CW: Contains references to and depictions of domestic violence.
I don’t even remember what the fight was about, though in reality, “fight” is probably not the right word. “Fight” implies a two-way exchange, a back and forth. But I had learned long ago that though it was counter to my every instinct, I needed to stay quiet. To respond to his anger in any way only made things exponentially worse. More dangerous, more violent, more irreversible.
While this would ultimately be the last episode, it was certainly not the worst. There had been a broken wrist requiring surgery, a nasty bite, bruises, and many more scars, visible and otherwise, from his inexplicable rage. He had told me so many times he would kill me if he could get away with it; I certainly believed he was capable and willing in the right moment. On that morning, in the kitchen of the home we had shared for fifteen years, it seemed that moment was closer than ever. Inches away, screaming, spitting, face round and deep crimson, veins bulging. He had snapped a broom in half, waving the splintered handle, warning that he could just spear me right through.
It continued as I made my way to the bathroom to get ready for work. As I showered and sobbed, he stood on the other side of the shower curtain, ranting furiously about all the perceived slights in his life. The job he hated, though really, he hated any job. The injustice of his new custom scuba suit not fitting properly; he blamed the manufacturer instead of his weight gain. The weather forecast threatening the planned launch of his boat the following day. In his mind, all personal affronts that were somehow my fault. Well, maybe not my fault, but I would be the one to pay.
This had become my life. For almost twenty years, never being sure what would set him off next, or when. My days and nights were filled with fear and anxiety. Even the weather forecast had the potential to incur his wrath, subjecting me to violence because there was snow to shovel, rain to endure, heat to beat. At the time I had only one friend that had a clue of what my life was like. She would eventually tell me that she was desperate to get me “out of there” but was afraid doing so would put me at higher risk. I understood that, because every time I considered leaving, every time I seemed close to walking away while I still could, there would be a news report of a woman killed by her “estranged” partner. I had seen enough news stories and had done enough homework to know that the time when someone leaves their abuser is often the most dangerous. He had threatened that if I ever told, or ever left, he would kill me, my parents, my sister, our dog. I had no doubt in my mind that it was something he could or would do. So, I had stayed well past the expiration date of the marriage, of the relationship, of my spirit.
Despite the jagged broomstick and the tears, I managed to get myself to work. I was late, which was very unusual for me. I thought any evidence of the prolonged crying was gone, but as soon as I reached my office, a co-worker came in to say good morning. She took one look at me and asked what was wrong. I tried to brush it off, saying I was fine, but instead, tears came. She shut my door, and when I looked up to discard a tissue, she looked me right in the eye and said, “He’s hurting you, isn’t he?” Now, the tears came again, relentless and uncontrollable. My secret was out.
She told me we were going to the police. I said no at first. I knew she was right, but I was terrified. She would not take no for an answer; she drove me to the police station in my town. The woman at the desk asked if I wanted to press charges; I said no, I wanted a restraining order. She said I needed to go to the district court for that. We walked out of the station. The wind was whipping my hair and seemed to be driving away my resolve. “Forget it, let’s just go back to work,” I said, as if I were dismissing an idea to stop for ice cream. “No. We are not going back to work. We are going to the courthouse.”
After a lot of paperwork and waiting, a temporary restraining order was granted, but it was now Friday afternoon. My husband would have to be served, and I would have to return to court on Monday to see if the restraining order would be granted permanently. I had no idea where he was, and I was petrified he would get to me before they could get to him. I was now in action mode. I bought new locks for the doors. I had my friend take pictures of my bruises. I took most of the money out of our joint accounts. I was energized. I had a mission. The intense fear remained, and I had no idea what the hours and days ahead of me had in store, but I suddenly felt like a had a chance. I knew a piece of paper could not keep him from stalking me, hurting me, killing me. But I realized in a very distinct moment of clarity that what I had been doing all these years was not really living anyhow. Staying with him might mean staying physically alive, but that was at the expense of actually living.
He arrived home very late that night, and I realized that due to the size and set up of our home, there was no way for me to call the police without him hearing. The ten minutes it would take for police to arrive would be just long enough for him to kill me and the dog. I feigned sleep as he stomped down to the bedroom. The “sleeping” did not stop him from continuing his verbal tirade. I stayed quiet and calm, biding time until I could find a safe way to call and let the police know he was here. It seemed like the night lasted forever. Sleep was elusive
The next morning, I waited until he went outside to start putting things in his car for the boat launch. I brought the dog into the bedroom with me, pushed the tall bureau up against the door, and called the police. I waited in the bedroom and saw the police pull up. I could not hear what they said to him, but I could see his face. He had no idea this was coming. The police allowed him a few moments to gather a few essentials, took away his house key, and he was gone. A friend’s husband helped me with the new locks, and I spent the rest of the day locked in the house, steering clear of windows, and trying to keep my heart from beating out of my chest each time I heard a car outside.
On Sunday I went to my parents’ house and told them only that he was gone. To this day, they do not know the whole story. Despite efforts by my mother several weeks later to find out what had
happened, I never told them about the abuse. I was ashamed; their first born, high school valedictorian, magna cum laude college graduate, smart and independent, had allowed this to happen to her. I realize now that they never would have been ashamed of or disappointed in me. But I also know now, after many years of therapy and introspection, that this is all part of the cycle of domestic violence: the isolation, the secrecy, the shame, the lack of self-compassion.
The permanent restraining order was granted on Monday, and a few days later, he was allowed to come to get his things from the house under the watchful eye of a police officer. His parents, though standing by him, seemed to be sorry. They avoided my eye when they accompanied him to get his things. His mother had been in the courtroom when my application for protection was read aloud, and it seemed she was not altogether shocked by what she heard. I had the feeling they were both horrified, if not surprised, by their son’s actions and behavior.
For months afterward, I looked over my shoulder wherever I went. Getting into my car, walking into work or into a store, I would look around to make sure he wasn’t lurking, waiting for me. But while I was acutely aware of my surroundings in those early weeks and months, something else was happening inside me. I’ve heard it said that often we don’t know the weight we’ve been carrying until it is lifted. I finally understood what that meant. The freedom of daily life was like nothing I had ever experienced before. When people who didn’t know the whole story would say they were sorry to hear about the divorce, I would say “Don’t be, I’m not. I’m only sorry I didn’t do it sooner.”
It took time, but eventually I no longer cringed when the meteorologist predicted snow. The anxiety once produced by innocuous things such as the grocery store being out of his favorite yogurt eventually waned. I realized how many trivial things every single day had been a source of anxiety due to the unpredictable nature of his rage. Though he was physically absent from my life from that last day, other than the divorce hearing several months later, it took about ten years for all the things that used to strike fear in my heart to subside. Finally, I could use the weather report to determine what to wear, rather than as warning of an imminent attack.
I remember talking to my mom several months later. I don’t recall what we were talking about, but I was laughing heartily at something she said. When we stopped laughing, she said, “I’m so glad you’re back!” Confused, I said, “What do you mean, I never went anywhere,” to which she replied, “Oh, yes, you did.”
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