I am ashamed of how I reacted when Beast broke into my house that Wednesday. I was practically catatonic, still as a rabbit, those silly rabbits that sit quivering in the wet grass praying they have blended in and that you'll walk by. I used to smile at the antics of those bunnies, giving themselves away with their panicked breathing, thinking they were disguised. Not anymore. Like the stupid bunnies, I remained motionless at the beginning of his onslaught. I didn't help my friend, my son. When I had to fight back, I did so with barely an effort. I fell back into our well-worn pattern of acceptance. Better to give in and accept my punishment than risk getting hurt worse for resisting. For the first time, I believed the counselors. I do have PTSD. There's no other excuse for the inaction, the complete withdrawal and shock I underwent during and after the situation.
I am still missing chunks of emotions, unable to react appropriately to those I love. I don't even bother to fake it anymore. When Beast burst through the door and struck me in the face, whatever he hit out of me took a little bit of what was left of the thin shards of humanity he had allowed me to retain. My six year old now asks on approach if he may hug me, that unapproachable I've become. When I'm not comparing myself to a damaged, pit fighting mutt, (see earlier post) I feel like the rabbit, quivering, frozen to the spot knowing complete destruction is moments away, completely able, but unwilling to save himself. And without a voice. Save me from the rabbit-life. The rabbit only finds it voice at the moment of it's violent death, issuing a high-pitched, keening howl. I don't want my loudest cry for help to be when the rabbit howls.
I'm Still Here
"I'm okay. I'm all right. Hurricanes and train wrecks only last one night. Would you believe all I've been through?"
Even though we do not share the same experiences or challenges, Mindy McCready is giving me a voice, as I am certain she will do for many others who haven't found their own. Not sure of where I stand, I'll borrow her lyrics until I can find the words to express what has happened, my previous reality. The most important element in her song is self-motivated survival. If we want to escape our demon - alcohol, drugs, or in my case, my husband, we may receive much needed help along the path, but our escape and recovery are meaningless if we do not save ourselves.
Mindy McCready's Im Still Here http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0uBL13e1hqs
I'm okay, I'm alright.
Hurricanes and trainwrecks only last one night
Would you believe all I've been through?
Had the hands of tempted fate
Oh, if you only knew
What it costs, how I wait
What I got, what I gave
Chorus:
I'm still here...
After the heartache, after the storm blew through
It kept me and it saved me
I'm still standin', right where you left me
On a cold dark cloud, with nowhere to fall but down
Like a single, naked unrelenting tear...
I'm still here.
There was darkness, all around me
There were times I was sure I was drowning
There were people, who tried to reach me
But no matter how they loved me, I kept sinking
I got tired on my own hand, I reached inside and I saved myself
[Chorus]
This time I can survive.
I ain't dying on nobody else's cross
I ain't sufferin' no more unforgivin' loss
Oh, no.
I'm still here...
After the heartache, after the storm blew through
I kept me and it saved me
And I'm still standin', right where you left me
On a cold dark cloud, with nowhere to fall but down
Like a single, naked unrelenting tear...
I'm still here,
I'm still here.
Even though we do not share the same experiences or challenges, Mindy McCready is giving me a voice, as I am certain she will do for many others who haven't found their own. Not sure of where I stand, I'll borrow her lyrics until I can find the words to express what has happened, my previous reality. The most important element in her song is self-motivated survival. If we want to escape our demon - alcohol, drugs, or in my case, my husband, we may receive much needed help along the path, but our escape and recovery are meaningless if we do not save ourselves.
Mindy McCready's Im Still Here http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0uBL13e1hqs
I'm okay, I'm alright.
Hurricanes and trainwrecks only last one night
Would you believe all I've been through?
Had the hands of tempted fate
Oh, if you only knew
What it costs, how I wait
What I got, what I gave
Chorus:
I'm still here...
After the heartache, after the storm blew through
It kept me and it saved me
I'm still standin', right where you left me
On a cold dark cloud, with nowhere to fall but down
Like a single, naked unrelenting tear...
I'm still here.
There was darkness, all around me
There were times I was sure I was drowning
There were people, who tried to reach me
But no matter how they loved me, I kept sinking
I got tired on my own hand, I reached inside and I saved myself
[Chorus]
This time I can survive.
I ain't dying on nobody else's cross
I ain't sufferin' no more unforgivin' loss
Oh, no.
I'm still here...
After the heartache, after the storm blew through
I kept me and it saved me
And I'm still standin', right where you left me
On a cold dark cloud, with nowhere to fall but down
Like a single, naked unrelenting tear...
I'm still here,
I'm still here.
Silence Is Violence
And with the physical, always the dull, disharmonic chords riding underneath, the words he is using to describe how worthless, how despicable, how non-human I am. He doesn’t know that he has overused his voice. I repeat the disgusting names he calls me in a grade-school, sing-song, over and over while he is attacking my body so he has no entry to my mind. In the process, I’m stripping them of all meaning, peeling away their ability to transfer any more hurt. “Whore” has no significance in my vocabulary, in my world. When I hear it uttered, I smile because the word is funny to me, it’s meaning having been replaced long ago by a nursery rhyme retelling.
This “telling”, what I have been programmed never to do, was foreign to me and to my children. Recently, he called me a tattle-tale in response to my telling my attorney some little divulged facts. I smiled at his choice of expression, so in keeping with the childlike marital existence we maintained. In the beginning, like any small child with a big secret, I stumbled over the words so eager to release them after so many years. Forbidden words like “rape”, “abuse”, and “child abuse”, tumbled unbidden out of my mouth. In the early days, no one was immune to the story. Start to finish, I told the Chase mortgage lady, the barista at Starbucks, the guidance counselor at the college, the receptionist at the doctor’s office. Those poor people! They were fantastic listeners and great sports. Thank you!
I was free to live my life in the open. And I gingerly, tenderly approach the subject with the children. They don’t follow their mother’s example, choosing to keep the past events close to their hearts, taking them out to examine them when they need to, having the opportunity to talk with professionals weekly.
The free flow expressionism has slowed to a trickle. I will answer if asked, but do not feel obliged to share. Slowly, domestic violence is becoming something that occurred to me rather than something I am.
American Eskimo
When I was a little girl, I had a beautiful, dog, an American Eskimo. Of course, my sister says she was her dog, but we all know who the dog loved best! One day, she was riding out a nasty, summer storm in our garage when lightning struck our house and blew out the light fixture on the garage ceiling. There must have been a huge flash of light, followed by that tangy scent of ozone, and shattered glass everywhere. The dog ran from the garage. From then on, every time there was a storm, she preferred to sit out in the open on the front porch convinced that lightening would strike the garage again. As a child, I would become so frustrated at her seeming stubbornness and would try to lure her with treats of human food and water bowls of Kool-Aid. She wouldn't budge.
After the events of last Wednesday, I have more understanding. I haven’t sat on the couch and watched TV. I haven’t sat on the couch that still backs up to the sliding back door. I haven’t watched American Idol. I want to. I love that particular piece of mindless, brain candy. But I can’t. Like my childhood pet, I’m equating sitting and relaxing with a particular TV show with The Beast showing up. So every night after work, I find more work to do. There’s always more laundry, more dishes, more homework, more dusting, more arranging, more folding, more anything…. Anything to keep from sitting down and being in a position of helplessness when he comes again.
After the events of last Wednesday, I have more understanding. I haven’t sat on the couch and watched TV. I haven’t sat on the couch that still backs up to the sliding back door. I haven’t watched American Idol. I want to. I love that particular piece of mindless, brain candy. But I can’t. Like my childhood pet, I’m equating sitting and relaxing with a particular TV show with The Beast showing up. So every night after work, I find more work to do. There’s always more laundry, more dishes, more homework, more dusting, more arranging, more folding, more anything…. Anything to keep from sitting down and being in a position of helplessness when he comes again.
American Idol
Wednesday night, after a long and busy day, I was excited, yes; I'll admit it, excited to curl up on the couch with a chunk of lemon, gooey butter cake and the latest live episode of American Idol. The week, all three days of it, had been filled with doctors and court appointments compounded with the extended recuperation time for my double-extraction of my wisdom tooth. Earlier in the week, the pain and low grade fever had proven just too tiring and completing all work, taking care of the kids, school, and chores had been difficult. I had just received my tax check and was allowing my little family one, big splurge - Rock Band for the Wii. After making that purchase at Wal-Mart, (seriously, Wal-Mart is NOT the place to be when you are overworked, overtired, and one wisdom tooth short of feeling fine!) we made a quick stop off at Taco Bell and were then ready for an evening of relaxation. The boys and I were ready to rock out with our tacos out to some American Idol and Rock Band!
After everyone was settled: my oldest chatting on the phone and online simultaneously with his friends, my next oldest playing with his DSi in his room, my 8 year old still unpacking Rock Band in search of the missing drum sticks, and my littlest asleep in his brother's bed, I brought the dog in and crated home as was my usual, evening, wind-down routine. I settled down on the couch with my friend, John, who had stopped by mid-tacos to check on us and was persuaded to stay for Idol. He was at one end of the couch, I at the other, my eight year old at our feet wrestling with the boxes and wrapping from the game box. I wasn't asking for much: not world peace, a cure for cancer, or an end to global warming (shout out to Barrow, Alaska here!) All I wanted was to watch some highly, marketable, twenty-somethings duke it out for a record contract and maybe eat a piece of cake or a couple squares of discount Valentine's Ghirardelli in the good company of my friend and children.
Instead, what I received was a thunderous explosion of sweaty ACUs. The stink of liquor and bad decisions heavy in the air as The Beast batted and pawed his way through the Levolors knocking them to the floor, making a sound that can only be described as the guttural bay of a Philly-born, feral hound. I had been lounging back on the arm of the couch and sat up abruptly, startled at the sound of the sliding glass door being popped off of its lock, the blinds swinging wildly out of control. I was quickly and summarily knocked down by the blow to the head and right side of the face as The Beast held his arm out stiff and slammed it into me. The Beast then dragged my friend by the collar, up and over the side of the couch and the two tumbled over and out the sliders like a pair of dangerously mismatched retro Weebles. Once outside, The Beast, taller and with more weight to throw around pinned my friend to the concrete and proceed to pound his head on the pavement. For a brief moment, my thoughts were lost in the rhythm of it: one potato, two potato, three potato, four....I must have given my head the cursory, visible shake which is my wont when the Beastly PTSD flashbacks paralyze my brain and realized I should help my friend. I tried to pry Beast off of him. I grabbed hold of a sweat soaked arm and inhaled the stale stench of cigarettes and the faint, sweet scent of alcohol. Pulling, while trying not to breathe too deeply, I tugged as hard as I could with no success. Beast pushed me off of him with enough force to knock me to the concrete pad face first. Thankfully, my jaw, still swollen from two oral surgeries a week apart, broke my fall. Having dispatched with bothersome me, Beast continued his assault on my friend. I scrambled up, made another call to 911, and then attempted to pull on one of his fleshy arms. Still no give. My oldest son, hearing the brawl, appeared in the doorway. Beast yelled for help, meaning help him subdue his wife and her friend. My son calmly informed Beast that he wasn't supposed to be there and he had called the cops.
When my friend finally succumbed to unconsciousness, having suffered a concussion prior, Beast turned his attention to me. Beast grabbed my right arm, yanking, pulling it up and out of the socket, pulling me off balance. I fell again, striking my hip and knees on the pavement, skidding and scratching up my ankles. My son tried to get the Beast off of me. I did not see how he was injured. I did not protect my child as I should have, rather I called 911 again, leaving him to be abused and injured. He was seen and treated at an urgent care center two days later for a sprain and pull to his left knee and an injured right foot. He had the usual ortho treatment of ice, elevation, and inflammatories, wrap, and was on crutches. Not once did my child strike, hit, or do anything to warrant being abused in that manner. My oldest son is a gentle child, never prone to violence. That is not his nature. That he would be forced to fight may be more heartbreaking and more damaging to his spirit than his injuries were to his body.
By then, my friend had regained consciousness and Beast was more interested in harming him than his child, probably seeing him as more of a threat than a slightly built, injured teen. My friend managed to get Beast from behind when my eight year old stepped outside where all of this was taking place. Beast bellowed for Jarrett to help him. My friend told him to go inside and get the phone. Beast said, "Not in front my kids, man," to which he released his grip. The Beast responded by pushing or shoving, some sort of movement I did not see; and then managed to get away. Beast made a run for his car, digging in his ACU pocket as he scaled the hill behind my home to where his car was hidden behind a six foot pile of snow in the elementary school parking lot. There, he threw something small into his car, shut the door, ran down the hill and started screaming into his cell phone what sounded like, "Let me in! Let me in!" He must have managed to find Sober, because he did not attempt to drive away knowing the police were soon to arrive. My friend, fearful he would come back and resume his assault, was in the way of his retreat. Beast swung at him with his cell phone. The second swing, he connected with the top of my friend's head. Beast then continued to run, running straight to the neighbor's home, the home of his co-worker two doors down. He didn't enter their back sliders as he normally would enter mine, sideways. Rather he entered full on as if the sliders were completely thrown open. At night. As if waiting. In the 30 to 40 degree temperature.
Later, I would peer into the car and see a tire iron surely meant for me lying on the passenger's seat. I never did see what he threw inside. The Beast’s commander later commented that JAG and the investigators would be looking into motive: what is Beast’s motivation for abusing me and attacking my friend. In the Army, if you have proper motive, is this behavior simply allowed, then? Or is this a unit by unit decision? I do not know the answer to this question and I cannot find anyone that does.
Thus ended my American Idol evening. It became an American Hero evening spent with police officers both civilian and MP, EMT and soldiers. Great guys, but no offense - I would much rather have had a Cheetos, Coke and Blockbuster evening.
After everyone was settled: my oldest chatting on the phone and online simultaneously with his friends, my next oldest playing with his DSi in his room, my 8 year old still unpacking Rock Band in search of the missing drum sticks, and my littlest asleep in his brother's bed, I brought the dog in and crated home as was my usual, evening, wind-down routine. I settled down on the couch with my friend, John, who had stopped by mid-tacos to check on us and was persuaded to stay for Idol. He was at one end of the couch, I at the other, my eight year old at our feet wrestling with the boxes and wrapping from the game box. I wasn't asking for much: not world peace, a cure for cancer, or an end to global warming (shout out to Barrow, Alaska here!) All I wanted was to watch some highly, marketable, twenty-somethings duke it out for a record contract and maybe eat a piece of cake or a couple squares of discount Valentine's Ghirardelli in the good company of my friend and children.
Instead, what I received was a thunderous explosion of sweaty ACUs. The stink of liquor and bad decisions heavy in the air as The Beast batted and pawed his way through the Levolors knocking them to the floor, making a sound that can only be described as the guttural bay of a Philly-born, feral hound. I had been lounging back on the arm of the couch and sat up abruptly, startled at the sound of the sliding glass door being popped off of its lock, the blinds swinging wildly out of control. I was quickly and summarily knocked down by the blow to the head and right side of the face as The Beast held his arm out stiff and slammed it into me. The Beast then dragged my friend by the collar, up and over the side of the couch and the two tumbled over and out the sliders like a pair of dangerously mismatched retro Weebles. Once outside, The Beast, taller and with more weight to throw around pinned my friend to the concrete and proceed to pound his head on the pavement. For a brief moment, my thoughts were lost in the rhythm of it: one potato, two potato, three potato, four....I must have given my head the cursory, visible shake which is my wont when the Beastly PTSD flashbacks paralyze my brain and realized I should help my friend. I tried to pry Beast off of him. I grabbed hold of a sweat soaked arm and inhaled the stale stench of cigarettes and the faint, sweet scent of alcohol. Pulling, while trying not to breathe too deeply, I tugged as hard as I could with no success. Beast pushed me off of him with enough force to knock me to the concrete pad face first. Thankfully, my jaw, still swollen from two oral surgeries a week apart, broke my fall. Having dispatched with bothersome me, Beast continued his assault on my friend. I scrambled up, made another call to 911, and then attempted to pull on one of his fleshy arms. Still no give. My oldest son, hearing the brawl, appeared in the doorway. Beast yelled for help, meaning help him subdue his wife and her friend. My son calmly informed Beast that he wasn't supposed to be there and he had called the cops.
When my friend finally succumbed to unconsciousness, having suffered a concussion prior, Beast turned his attention to me. Beast grabbed my right arm, yanking, pulling it up and out of the socket, pulling me off balance. I fell again, striking my hip and knees on the pavement, skidding and scratching up my ankles. My son tried to get the Beast off of me. I did not see how he was injured. I did not protect my child as I should have, rather I called 911 again, leaving him to be abused and injured. He was seen and treated at an urgent care center two days later for a sprain and pull to his left knee and an injured right foot. He had the usual ortho treatment of ice, elevation, and inflammatories, wrap, and was on crutches. Not once did my child strike, hit, or do anything to warrant being abused in that manner. My oldest son is a gentle child, never prone to violence. That is not his nature. That he would be forced to fight may be more heartbreaking and more damaging to his spirit than his injuries were to his body.
By then, my friend had regained consciousness and Beast was more interested in harming him than his child, probably seeing him as more of a threat than a slightly built, injured teen. My friend managed to get Beast from behind when my eight year old stepped outside where all of this was taking place. Beast bellowed for Jarrett to help him. My friend told him to go inside and get the phone. Beast said, "Not in front my kids, man," to which he released his grip. The Beast responded by pushing or shoving, some sort of movement I did not see; and then managed to get away. Beast made a run for his car, digging in his ACU pocket as he scaled the hill behind my home to where his car was hidden behind a six foot pile of snow in the elementary school parking lot. There, he threw something small into his car, shut the door, ran down the hill and started screaming into his cell phone what sounded like, "Let me in! Let me in!" He must have managed to find Sober, because he did not attempt to drive away knowing the police were soon to arrive. My friend, fearful he would come back and resume his assault, was in the way of his retreat. Beast swung at him with his cell phone. The second swing, he connected with the top of my friend's head. Beast then continued to run, running straight to the neighbor's home, the home of his co-worker two doors down. He didn't enter their back sliders as he normally would enter mine, sideways. Rather he entered full on as if the sliders were completely thrown open. At night. As if waiting. In the 30 to 40 degree temperature.
Later, I would peer into the car and see a tire iron surely meant for me lying on the passenger's seat. I never did see what he threw inside. The Beast’s commander later commented that JAG and the investigators would be looking into motive: what is Beast’s motivation for abusing me and attacking my friend. In the Army, if you have proper motive, is this behavior simply allowed, then? Or is this a unit by unit decision? I do not know the answer to this question and I cannot find anyone that does.
Thus ended my American Idol evening. It became an American Hero evening spent with police officers both civilian and MP, EMT and soldiers. Great guys, but no offense - I would much rather have had a Cheetos, Coke and Blockbuster evening.
A Million Little Pieces
Monday, I went to the dentist after struggling through the weekend with a swollen and inflamed wisdom tooth. Surprisingly, the dentist ended up extracting the tooth right then in a process that took a lot longer than anyone thought as the tooth would not go willingly and broke into "a million little pieces". Twice I woke up disoriented and in pain during the process only to finally awake when the ordeal was over. Having lived with and through the Beast (thanks, "C", for the newest nickname), I assumed I could make it through work on Tuesday. And I did. Painful and swollen, only to come home and make dinner, do a couple loads of laundry and dishes. Just as I did now. I sit here with tears streaming down my cheeks listening to the ever present sound of the dryer tossing the lavendar scented, clean little boy laundry around it's barrel. I'm in more pain than I've been in quite a long time. I can't differentiate between real and remembered pain. I know that the swelling and quite possibly "dry socket" are real. The pain meds are not working and the Motrin is not keeping the fever at bay. But today was difficult. Today, I met with a new counselor. She fit me in her busy schedule and I did not think it polite to cancel even after surgery. We discussed my pending court case tomorrow. I explained how upset I will be tomorrow morning, how every time I have to look at him, I feel nauseous and how I was frightened that I would vomit and loosen the stitches in my mouth. Another example of damage he causes whether intentional or not.
Of course, it only gets worse. Upon arriving home, I received a fax from my attorney. The Beast's greasy attorney sent a new order, this one negating everything I had fought and won over the past two months. He is asking for a complete removal of the protective order. The removal of my legal custody of the children. Among other abominable things. I live in a house provided by the Beast. I hate it here. It is a perfect home, a lovely home. But it is provided at his mercy. I want out of it so badly.
If the protective order is lifted tomorrow morning, the Beast is free to come back.
Of course, it only gets worse. Upon arriving home, I received a fax from my attorney. The Beast's greasy attorney sent a new order, this one negating everything I had fought and won over the past two months. He is asking for a complete removal of the protective order. The removal of my legal custody of the children. Among other abominable things. I live in a house provided by the Beast. I hate it here. It is a perfect home, a lovely home. But it is provided at his mercy. I want out of it so badly.
If the protective order is lifted tomorrow morning, the Beast is free to come back.
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