surrender his guns. He'll hate that. He'll get out of jail and kill me, in the desert, just like he said he would. I'm scared. I'm weak. I'm courageous and weak at the same time. I'm calm and a total mess simultaneously.
First priority is the safety of my girls. I must get them out of the house before he prevents us from leaving. Who do I have to call? Where will my girls feel safe? Who can I call that still protects my husband's reputation? I have to think fast, my precious time is slipping away.
I walk back downstairs, I need my cell phone. I nonchalantly enter our bedroom and mumble something like, "I need my slippers," and swipe my phone when I don't think he's looking. I put on my ugly sweater, the one I'd never wear out in public, because I don't want him to think we're going to leave, and exit the room to go back upstairs; hoping that he thinks that's all I'm doing. I check on the younger children, hoping that they're safe. They are. Plugged in and tuned out.
Back up the stairs. Into an empty bedroom, close the door. I call his parents. I know they'll be watching the evening news. His dad answers. My tears start to flow, I try to hold them back, but they won't obey. I choke out the words, "Can the girls, the older ones, stay with you tonight? We've had an......an incident and, um, could they stay at your place tonight?" A tiddle wave of wracking sobs is on the horizon, I mentally turn them away; I've got to keep it together.
As only his dad does, he pauses then says, "Yes, they can." Long pause. "What happened?"
My mind races. I still have the need to protect him, that disgusting, beaten-down wifely need to keep his reputation intact while her world continually falls apart. (Bleck!) I say, "Well, Marty got mad and shoved Kali into the wall and put his elbow into her neck..." I trail off as I choke on my tears, I can't swallow right. I can hardly breathe. On the other end there is a long pause, and then, "Are you okay?"
That question caught me by surprise. Was I okay? Was I okay? What a foreign question, I thought. What was the answer to that? I didn't know. I panicked again, because I'm me, and if I don't know how I'm doing, then what's wrong with me? I stumble, fumble then finally say, "I don't know."
I hung up, told the girls to exit the house quietly, and off we went. I remembered the feeling from the time before when we fled, scared for our lives, when he had the gun out to go shoot the dog, with that crazy, scary calm look in his eye. Driving down the same lane, hoping he wouldn't see us, hoping he wouldn't fire off a round or two; is this what life is supposed to be like?
I hadn't thought this would happen, I hadn't planned for this. But I heard words coming out of my mouth, words I don't think I was consciously thinking, maybe, I guess. I held back tears as I heard the words escaping my mouth, "Girls, what Dad did is wrong, it's not normal. I don't want you thinking this is normal. I'm so sorry this happened. This is so wrong...." Driving the familiar road on autopilot, I paused and told myself to breathe, just breathe.
Then I continued, "I promise you this, this will NEVER happen again. Not on my watch. Never again. If your Dad won't protect you, I will. Never again. He will never, ever, hurt you again."
The tears dripped off my chin. I was thankful for the cloak of darkness that hid my face from direct sight. I needed to be strong. For my girls. Too many years I hadn't been strong enough for myself. But everything changed this night. Everything.
It was the Grand Finale.
Oh yeah, the Grand Finale. The moment when the accumulation of the show rises to its peak crescendo and, wah-lah, the intensity of the total of all the sums has its glorious moment...its inglorious, sickening, overdue moment.
So, ya know what ya get folks, when you start a blog and recount your crappy life bit by bit and it his the Grand Finale? Well, I'll tell you...
Because your abusive husband "doesn't have a problem" (but you do, you mentally unstable woman who can't do anything right), one night your teenager gets assaulted by him. Oh, it's nothing big, you know...just grabbing her frail frame by the collar of her pajamas, slamming her into a wall, them jabbing an elbow in her neck. There's nothing wrong with that. Infact (which is two words and not one), when your abusive husband (oh, but he's not abusive, you're the one that needs counseling, not him) recounts to you, very calmly, as if he's talking about the weather, what he's done and you say, "What? What did you do?" because you really don't know if you heard him correctly as he explained how he just "disciplined" your daughter. So, a little more arrogantly this time, in a more justified manor, he recounts "Yeah, I grabbed her by the collar and slammed her into the wall. She was being disrespectful and I needed to teach her a lesson."
Simultaneously you panic, but also play it as cool as you can. You're afraid. What will he do to you if you stand up to him right now? Will he pull that gun off his hip and shoot you like he once said he would? Part of you wants to pretend this didn't just happen. Part of you even THINKS about just climbing into bed, self-medicating with NyQuil, and.... But the larger part of you is furious. Furious. Furious!! The larger part of you screams at him inside your head, "How could you? How could you hurt MY child? You don't lay your filthy hand on MY child! NO ONE lays a hand on MY child!"
But, oh no, you don't say that out loud. You look at him and simply say, "That was wrong. What you just did is SO wrong."
You see that familiar look in his eye, the one that tells you that you're such an idiot and incapable of understanding things at his higher reasoning...that look that often comes out as a snobbish laugh when you try to discuss things with him; that degrading laugh that sickens you. He calmly tells you in a stern, semi-loud voice, "She was disrespecting me." As I move towards the bedroom door, expecting him to block my exit he questions me in bewilderment, "Are you going to disrespect me, too, by usurping my authority?" I say nothing as I leave the room.
(Yes, I just switched to first person in the same paragraph, get over it you literary nuts!)
My heart is aching as I make the short trip up the stairs and down the hall to my daughters room, secretly hoping that what Mr. Abusive (oh, he's not abusive, I'M the one with the problem) said is an over-exageration, that it's just a story, not real.
I enter her room, and she's sobbing on the bed. My heart aches. Where was I to protect her moments ago? I feel her pain, and it breaks. my. heart. She's never cried like this before. No wait, yes; one time before, when Mr. Abusive got the gun to kill the family dog....yes, she had cried like this then....
I gently put my hand on her back and ask, "What just happened?"
She recounts, through sobs, what my ears don't want to hear, the same story I heard downstairs but with the addition of "and then he threw his elbow into my neck and I was terrified!" My panic reaches a new level, while I am simultaneously calm; I feel that if I show my true anger and outrage over this, his actions will reach a fever pitch and more damage will come in more brutal forms.
My poor, terrified daughter. I want to hold her in my arms, rock her like I used to as a toddler, and tell her it's okay, she's safe now. Knowing I'm short on time, he's waiting for me back downstairs, I check her over. Red mark on her neck. I can't see anything else. She can breath, talk, perhaps her throat isn't internally swelling. I stand up and that inner strength that always finds me when I think I just can't take anymore, instructs me. I hear myself calmly saying, "Pack a bag, I'm getting you out of here. Do it quickly and don't make any noise, he can't know that we're leaving. Go tell your sister to do the same."
Calm voice outside, but inside I'm totally freaking out. Do I call the police? Will that red mark on her neck count as "traumatic injury?" He'll get arrested. She's a minor, her younger sister saw part of it, he had his gun on him. My mind reels. This is possible felony quality by Idaho statute. If he gets charged as a felon, he'll have to surrender his guns. He'll hate that. He'll get out of jail and kill me, in the desert, just like he said he would. I'm scared. I'm weak. I'm courageous and weak at the same time. I'm calm and a total mess simultaneously.
First priority is the safety of my girls. I must get them out of the house before he prevents us from leaving. Who do I have to call? Where will my girls feel safe? Who can I call that still protects my husband's reputation? I have to think fast, my precious time is slipping away.
I walk back downstairs, I need my cell phone. I nonchalantly enter our bedroom and mumble something like, "I need my slippers," and swipe my phone when I don't think he's looking. I put on my ugly sweater, the one I'd never wear out in public, because I don't want him to think we're going to leave, and exit the room to go back upstairs; hoping that he thinks that's all I'm doing. I check on the younger children, hoping that they're safe. They are. Plugged in and tuned out.
Back up the stairs. Into an empty bedroom, close the door. I call his parents. I know they'll be watching the evening news. His dad answers. My tears start to flow, I try to hold them back, but they won't obey. I choke out the words, "Can the girls, the older ones, stay with you tonight? We've had an......an incident and, um, could they stay at your place tonight?" A tiddle wave of wracking sobs is on the horizon, I mentally turn them away; I've got to keep it together.
As only his dad does, he pauses then says, "Yes, they can." Long pause. "What happened?"
My mind races. I still have the need to protect him, that disgusting, beaten-down wifely need to keep his reputation intact while her world continually falls apart. (Bleck!) I say, "Well, Marty got mad and shoved Kali into the wall and put his elbow into her neck..." I trail off as I choke on my tears, I can't swallow right. I can hardly breathe. On the other end there is a long pause, and then, "Are you okay?"
That question caught me by surprise. Was I okay? Was I okay? What a foreign question, I thought. What was the answer to that? I didn't know. I panicked again, because I'm me, and if I don't know how I'm doing, then what's wrong with me? I stumble, fumble then finally say, "I don't know."
I hung up, told the girls to exit the house quietly, and off we went. I remembered the feeling from the time before when we fled, scared for our lives, when he had the gun out to go shoot the dog, with that crazy, scary calm look in his eye. Driving down the same lane, hoping he wouldn't see us, hoping he wouldn't fire off a round or two; is this what life is supposed to be like?
I hadn't thought this would happen, I hadn't planned for this. But I heard words coming out of my mouth, words I don't think I was consciously thinking, maybe, I guess. I held back tears as I heard the words escaping my mouth, "Girls, what Dad did is wrong, it's not normal. I don't want you thinking this is normal. I'm so sorry this happened. This is so wrong...." Driving the familiar road on autopilot, I paused and told myself to breathe, just breathe.
Then I continued, "I promise you this, this will NEVER happen again. Not on my watch. Never again. If your Dad won't protect you, I will. Never again. He will never, ever, hurt you again."
The tears dripped off my chin. I was thankful for the cloak of darkness that hid my face from direct sight. I needed to be strong. For my girls. Too many years I hadn't been strong enough for myself. But everything changed this night. Everything.
It was the Grand Finale.
Oh yeah, the Grand Finale. The moment when the accumulation of the show rises to its peak crescendo and, wah-lah, the intensity of the total of all the sums has its glorious moment...its inglorious, sickening, overdue moment.
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