It had to be the appearance of the gun that sent her to the divorce attorney, because, let’s face it, guns were never her kind of thing. Even though he waved it in her face, pointed it at her, touched the muzzle to her chest, and threatened to shoot himself with it, too, she survived that night.
It’s just as likely he killed her anyway.
How does one ever recover from knowing she could’ve died? From seeing fleeting television images of those scary crimes of passion, the ones where multiple black body bags are carried from some bland ranch structure or ritzy mansion while the reporter drones on in the foreground, wondering how it all happened, pointing the camera in stricken faces and asking the extended family how they feel? She knew how it happened, in a freak series of rash actions and shouted words that culminated in something final.
For a while, she forgot to feel anything.
Marriage was supposed to be…..what exactly? The ultimate state of bliss? The natural order of things? The rest of one’s life with a good, caring person? The best path to have children? The thing she was expected to do next? She was still too young to really define it for herself, but her little-girl fantasies and teenage dreams never included hell on earth.
Hell wasn’t what graced her eyes the first time she saw him. The One. He was everything – EVERYTHING – she had been trained to seek in a mate. She still had her list, the one she made when she was sixteen or seventeen, taped between the pages of her Bible. When she pulled out the worn paper and held it up next to him, she thought she’d drawn his picture. Marrying him was the most natural thing she’d ever done.
The natural things were the things she tried to remember when he called her a tumbling fury of Very Bad Words, when maybe all she said was I don’t want to have that for supper or I’m not ready to have people over or it’s too soon to have children. She never knew what might unleash the barrage of words she never really knew before she said I do. Through the haze of comment boxes that poured forth, obscuring his face, she tried to imagine the natural things, the secret smiles, the thrill of falling in love. Those comment boxes were pointy, though. They had gouging tips and sharp edges, could hack away pieces of her spirit until she recognized nothing but smoke and air, fog and mist, all things with no form, no surface, no shape of self to which to cling.
Sometimes, she thought it
might be better if he just hit her.
Shoving and screaming and driving the car really fast while pulling her hair didn’t seem to give him the release he craved. She locked herself in the bathroom, stared at herself in the mirror, made empty deals with herself. He said that was the last time. He promised not to do it again. Who are you?
How did you ever wind up here?
A child was the ultimate weapon, the thing he knew would irrevocably control her, filaments that would snake from the tips of its fingers and toes. Those invisible fibers would wrap around her, consume her, while he watched from above, holding the wooden paddles attached to the strings. Succumbing would’ve been so easy, especially since she couldn’t remember all the little pieces of herself he’d already sheared away, scattered rubble that no longer fit together.
Guns and children. Children and guns. An explosive combination she recalled just in the knick of time. Tick. Tick. Tick…..
***************
#1000Speak is an online initiative to incite compassion for people who are blindsided by unfortunate circumstances, prickly outcomes and untenable situations.
Today, thousands of people worldwide are writing about bullying. We hope to stick a face to the term, a countenance readers recognize, because these stories are shared by people you know.
Because maybe……sometimes……knowing someone who’s experienced something horrific humanizes it. The victims are no longer reality television stars, shouted questions and sirens on the evening news, vacant eyes staring through pixels on a computer screen.
And seeing people who’ve navigated bullying and survived?
Well.
May we inspire other victims to take charge, to flee, to seek help.
Just like a twenty-six-year-old girl did years ago when she stared down the barrel of a gun and finally said
ENOUGH.
That girl was me.
To find out more about 1000 Voices Speak for Compassion, click HERE.
To submit your own story for the Building from Bullying theme, read Lizzi’s post HERE.
19 Comments
Powerful writing. I like it. Thank you.
I read this aloud at a writing retreat once. I think it was the only thing I read that convinced anyone there I could write. Ha.
You certainly should be proud of the writing in this piece. It’s sensitive, powerful, and sadly touching. My experience as a very young bride, although not as violent as yours, caused me to say “Enough!” after almost six years, too.
So many people have mistake marriages. I’m glad you survived.
Wow, Andra. This is the first time I’ve read this but the tone was so personal I thought it was about you from the very beginning. Thanks so much for posting again, it’s a vital message and a strong piece to share today.
It ran several years ago. I’m going through my site now and cleaning up some of my better pieces for submission to other things. We’ll see how that goes…..
I’m sorry that this happened to you, but am happy that you’re able to put the experience into words that may help someone else understand that it’s time to say: “enough.” The power of words, the need for compassion never ceases to amaze me.
That’s the best reason to put these things out there.
Wow. Good stuff. Personal and powerful. Compelling. Action inspiring.
I wish my writing always reached this visceral quality.
All of us do. You know where it is and go there when you can.
I remember this, or perhaps you’d written and I thought it was you? I’m sorry Andra, but I’m so proud and glad that you got out of there. I know it isn’t easy, especially when you’re verbally abused….no outside scarring. Proud that you found the courage. Hope that others find courage in reading your words.
I still can’t stand arguments with raised voices. MTM and I argue sometimes, but never that way.
glad you survived and became a stronger person. thanks for sharing this, you may help others.
It’s the only reason to share something like this. People who know me now could never imagine me living like this. I think it helps give others the strength to walk away. At least, I hope it does.
I have no words. Just a ton of respect and love.
I don’t know what’s more powerful, you personal tale or the fact that so many can relate to it.
Thank you letting me in, here.
Verbal terrorism doesn’t leave marks, but they exist just the same. I too learned that firsthand.
This is powerful, Andra. If it gives even one person the necessary strength to say “enough,” you have done a great service by sharing it.
This is extremely intense, but it makes the point! I haven’t known verbal violence from personal experience, but one of my closest friends was a victim for entirely too long. So important, Andra.
Comments are closed.