THE DECISION
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On October 5th of 2011 I arrived at the shelter. It was shortly after 5 am, or as near to 5 am, I truly can't recall the exact time. Funny, I can tell you the exact time I called 911 (3:27am) and the exact time the SAPD pulled up in front of my home (3:44am), but after that all at passed by as a fuzzy electric blur.
I remember making the decision not to hit him back. I remember my first born son standing in the doorway of the bedroom telling us to keep it down or we'd wake the girls. No 'Hey Dad, why do you have a handful of Mom's hair?' or 'What's up with the punches to the head and face Dad?'
What I did hear was "She's the one who started it", in that drunken little slur I've heard for 27 years and the "I know" that followed. I remember saying "While you're standing there could you help me get his hands out of my hair?" Then my son stating "Dad, let go of her already" and then it stopped. My son had pushed his dad to the floor at the foot of the bed that only moments ago had been my place of slumber.
So exhausting really, when you live with a drunk. A drunk who is insecure and lacks self confidence takes a lot of work you know. Be appalled!! I can hear all the seepage of your disgust, but I don't care what you think or say, I really don't. This is my intimate, personal hellish life, mine!! I own it. It's probably one of the only things in my life that is truly mine alone to dwell on, to despise, to study and abhor.
What the hell is wrong with me that I would tolerate such a load of despair with this clearly dysfunctional person? Am I that arrogant as to believe that I could still stay by this man until death us do part? Would a broken vow to God really be that bad? All those accusations over and over: who are you seeing? where have you been? why were you late? As often as it was asked it was also already answered.
I told him I would make him pay and then stupidly started an affair with a married man that lasted six years, one year for each year of hell i'd been through. WHAT AN IDIOT I WAS!!! Talk about taking the path to hell. But I digress. Let's get back to the day I started with, the beginning of my life.
After Officer Tyler took my statement, after Officer Perez took my pictures, after EMS assessed the damage to my face and neck, I was given the option to stay or go. I WENT!!
So, here we are, at the shelter and the start of my new life. Something inside of me said "Yes, you can do this, you can be done with it." And then the guilt sets in. What about my girl, my first grand? What's she going to feel like when I don't come back? Guilt, remorse, elation, relief....it's an overwhelming emotional roller coaster ride.
I could feel the tears rolling down my face but I didn't feel anything but empty, hollow,numb. I didn't know I was shaking. I hadn't looked in the mirror so I didn't see the swelling or the missing clumps of hair. it would be days later before I noticed the bruises and the scratches. i just kept thinking that I wasn't supposed to be here, that there were others out there who needed to be here and I had taken that chance to escape away from them. I still feel that way most of the time. So silly, silly silly me.
I arrived in my ratty pjs, carrying a shopping bag crammed with the clothes I had fallen asleep folding. I recalled telling my son that I was fulfilling all of their wishes and leaving my home, I was walking out that door with all my bitching about having to clean up after a bunch of extra brats and filthy one's at that. i was taking my overworked and under appreciated butt the hell on and the hell with all this crap. I'm coming back for my few inherited things and my girl and to hell with ya'.
That same day I let number 2 son know where I am via text. And I let the mother of my most precious girl know I had left. Both were very glad and sad. I've left before. I took both my sons and came home to where I grew up from the age of ten. Then, after three months of freedom, my father, also a batterer, let's this cretin back into my life and home. Ruined, darn you Dad.
This guilt of leaving her behind, even though I'm only the grandmother doesn't make this any easier. My heart's broken. There's a new gash everyday, hour, minute, second. The ripping of that organ at the center of my chest that I cannot tolerate. Even now, it bursts and the tears flow.
I need to let it go. I need to release on and in so many different levels. Breathe in, breathe out. In. Out. In. Out. To the outside world these are just random scattered thoughts turned into words on a few sheets of paper. To me this is the loop in a film made of my life. Forward, reverse, pause, play. Frame after frame falling on the floor in a room inside my head labeled EDIT. Will I ever put together the perfect film, the masterpiece, the classic? I'll let you know when I'm done.
What I did hear was "She's the one who started it", in that drunken little slur I've heard for 27 years and the "I know" that followed. I remember saying "While you're standing there could you help me get his hands out of my hair?" Then my son stating "Dad, let go of her already" and then it stopped. My son had pushed his dad to the floor at the foot of the bed that only moments ago had been my place of slumber.
So exhausting really, when you live with a drunk. A drunk who is insecure and lacks self confidence takes a lot of work you know. Be appalled!! I can hear all the seepage of your disgust, but I don't care what you think or say, I really don't. This is my intimate, personal hellish life, mine!! I own it. It's probably one of the only things in my life that is truly mine alone to dwell on, to despise, to study and abhor.
What the hell is wrong with me that I would tolerate such a load of despair with this clearly dysfunctional person? Am I that arrogant as to believe that I could still stay by this man until death us do part? Would a broken vow to God really be that bad? All those accusations over and over: who are you seeing? where have you been? why were you late? As often as it was asked it was also already answered.
I told him I would make him pay and then stupidly started an affair with a married man that lasted six years, one year for each year of hell i'd been through. WHAT AN IDIOT I WAS!!! Talk about taking the path to hell. But I digress. Let's get back to the day I started with, the beginning of my life.
After Officer Tyler took my statement, after Officer Perez took my pictures, after EMS assessed the damage to my face and neck, I was given the option to stay or go. I WENT!!
So, here we are, at the shelter and the start of my new life. Something inside of me said "Yes, you can do this, you can be done with it." And then the guilt sets in. What about my girl, my first grand? What's she going to feel like when I don't come back? Guilt, remorse, elation, relief....it's an overwhelming emotional roller coaster ride.
I could feel the tears rolling down my face but I didn't feel anything but empty, hollow,numb. I didn't know I was shaking. I hadn't looked in the mirror so I didn't see the swelling or the missing clumps of hair. it would be days later before I noticed the bruises and the scratches. i just kept thinking that I wasn't supposed to be here, that there were others out there who needed to be here and I had taken that chance to escape away from them. I still feel that way most of the time. So silly, silly silly me.
I arrived in my ratty pjs, carrying a shopping bag crammed with the clothes I had fallen asleep folding. I recalled telling my son that I was fulfilling all of their wishes and leaving my home, I was walking out that door with all my bitching about having to clean up after a bunch of extra brats and filthy one's at that. i was taking my overworked and under appreciated butt the hell on and the hell with all this crap. I'm coming back for my few inherited things and my girl and to hell with ya'.
That same day I let number 2 son know where I am via text. And I let the mother of my most precious girl know I had left. Both were very glad and sad. I've left before. I took both my sons and came home to where I grew up from the age of ten. Then, after three months of freedom, my father, also a batterer, let's this cretin back into my life and home. Ruined, darn you Dad.
This guilt of leaving her behind, even though I'm only the grandmother doesn't make this any easier. My heart's broken. There's a new gash everyday, hour, minute, second. The ripping of that organ at the center of my chest that I cannot tolerate. Even now, it bursts and the tears flow.
I need to let it go. I need to release on and in so many different levels. Breathe in, breathe out. In. Out. In. Out. To the outside world these are just random scattered thoughts turned into words on a few sheets of paper. To me this is the loop in a film made of my life. Forward, reverse, pause, play. Frame after frame falling on the floor in a room inside my head labeled EDIT. Will I ever put together the perfect film, the masterpiece, the classic? I'll let you know when I'm done.
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