Texas

I'm writing, following the free flow of thoughts in my head.  The bitterly cold weather here has me reminiscing about warmer duty stations.  One of the things that I imagine is the same with all abusive military spouses is the idea that the abuse will stop or become better with a Major Change.  When we PCS, we'll be better.  A new baby, we'll be better.  A new promotion, we'll be better.  But change brings stress, even good change and stress brings more abuse.  If I were asked to chose the most violent duty station, I would pick Texas.  We met, married and were stationed there for about 4 years.  A lot of family and my best friend lived in Texas meaning that should have been an ideal location for me.  But he was upset with the amount of time I spent with my family and friends.  It was much easier to isolate myself rather than risk his displeasure.  I remember I used to take my youngest to the pool every day in the summer until he became jealous that we were able to go and he was not.  It was much easier to simply stop going.

One of the funniest incidents occurred in our bathroom in one of our Texas homes.  I use the term "funny" because even ugly things are sometimes funny and if you cannot laugh at the ugliness you will drown in it.  We had been fighting all day as was our usual custom.  What the 'fight du jour' was, I cannot remember.  I am absolutely certain it was something stupid.  This I can defend, as right before he deployed this time, we fought over a $7.35 doctor's bill and while deployed, we argued about a 0.75 cent check I paid from his account for a traffic toll ticket he received.

I was standing in front of the mirror applying make up and alternately mouthing off.  Something I said must have really upset him because before I could even respond, I was flying through the air sideways only stopping when my head struck the ceramic soap dish inside the shower.  Shocked, I pulled myself out of the bath and put my hand to my head only to find it covered in blood.  The force had opened a gash on the top of my skull.  Nervous and worried, he attempted to talk me into letting him stitch it up at home.  Nasty head wound?  No need to go the hospital, Soldier Boy will stitch that right up for me.  I declined and demanded he take me to the hospital.  He delayed the trip because I had to admit that I had "fallen" before he would take me.  There was no question of my taking myself;  I was not allowed to go anywhere alone if he were available, in normal circumstances.  Going to the hospital with a wound would certainly mean I would need a chaperone in case I should say something that would get him in trouble. 

For years, whenever the incident was mentioned, it was understood that I had somehow flown through the air, sideways, from a standing position, striking my head on the ceramic soap dish all on my own.  He had bravely come to save me from certain death and driven me to the hospital.  Or so the fairy tale goes....