My body goes rigid, muscles tense, and I startle awake. The familiar short, shallow breathing follows. I look at the clock. It is 2 am and he is not in bed. The tightness creeps up into my throat. Do I text him this time? No. Try to sleep, I tell myself.
Light streams through the small, basement window. I wonder if it is time to get her ready for the doctor. I hear his mother and the steady beat on the floor with her walker as she progresses to her favorite recliner. I hope he will tell them she refuses to eat. My shoulders tighten as I think about the follow up phone call with family. They do not see the countenance and rigid body language every time food or drink is suggested. I wonder what will take her life, the cancer or the stubbornness. Compassion, I remind myself. She doesn’t know any better.
Mr. returns from the doctor alone and pummels down the stairs. I am anxious to hear the details and rattle off quickly, “Did you tell him she will not eat?” “Of course I did. Do you think I am an idiot?” he responds. “Are you sure you said we tried the pedialyte and the chocolate milk?” I continue with the questions as he makes his way to the shower ignoring my inquiry. The door shuts tight and I hear the water turn on followed by the slide of the shower door. “I told you she would have to stay for an IV. She refuses to eat or drink and is going to end up back in the hospital.” I yell over the bathroom noises.
I give up and slowly walk up the stairs, my feet making little sound on the new ivory carpet. I get lost in my school work and hear the drone of Mr.’s voice as he talks on the phone after his shower. All of the sudden, he becomes very soft spoken. The quickshift startles me. He is never quiet. Why is he quiet? He is always so loud. Then, I hear him get up from the table and walk, talking softly, to the bathroom and close the door. Why is he talking softly? He hasn’t spoken softly for 24 years. My curiosity pulls me to the door at the top of the stairs. I walk gently down them as I make the decision with each step that I am going to listen at the bathroom door. “Yeah, she thinks this is all about her.” he laughs. “Maybe I should wear a body camera.” he mocks. My heart pounds. My spouse is mocking me on the phone to his brother, the very person that I have expressed puts so much pressure on our family. I can feel the acid of betrayal in my mouth. I decide to start a text of all the things I hear Mr. say to keep my mind focused as the blood pounds through my ears. Finally, when I cannot take any more of the cruel betrayal I push send. “Wait a minute. She just text me.” he tells his brother. He flings open the door with a flush, and I step back as the air is pulled in and the ceiling tile pops. His face is puckered, lips tight over the top of his teeth. He is seething. He starts to yell. I move to the bottom of the stairs, and realize there is no escape. I have to go up them. Mr. holds the phone in the air by his face, his words sizzling with anger. How do I get away? I run up the stairs, through the kitchen, take a left, and go down the hall into my son’s room. He is right behind me. “You want to talk to my brother, here he is!” he shouts as he shoves the phone in my face. “Get away from me!” I scream as I close the door. Mr. opens it. His whole body is tense. What is he going to do? I run out the door, through the kitchen and I hear him say “I will call you back” as he follows me. Oh. No. He follows me down the stairs, under the living room, and into our bedroom. He is still behind me. My heart stops.
Three days. Three days of text messages in which he tells me I am sick. I am so ill with PTSD that I need immediate, inpatient treatment. He did not chase me. He did not mock me. It is my fault because I should not have been listening. Three days. I cannot leave the house. I have nowhere to go. Three days of being punched and pummeled with words. Each message feels like someone is standing on my chest with the weight of the words slowly sucking out my life force. If I do not leave, my soul will continue to drain. I have to get out of here. I am going to leave this time. For good. The thought fills me with terror. My mind races with questions. Where will I go? Who will help me? I have no one to turn to because fifteen years of ill health has burned all social bridges. How will I escape when he is here? My mind slows. Find a piece of paper, Brenda, and write a list of the things you need. The thought allows my chest to expand. I scan the room and see a red spiral notebook next to Mr.’s computer. I flip to the back so I can rip out a blank piece of paper. Oh, what do I see here? A budget? I get excited. It has been 24 years and I finally was able to get him to talk about a budget two years ago after several intense years of prodding, a visit to a financial counselor by myself, and joint counseling sessions. Oh! I am so proud of him! I wonder what great ideas he has in mind! He is so good with numbers, I think to myself. I knew I should not leave! The world stops turning. My breath catches in my chest and I feel my stomach roll. A loan? Three credit cards? Thousands and thousands of dollars? Oh. My. God. I stop to berate myself. Brenda, you separated the accounts 10 years ago because he gambled away the money we needed for a lawyer to file bankruptcy and deal with foreclosure. You were trying to protect the kids so the money for food was not spent foolishly. Brenda, how could you be so naive? Or am I? Mr. loves me. He would never lie. I pull out my phone and tap the button just in case.
I walk into the bedroom casually. “So, when did you stop paying on your school loans?” I ask cautiously. I never was a good actress. “I just stopped paying them. The government made me,” he responds. Something is not right. I see the whites of his eyes and his mouth pauses open. “We just evened up for the month and you did not tell me that. What about this loan and these credit cards?” I inquire as I hold up the red notebook. I hold my breath. It all hinges on this. I am sure I am wrong. He would not lie to me. Mr. loves me. He does everything for my health he always says. “Oh, this is a budget from when we lived on Montrose Terrace” Mr. states, as he references a home from a decade in the past. And there it is. I feel the air hitch in my chest. He lied to my face without a flinch. Oh. My. God. He did it so easily. Stay calm. My mind is like a racehorse. The blood is rushing to my head so fast I feel light headed. The budget was not from 10 years ago as he had agreed to give me money for my $1500 a month health bill in the last two years since we were in counseling. The payment was on the form. Realization lands on me with a punch. I have to start packing and hide it. I need to plan an escape.
Several days of “cleaning” and Mr. has to take his mom to the doctor. Quick, pack the van, I think. My chest becomes tight as my blood pressure rises. The fear. I know the fear so well. It slides up my body, settles in my thighs, and makes my legs weak. What if he comes back too soon? What if he catches me putting things into the van? What will he do this time? My hands shake as I lift my bags and throw them into the van. “Check the list. Check the list!” I scream in my mind. Or did I scream it out loud? I keep peering out the front door. Hurry. I feel myself panting. I am out of my mind.
I drive to a parking lot away from the house and look up the address on my phone. I am so dizzy I should not be driving. Can I make it there? It is so close. Brenda, put the van in drive, follow the woman’s voice on your phone. Did I just check for cars in that direction? I do not know. I look again and again before I pull the van out of the lot. Listen to the woman’s voice, I think to myself.
I park in front of and notice there are men outside talking on the porch of the house across the street. I am so afraid of them. Why am I so afraid of men I wonder as the thought flutters across my mind. I get out of my van and walk quickly to the door. I decide it is not safe to carry my things in. Another fleeting thought, why do I feel it is not safe during the middle of the day? I walk up 2 more flights of stairs, go to the bedroom, close the door and lock it. No one knows where I am. The fear consumes me. What will he do? What will he do? What will he do? A broken thought process. A broken me.
Darkness falls across my window. I have to go back. I love him. He loves me. I have to go back now. I love him. He loves me. K., from the non-profit, speaks to me on the phone. “Stay the night” she says. I cannot live without him. I love him. He loves me. Again. Again. Over. and Over. I cannot breath. Help me. I cannot breath. How long have I gone without being able to breathe? I see the green light from the clock. Each hour is met with panic. I need to get up right now and go back. If I go back, I will be able to breath. I love him. He loves me.
The light filters through the thin, gray curtains. How is that possible? Have I slept? I lift me head to read the green numbers that say 5 am. I have not slept. I do an inventory of my body. Each muscle group groans in protest. I try to stand and walk to the bathroom while my stomach growls in protest. It is only a few feet. I grab the wall and then the door handle. I inch myself little by little to the bathroom and then settle on the toilet. As I sit, my body tenses in terror. I get lost in my mind until my legs start to tingle.
I start to shiver. Why am I shivering? I am in bed, under the covers with several pieces of clothes on. Why am I shivering? How do I get it to stop? Why are the shivers so short and tight? How can I be cold? It is April and I have layers of clothes on. These shivers feel different. I try to think warm thoughts and add more layers of clothes. The shivers do not cease because these shivers are not from the cold.
The trips to the bathroom become frequent. Back and forth between the bed and the toilet. I see the brown hardwood floor and the patterns in the wood as I trudge between each room. I hear the familiar creek of the bed and latch of the door. It is so still. So quiet. I am alone in this apartment. My consciousness feels like it is drowning. Up for air, the shivers and trips to the bathroom. The piles of hair falling off of me onto the floor. I cannot pick them up because I am too weak. Is the pile getting bigger? Under the water. The panic. I cannot breath. I see his face pop up on my phone. The flashbacks. I go down deeper.
Another day and I look up and see the counter in the kitchen. It looks different from this angel. I cannot breathe. I need to dial for help. Where is my phone? I have to go back. I know if I do not go back I will die. I look to the left and see the curtains. I feel myself being pulled into a fantasy. If I throw myself off the deck, this will end. I love him. I want to go back. I am going to die if I do not go back. I am going back right now, I think. But, I cannot get up. Help. Me.
K., from the non-profit, tells me to research verbal abuse, trauma bonds, and narcissism. Why would I want to do that? How is that connected to me? I think I would know if these concepts apply to me. What’s a trauma bond? “Just watch this short video” she pleads. I agree. I am consumed by physical pain. I am overtaken with emotional pain. I wonder if this video will make it stop. But, my heart stops instead. The words on the screen are connected to me.
Days pass. Weeks go by. I am alone in this apartment. A single. I stay close to the bathroom. I fill my days with frantic research, endless trips to the toilet, breathing and releasing to keep the panic attacks and flashbacks at bay. The research explains gas lighting, reverse victimization, crazy making, and love bombing. I could use several highlighters and color each line in the text messages and emails with a different color. I am not well enough to leave, even if I could. The days continue. Triggers. The pull. His voice. His face. I cannot watch TV. I cannot listen to music. I cannot look at social media. Triggers. The pull. I want to go back. Every minute. Of every day. Another panic attack. I cannot breath. The deck still calls to me.
The Discovery. Thousands have been stolen and tens of thousands have been gambled in secret. I feel the memory of a time period when Mr. threatened to withhold money because I needed it to pay for my groceries. I can remember his refusal to give me a dollar for my large health bills 8 of the last 10 years. While he lied. And stole. And gambled. Yet, the pull is still there.
My body finally stopped trembling. I can think more clearly now. The lies. I see the lies. I zoom out my lens and see the pattern of drugs that were explained away. Mr. told me the cocaine I found in his car belonged to a friend. I was in the car with the drugs and did not know it. He promised not to see the friend any more. I thought Mr. always keeps his promises.
The trips to the bathroom have become less and less. The pull, though, I still feel the pull. How could I still feel the need to go back? A trauma bond it says. I read that to break the bond is like a heroin addict breaking their addiction. Mr. was my heroin. And I did not even know it.
The counseling sessions continue and an old topic came back to the surface. There was sexual abuse in the marriage that was discussed when we were both present. I had forgotten. There are so many things. I never wanted to cut his hair naked and the right to say no without consequences. Manipulation. Coercion.
Ownership. Today, I am not thinking about Mr. I take responsibility for codependency, powerlessness, and the lack of boundaries. Today I have made a decision. I will no longer give up my energy to the past but forth effort to build a future. There is no longer a plural. There is only a singular. Cut. The. Cord.
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