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.