Life's Defining Moments: Part 2

I would like to tell everyone that after that incident that I walked away and never saw him again.  Actually, I would LOVE to tell everyone that is what I did, but I did not… In fact since it wasn’t the first time I ever got beat up by him, it wasn’t the last either.

So why would I write about it as a life-defining moment and why do I think about it everyday? That was that moment in my life where I could have left, I knew I should have left and I chose to stay even though he didn’t care. That day I made what would be, physically, the wrong decision, but twenty years later, may have been the path I chose to take so that I would be strong enough to handle adversity and to recognize co-dependency, addiction and narcissism.

I think about that time when I begin to waiver from the path I’ve chosen because it seems difficult.  It is a reminder that when I chose what would be the easiest, it was the wrong way and would have lifelong consequences.

I stayed with him for eight more months and I can’t tell you it got better because four months after this I finally hit rock bottom and although it was a bad time I quickly learned that you can’t rate evil. It is or it isn’t. I became so desensitized to the pain that I was numb – on the inside and out.

What made me finally leave? I realized I didn’t like myself very much. I found out I was pregnant and couldn’t bring myself to tell my family about it, so I hid it…  I was 20 weeks pregnant when it happened… My second miscarriage… I came home one afternoon – and he wasn’t home. He had gone out with the guys, which was fine with me, because I was hoping he’d have just enough of a buzz that he’d be in a good mood… it was a crapshoot.  I don’t gamble because the odds are always against me. He came home in a rage over something he wouldn’t tell me about and he said I was in his way. He had that look and even though I covered my stomach, he kicked me and I fell down the stairs and it must have been too much.

I didn’t know what to feel. I was numb. I remember laying on the gurney in the OB-GYN unit and nurses and techs were swarming around me with IV lines, equipment and with comfort.  They called my family, which was a cross between humiliating and fear. I was so embarrassed for them to see me like this and for them to find out  about my pregnancy this way… The nurse in charge was heartbroken to tell me that they didn’t think they were going to be able to save my baby.  I just laid there not knowing what I felt or if I felt anything.  My cousin asked me how I got to the hospital and I had to admit that my boyfriend dropped me off in front of the hospital and left, in my car. When they called him to tell him I may have surgery and he should be with me, he wasn’t home. He wasn’t around until the day before the funeral.  I delivered a little boy, Robert.  The nurses asked me if I wanted to see him. If I wanted to hold him. I regret it to this day – I said no.  I felt like such an epic failure that I thought I didn’t deserve to be a mom, if even for a minute. The nurse must have known I would regret it and she brought him to me. I did not understand that he would live for only a few minutes. Robert didn’t survive, and I believe he died so that I could live. 

I pray for his soul everyday and thank him for the strength to leave. I loved this young man more than I loved myself, but not more than that little life. At that point, I began to hate who I was with this person. It was as if a fog had been lifted from me. Things were clear. I realized that I needed to leave. I sought refuge with my cousin and her husband (a deputy). She had been with me through all of the hurt and I knew she wouldn’t let me go back…

The rage I had inside of me was palpable and it propelled me into a world so surreal that I don’t know who that person was when I looked into the mirror. I snuck away to see him and he was just coming home from a date. I remember feeling so sorry for that young woman, she had no idea who she was fooling with. I told her she needed to walk home… He thought the “Tina” he knew had shown up. Wrong. He was drunk and high on himself. He pulled out a 30/30 shotgun and held it to my head all night – the next day he woke up and began drinking while he kept that gun laid across his lap. I wasn’t allowed to leave. I remember thinking at that very moment, that this was no life. I refused to live like this…  Robert didn’t die for me to put up with this. I’ll never forget it… all the abuse, all the foul words, that’s all that passed through my consciousness – like rapid fire. When he passed out, I took that gun and beat him with it. I bit him. I fought him and most importantly, I left.  That was twenty years ago.

I will never go back there. I will never allow myself to ever see that woman in the mirror again.  That woman who lived through that era is gone. The one who is writing this is no one’s victim. 

Life's Defining Moments Part 1

It gets cold at night during the winter in Florida… At first, I thought the bone chilling cold was what caused my body to uncontrollably shake… at first.

We all have one, or in some cases, several, life-defining moments that are burned so deeply into our memory that a day doesn’t go by when we don’t think about it.  We remember what we were thinking, what we smelled in the air, what clothes we were wearing, and what we were looking at, maybe even the song playing on a car radio.

That’s how it is for me. I would do anything to replace that moment with one of the many others in my life. In fact, as a means of coping, I have learned to go to my happy place, a time when my life physically changed maybe.. the birth of my daughter, Dakota Desiree.  I go to that day whenever the bad memories seem to get stuck on instant replay in my brain.

My earliest memories include crawling up on my parents antique sofa with my bottle of juice.  I used to love that couch because the material was smooth, cool and the cushions nice and soft. I would have my blanket in tow, bottle in hand and pajamas zipped up tight – I felt safe. I had no fear. I knew how to trust. I trusted my parents would never allow anyone into our home that would hurt us. I could safely slip off to slumberland and not worry about what was going on when my eyes were closed.

I knew that my mom would always have a snack made even before I said I was hungry and I remember the sound of her walking through the house – she kind of shuffles her feet and since she never wears shoes when she’s in the house, you could hear her feet patter across the linoleum floor in the kitchen. 

I grew up in the same house with my little brother and my parents until I turned 16. I loved that house. It was a single level, flat roof, grey house with three bedrooms, two baths, and a playroom for our air hockey table, 3164 Connecticut Avenue. The house we moved into was brand new – like a blank journal waiting on us to write our memories in it. New furniture… new dishes… new everything… I always missed our old house and the memories it held.  I had the most awesome room with red shag carpet and my own little walk in closet… That was my safe place… I would hide in that closet and travel to worlds only I would ever know. I miss that closet…

I think that closet saved my life on several occasions.

Like time travel, I hid in that closet on that night. I imagined drawing on its walls in pencil… I imagined building a safe bunker with a pillow, a warm blanket and my fuzzy pajamas with feet. The red ones with Winnie the Pooh embroidered on the left breast.

It started off like many other Fridays. I was 24 and had spent the morning running errands. I would cash my paycheck, go pay a few bills and hit the grocery store to buy groceries. I was living with my first “real” boyfriend and I loved to cook a big meal and have it ready for him and his friends when he got off from work. He worked hard in the hot sun all day and I absolutely loved seeing the look of relaxation and satisfaction on his face… His sigh of relief made me happy.

We would sit on our sofa watching funny videos and he wouldn’t go to bed without having me lay with him. I made him feel safe.

We lived in the cutest house in a wooded part of our county. It was my dreamhouse – an A-frame wood home and it had a fireplace and a loft level. It smelled like wood just like the house I grew up in.  I made it our home. I had decorated it for Christmas, I had purchased furniture to make it a home instead of a young couple’s party house, even though it was…

Anyway, like any other Friday, I had cooked a smorgasbord of food and that A-frame smelled like shrimp scampi and garlic toast. He had come home with his brother and a few friends. I made sure everyone had something to eat and that the refrigerator had plenty of cold beer. He hated warm beer and he hated having to wait.  I didn’t want to start off the weekend badly so I made sure I had all of that done. 

This is where things start to go bad… like every other Friday…  At this point in my life and our relationship, I learned not to breathe deeply. Taking a deep breathe may make too much noise. It may prevent me from hearing what was going on. I may miss a cue. I hated it when he became angry.  He would leave me alone, sometimes without a car, and not come home for a few days if I made him mad. I wanted good memories with him, not bad ones. I never knew what “too late” meant. 

The weekend before he had become angry at me for talking to one of his co-workers for too long in our kitchen. His friend became so uncomfortable that he left our house – and he followed. When he had come home two days later, he hadn’t showered, he had to be helped inside and he had hickies all over his neck.  I didn’t discover those until I had him in the shower to wash the dirt, grime, beer and smoke off of his body.  I was too scared to say anything so I just cried. His eyes were as closed as his heart, so he didn’t notice.

Fast forward back to that night – While he and his friends were unwinding and eating, the same friend he became irate over showed up at the house. I let him inside and went upstairs to our bedroom so I didn’t get accused of anything.  For a week I held back all of my emotions – I was afraid he would leave again… I loved him.

I took a nap and woke up when my body hit the floor. His hand wrapped around my ankle and he ripped me from our bed and threw me on the floor. I was confused and a bit dazed from having my head land against the dresser. He was tall and strong. I loved his arms and shoulders… they were tan and strong. I didn’t love those same arms that night. He jerked me off the floor into a standing position, only to throw me down once again. He managed to throw me out of the bedroom and as I scrambled to get up, he kicked me headfirst down the first flight of stairs. He stood over me daring me to get up… He stood over me daring me to try to save myself… He called me a “whore” and a “fat bitch!”  I can still see the curl of his lip and his nose curl as if he were looking at something stuck on the bottom of his shoe. He hated me. My worst nightmare. As my body absorbed the final blow down the stairs I wondered what was wrong… was the food cold, beer warm? I would never know.

As I landed in a ball of pain on the living room floor, I looked up and saw his older brother rubbing his forehead… wondering what to do or if he should do something. I looked at him through the tears and hoped he would stop him. He didn’t.  I stood up and ran for the door, not having a chance to get my keys to the car.  I was afraid but hurt too much to get very far. I remember crouching down on the ground next to the car hoping to hide.  As I fell over on the ground, I heard his boots crush the gravel beneath his feet. Afraid to look at him head on, I remember peering up at him like a beaten puppy… he was smiling. He kept kicking me in the stomach until I couldn’t move… It was then that his brother came out and got him away from me. It was too late, the damage was done.

As soon as he turned to walk away, I crawled as far as I could, our neighbor had a chaise lounge in his yard and I managed to lay my body down on that until I passed out from the pain.  I remember being startled awake by the sound of a car horn. I had no idea where I was but it hurt too much to move. I remember looking up and seeing our yard full of cars.  He was having a party. After all he had plenty of food and beer, I had made sure of it…

I laid my head back down and started to shiver… it was then that I imagined myself inside my closet in my pajamas with fuzzy feet. It was cold on that Florida night. I laid there listening to the party, watched him make out with an unknowing girl on the same gravel road that I was laying on just a few hours before. I heard him laughing as if I weren’t alive, as if I didn’t matter.  I laid in the bottom floor of my imaginary closet until the sun came up. I was safe.