Nighty night Bluebird

When I saw you coming across the parking lot at the airport in Sacramento, you were beautiful. Your hair was long and messy. You were walking in that way that you do, all casual and confident, but with a slight twitch in your knee just in case it wasn’t already obvious that you are a damaged and tortured creature. Your jeans hung loosely off your hips and the wind pressed your T-shirt against your chest. You were perfect. You brought your hand to your mouth when you saw me, and your face flushed with colour. You broke a quick smile. I started toward you, my chest heaving, and I threw my body against yours. You picked me up and held me to you. You felt wonderful and strange to me. Your shoulders were thick where I rested my arms and I dug my fingers into the back of your neck. I put my lips on you, but your kisses were short. You threw my suitcase onto your back and walked ahead of me. I wanted you to stand and look at me for a moment, but you turned away. I needed you to tell me something sweet, but you didn’t say anything.

You pulled a CD case out of the glove box and brushed the dust off it with your sleeve. We did a line in the truck and then we checked into the Holiday Inn. You fucked me on the bed and on the bathroom counter. The heel of my shoe scraped the tile on the wall. We sat in the bath facing each other. You said I was too skinny. You said you liked the colour of my hair. You said you wouldn’t cheat on me anymore. That was a lie. We drank vodka and we stayed awake all night. I sat on the bed with my legs crossed and you stared at the TV. I begged you to talk to me so you bragged about the women you had while I was gone. You spoke violently. Your tongue blazed with the words. You wanted me to know the pain that I had caused you. You believed that the guilt and anger you felt was all my fault. You hated me for leaving you, and I think you also hated me for coming back.

But we had a second chance. We moved the camper trailer to the lake. Sometimes you made tacos. You stood over the stove and fried tortillas in the pan. I wrote stories at the kitchen table and we listened to the radio and we drank beer. You worked but it wasn’t steady. We never had any money, and that would have been okay if I knew you were trying. But you didn’t try. You drank with the neighbors all day. I depended on you. I thought things would change. I thought we had a future. I loved you tremendously, but it wasn’t enough. I kept the raw and lovely times too close. I closed my eyes to the shadows.

We got high and went to the laundromat on Sundays. You fixed the truck while I stood by and handed you your tools. We sat by the fire in the evenings. We showered together in the mornings. We drove to Chico and visited with your dad. We were together. We were a family. And then we made a baby, but we didn’t deserve a baby. We were wrecking each other. You were insulting and intangible. I was disrespectful and disappointed. It was all wrong.

I wanted to stop. Nothing was pure. Nothing was balanced. I never had enough of you. I always had too much of you. Sometimes you hurt me and I cried. I was afraid of you and I packed my clothes, but I didn’t leave. I let you unravel my scarf and take off my coat, and I let you pull me gently onto your lap. I said I would stay. I got in our bed. You went out. When you came back you curled your body around mine. You told me that you liked waking up with my hair in your face. You said that when I was away you found a strand of my hair woven in the blankets and you put it up on the table and wrote me a letter. I didn’t tell anyone you hurt me because I didn’t want to be judged and I wasn’t sure why you even did that. It was easy enough for me to see my way through it. I learned to put aside what you did to me. I told myself it wasn’t you. It was drugs. It was whiskey. But you are drugs. You are whiskey. That is all you are.

The next time I left you it two days after my 30th birthday. You sat on the floor and rocked yourself back and forth. You got on your knees and you kissed my stomach with the baby inside. You were drunk and sloppy. Your breath tasted like onion. You said you would change. You said I didn’t have to leave and you asked for another chance, but you let me go. I went home to Canada and I terminated the pregnancy. You waited two weeks before you asked me if I was okay.

Fuck you for that.

I’m not totally okay.  It’s difficult to understand or explain. My behaviour probably seems frivolous, as if it’s no big deal that I’m a hot mess, and that I’m still hosting such an unsavory patron in my hot messy life. Well it is… and yet I am. It’s one fascinatingly flawed day at a time. I guess that’s okay.

I met Biff at Burning Man in the summer of 2003. Two weeks after returning home to Toronto from that vacation I flew back to Reno to spend the weekend with him, and within a month of meeting him he was living with me in Canada. My family did not take kindly to him and that was hard, understandable but hard. I kinda didn’t care about that. I latched on and less than a year later we left for California. I have rarely looked back.

He was so different from anything I had experienced and it felt like freedom. He said and did whatever he felt like. He kinda didn’t care about anything. He had fun, he grabbed adventure by the balls, he truly lived in the moment. He seemed real. He literally had nothing to lose and strangely that was highly appealing to me. It makes me laugh today, and cringe a little, that somehow this was an attractive and pleasing conquest. It’s a sharp deep inhale now, but it was a breath of fresh air then. He could see me and he was going to get me the fuck out of there and take me to a place where other people could see me too.

He had me on a pedestal and I liked it. I have always hated any attention on me but when it came from him in the beginning, well, it stirred things in me. The possibilities were intoxicating. I thought I was in control, which of course is hysterical, but back then he listened when I spoke and it brought out a lion in me. When he did something that I didn’t like I told him straight up. I got a lot of practice doing that. All of my anger finally had a place to land, and eventually when he felt he had become embedded, so did his. I knew that was fucked up but I was addicted. He stopped hearing me. We wrestled back and forth, quite literally.  I saw that the road ahead was riddled with trash, but the destination was a clear picture in my mind, and I was willing to suffer the potholes for the palm trees. I had no idea how many times I’d be sideswiped on the journey and I resolved not to count or care. It was blind faith that kept me there.

He hurt me, we know this by now. He cheated from the beginning, usually attempting to hide it but not always. There were harsh words, physical altercations, side of the road abandonments. An umbrella of disappointment. I hurt him too. Sometimes it was reactionary, sometimes out of fear, and sometimes it was for the same reasons that he hurt me. Just because I could. We married after 5 years of hurting each other. I freaked out in the lobby of the hotel on the night before our wedding. I cried, I screamed, I paced, I freaking lost it. My mum sat calmly in a chair and watched me. She said I didn’t have to go through with it. She had no idea about any of it.

Our marriage has obviously elevated each of our train wrecks to jetliner crash status. I, myself, am wondering why we are still in it. Yesterday I stood in the window and I asked for God’s help. I know why I got in it. I don’t know why I haven’t been able to truly stop though. No one here saw me like I had hoped they would. He stopped seeing me too. I was the trout, he was the fishing bob. That’s pretty much our story. The hook and the line just keep yanking us both back and forth, and I’m kinda okay with that for now. We’re like a paint by numbers, poring over the kitchen table with childlike anticipation of the final masterpiece. I’m starting to see that take shape. This morning the pain was dreadful. This evening the pain is exquisite. The only things that have changed from day to night is that I went to a meeting and listened to other people talk about their pain today, and I started writing it down.

A few days ago it was the Fourth of July. This is a small, quaint town with a parade that goes down Main Street. I watched the parade and drank glasses of beer with my bestie. When I left one bar to move to another I knew that I would probably run into Biff there. When I pushed open the door I saw him at the pool table with the girl from the Sammy Hagar concert. I hugged and kissed hello with friends that I haven’t seen in forever, since I’ve been avoiding him. Biff had a sheepish way about him when he saw me and spoke quietly to the girl. I walked past them towards the ladies room and realized that it did not bother me. I wasn’t bugged at all about seeing them there together. That’s new. On my way back from the restroom Biff threw his hands up in mock surprise and made a motion for me to go over and say hi. So I did. And I hugged him and it was easy. I offered the girl my hand to shake and Biff introduced her. I introduced myself. As Corrie. That’s all. Not Biff’s wife. Just Corrie.

I said that I’d like to buy them both a cocktail. They looked hesitantly at each other but nodded in agreement. I stood at the bar to order the drinks and my friend whispered for me to stop being so nice to the girl. The bartender shook her head and told me that she doesn’t know how I deal with his shit as she refilled their glasses and gave them back to me. I just shrugged. I’m a badass babe. Once I handed the drinks off I relaxed into conversation and genuinely felt happy, and then they soon left and it was over. I’m familiar with Biff’s artillery, so I’ll graciously accept betrayal and retreat over assault and conquer. After they leave I allow myself a deep breath and let my guard down a little more. I admit to myself that it wasn’t as easy as I made it look but this is moving on gracefully, with respect and dignity. This is who I really am. And this is the way that I would prefer to do it, sharing the space like a formidable lioness. I know that this girl is doing me a solid. I know that because she comes from a long line of girls who were trying to do me a favor. I sent them all packing, even after I swore that I had learned my lesson. Even after I promised myself and God that I would not do it again if another girl came along with an opportunity to save me, I still did it again anyway. And I got what I deserved, I got all of my husband’s attention. This time I know that I am still in danger of making a prideful mistake. So I give this girl a wide berth. I give myself a way out.

It doesn’t matter what lies he tells her about me, or about himself. It doesn’t matter what anyone thinks of either of us. It doesn’t matter if I still love him, or if it’s hard to let go. It just doesn’t matter, and that is how I deal with the shit. The bartender has seen Biff there with many different girls and doesn’t appreciate his douche-y-ness. My friend always has my back and doesn’t want me to get hurt again. But I know the whole story.  The pain of it is masterful and exquisite. Biff and I are merely brushstrokes on the canvas. It’s been a long creative process and the piece just isn’t finished yet. It’s daunting, but there’s courage, and that is okay.

Get this. I got a text message from Biff. It’s a video from last night at the Sammy Hagar concert. It’s 7 mins and 33 seconds long and I’ve watched every second of it. Twice. He told me yesterday that he was going to the concert but since we are not in a “relationship” anymore, of course I realized it was none of my business. I replied that I was glad he was doing something awesome that he would enjoy, and then I ended the text like the kick-ass adult that I am by telling him to have a good time and to be smart. I knew that he wouldn’t be going without a female companion but we didn’t make mention of that. Now, if I’m being honest, the idea of it was hard. But I quickly took inventory and reassured myself that it was none of my business and Biff trying to make it so was just plain foolishness. Off we went.

The video arrives. It’s Sammy Hagar playing When the Levee Breaks by Led Zepplin. It’s cool, it rocks, it’s Biff’s favourite song of all time. It’s an outdoor venue, its dark, it’s loud, it’s Tahoe, it’s clearly a lot of fun. It’s Biff’s voice singing along, thick, gritty, guttural, and drunk. Then he starts scanning the crowd with his phone, capturing it all on picture. As he moves to his left, there she is, his companion. For two seconds, there she is. She has dark hair slicked back off her forehead and pulled into a tight bun. It’s obvious that she is awkward and nervous, like a first date or a swim in a shark tank, and she looks straight ahead. She’s not moving, she’s not singing, but she darts her eyes to the side and when she realizes he’s looking at her she stays staring straight ahead but gives a meek smile; spiritless, tame. I think that she might be made for this. He continues to scan the crowd and lingers a while on some folks dancing behind him.

I’ve watched it twice now, like I said.  Who the fuck does this? Who sends this video just to rub salt in a wound? I know who. I send a text back. I say, “Cool. Thanks.”

It’s Biff Peter Richards. Dick. Dick. Dick. That’s who. And I am praying for that bitch standing on the left. I want to tell her not to be shy. I want to scream that she has all the power now and she doesn’t even know it. I’m sure she’s thinking that he’s so handsome, and OMG he picked her to ride on the back of his Harley today! He’s probably paying for all the drinks, and she must be so pleased to be there, so grateful that his auto flash landed on her for a spell. I want to tell her, girl, YOU are the reason that HE is there. You are the million dollar briefcase, and if you play it right, and stay silent and cordial, you’ll actually win yourself the spotlight. The deal, the fame, the heat. The taxes.

Don’t say anything. Don’t be anything. And you can keep him.

I wish I could swoop her up. I wish I could save her. But she is saving me tonight instead. I wish I could’ve enjoyed these events with him, in my own skin, and in my own light, but there simply wasn’t any room for me in his cage. It’s a backwards kind of debt, but I feel like I owe this random girl for unlatching the gate, and I will have to pay it forward.

His mean old laser is focused on you right now, hon, and you’re frozen in that beam. Bask in it because it does feel good, but then bend the bars and run for your life. The levee’s gonna break.

 

 

 

 

My estranged husband has been at the bar on the corner for a couple of hours. This is the 28th time I’ve casually passed by my bedroom window for a glimpse at the smoking area out back. The tree in front of my apartment building is partly blocking the view but I can still see his bike parked there and every once in a while I can see him standing there too, fiendishly carrying a cigarette from his hip to his lips. As I’m watching him I see one of the others pulling up alongside and emerging from her vehicle in a tight, short, trashy blue dress. This is why I pace the window. This is what I have been waiting for. This one is familiar as she teeters over to him on high heels and topples into his outstretched arms. I know her. Everyone knows her. She’s been on the outskirts of our marriage for the last 3 years. They used to have sex but now they’re “just friends.” I suspect, based on recent surveillance, that this might be the truth but there’s no way of actually knowing. Neither one of them can be trusted, her with her short spiked platinum blond hair, huge fake tits, dark fake tan, and shockingly long and tacky fake nails, and he of course with his lungs that still fill with air. I reckon that the only time he’ll really have nothing to hide is when he descends upon the grave. They greet each other and disappear inside the bar. I haven’t seen her for a while. He’s been showing up mostly alone ever since the restraining order, then a few times with a plain-looking biker bitch, and yesterday with a naive looking tomboyish type. But here this one is again and it’s oddly comforting for me. No logical threat from any of these women, but usual is better and I’m glad she’s back.

I’ve been praying for someone to replace me. So he can fill his days with absurdity and unearned confidence. So he will self-indulge and leave me alone. So I can be less obligated, and maybe so I will feel a little gut-wrenching, knife-twisting agony. I simply adore justifying and then rushing toward my pain. There is something so lovely and inviting about an ignitable fear which sits in your bones and could travel at any moment to your flesh in a fiery sprint. But I have always allowed my white hot suffering to melt me before I could create anything meaningful from it and so it has been habitually wasted until now. I am a body of wounds, sullen and stubborn, not yet sensible enough for scars. Kinda devastating. Until now. I surrender.

I want to dislike her, blame her, be mad at her, judge her, slap some sense into her. I’ve struggled to understand why she experiences him so differently than I have. I don’t know if she has set her standards impossibly low so that she can accept his savage behavior, or appropriately high so that he will abide by her intolerance of it.  I don’t know, and it’s maddening. I imagine that she is witness to the less intense version of my husband’s viciousness and that she has not ever been his target. What I suppose is that she thinks racist jokes are funny, and that women are meant to be seen looking fake and not heard speaking truths. It doesn’t matter. Standing in this window is saving my soul. It’s not a crutch, it’s a window. To my jail cell. And I’m standing on the other side of it. Free.

I have a disease of perception. I know what’s right and still, I want what’s wrong… until the exact moment when I get the wrong thing and then I desperately want what’s right again. I’m angry at myself for being so human. So hopeful and vulnerable, so blatantly escapist and stunningly stupid, so addicted. Life scares the fuck out of me because it hurts and I can’t control it. But I needed to keep my mouth closed about that and just find something that made it easier to wear my skin. I needed to craft a way to survive.

I started by pleasing everyone. But don’t dare let anyone in. Learn the hard way. Always smile and agree. Spin your wheels proving that you’re good, or right, or alive. Hold your breath. Eat your shit. Drink your poison. Open your body. Fill it with black magic. Plaster the cracks so the light stays hidden in you. It’s your only provision. Evil is a master predator. The beasts are pedaling their wares. Dark spirited days are offering salvation. The mentally obsessed will consume you.

But certainly not me. I win the contest. I’m in my palace on the third floor. I’m watching the moat with hyper-vigilance. I’m not over there tripping into the arms of my husband. I’m not like the others. I mean, okay, he and I go together, ya, but in the way that cigarette butts go in the bottom of beer cans. It’s convenient and cool but dirty and gross and, ultimately, it ends up fucking up someone’s day if they’re not paying attention.

It must have been a glitch in the universe… The planning department made a mistake when they crossed our paths. Our journeys feel so remotely connected, powerful but sizzling, like a sparkler. We’re obviously on the same trail but he is stopping at every creek to smoke weed and fuck a bunch of other hikers and I’m focused on the grand views and getting some ground behind me before the sun sets. And I’m super pissed at him for that, but I’m also easily and happily sidetracked by the weed, and the beers under the stars do bring joy into my life… so I get it. It took a crazy amount of time but I finally understand that we are lost in translation. The navigation which brought us together was extreme and we couldn’t rally. But we weren’t supposed to. Our sparkler fizzled out but I know what this journey was and how radical it is that I got what I needed. I’m grateful that we hiked together for so long. He started all my fires and without those I don’t think I would have had as much warmth or light.

Sometimes those fires burned buildings but sometimes we cherished the soft peaceful glow of candlelight. The grit of his flint rubbed me the wrong way but the soulfulness of his bonfires soothed me. Without him I wouldn’t be who or where I am today. I surrendered and I survived, because of the bad shit and because of the beautiful white light. Because of, and in spite of him, I am an estate that can not be dismantled.

Nobody’s wrong anymore. Everything is for our learning. And I accept that now as the purveyor of this window. I am not like the others but that’s not what gives me victory. The fire in my bones, that is my blessed gift, but the spark that he gave me is the potential for everything else. What I choose to do with it is fare well.

 

I said I wouldn’t but I looked back. I’ve cried wolf and now no one believes me. I don’t know what to do about that, or what to say. I’m listening and nodding and saying “I know” a lot which is not what I feel like doing, so that sucks. But I don’t know how to explain that this is just how I am. I don’t know how to sell it. I’m like a product that no one needs; impractical, costly, and not even sparkly or fun unless it’s been mixed with alcohol. I do shit that I’m not proud of. I house a lot of fear and anxiety, and some regrets. There are things that I have forgiven myself for even though what I’ve done may easily be denominated a deadly sin. It’s not because I’m wicked. It’s not because I’m uncertain. It’s because I’m a foolish, and ingenuous, creature. Because I fancy myself the Steve Jobs of brutally fucked up and addictive behaviors. I think I can revolutionize it if I can just really get to know it, like inside out. I’m the visionary, flying-by-the-seat-of-my-pants, fuck-it, free-spirit, life-is-hard type of chick. I don’t need to be rescued. I have a “Woz”, his name is God, and he’s the backbone, mastermind, keeping-shit-together-and making-magic-happen kind of dude. This is probably what all the fucked up addicts say about themselves. I know.

I understand what I’m supposed to do to make my life better and sometimes I’m actually good at doing it. But this is how I roll. Parts of my life are lived on the edge. Of reality… insanity… flip cup and beer bong alley. I have a soft spot for the person who brutally attacks me. I’m sometimes the sorta crazy chick who gets tangled with the seriously crazy people. It seems like I’m always one step away from pure madness, but I feel so obligated all the fucking time to keep everyone else’s lives looking shiny and seemingly so high and mighty that I just commit to keep going. I get lucky, and I don’t fall apart. I’m not wallowing in my exploits as if I’m a victim. I’m not that. This is an act of self-preservation. It’s so uncomfortable that it’s soothing. And it’s easier. In my experience so far, every time I’ve attempted to defrost from the bitter truth and all of it’s obscurity, a sweltering force sweeps in and burns me alive. It starts as a tingling flame, a lamplight with the tiniest hope of a genie, but soon the oil spills over and it consumes everything. So I start again at the random and the appalling. It’s damp and harsh there but I can assemble that fire from the ashes. I can control the fuck out of that blaze. Ya, I know.

It’s a terrible amount of undoing. I can’t dismantle it in a tidy black and white process. Adios motherfucker! Nope. I’m gonna take a couple of steps backwards and I’m gonna make mistakes. And I don’t expect anyone to understand. I’m experiencing it in my own way, and I truly don’t know what I’m doing. Some days I’m telling myself that I don’t care when I wake up late for work, or I look in the mirror but don’t put any makeup on, or I’ve worn the same pair of jeans every day this week. But I’m waking up, and I’m looking in the mirror, and I’m getting dressed. I have so much faith in me! I’m in a glorious trust fall with Woz and this thing we’re doing together is pretty awesome. He’s teaching me about genius-y stuff… groovy, graceful, embedded, motherboard stuff. Things that are painful but of which I’d never know if I didn’t fall backwards. I get to see many truths from this perspective, secrets that I would have skipped right over if I hadn’t exposed myself to the risk. I’m honoring the dark and ugly places that I’ve been because for me it’s a deeper, more connected, and alluring way of being alive. I’m allowing that space. It’s easy to say no to something that doesn’t exist, and then to carry the pattern forward. There’s no freedom in that. I can’t be in alignment with my own truth if some part of it isn’t brutal. This life has bent us all to our knees, but there are some who don’t surrender. Some who march and don’t retreat, some who assail but never reflect inward. It’s no bother to judge someone for their poor choice when you’re looking at the moat from the castle. But a queen is loyal and generous with the enemy even as she orders the drawbridge closed, simply because she’s the queen. She wields a sword that she plunged first into her own chest. Her assailant never had any true power.

There is an invasion of joy once she realizes this. And she does move forward. And she does reign free.

I feel like an asshole. I’m weak, and I’m scared, and I fucked it up. In the car on the way over I had all the scenarios. I knew what to say and I knew what to expect, but I did it wrong. I got to the end of the hallway and I thought I was just gonna read my book and wait for the doors to open. I thought I might get to the part where we find out who the murderer is. Then I’d go inside and the judge and I would agree to sustain the order. We’d all nod in settlement, and if you were there you’d do or say something horrifying or ridiculous and generally make a fool of yourself. I was prepared because I didn’t expect you. The most unlikely scenario was you sitting there with all your paperwork attached to your clipboard and wearing the stupid fucking bow tie that I bought for you last year. Patting the seat next you, pleading with me, your hands shaking, your heart making all these promises. For a person who doesn’t show up in life, like… ever, you really pull out all the stops for this kind of circus.

I’m ashamed. I’m disappointed. I’m like one of those people that nobody can count on. Ugh. Great. Then I’m calling my sister,  and I’m saying that I caved. And I think part of her was expecting me to bail, but I wanted her to be proud and celebratory and I wanted her to feel relaxed and safe, finally. I wanted to be successful at this.

But, uh oh. And oh well. You know what my sister says to me on that phone call? EVERYTHING. Every kind, smart, funny, non-judgy, amazing thing there is to say. She tells me why I did it and why it’s alright. She makes it okay because I am this way. She says the only people who stick to life’s plan are fucking freaks, pretty much. She builds me up. She knows my heart. She knows I will always cave but that everything will be okay in the end, no matter how many times I’ve fucked up and, for what it’s worth, I think she can rest somewhat easy because of that. I have to do the brave, risky, stupid things, and I hope that I’m sort of her hero because I am courageous and curious and compassionate. Even though she is really my warrior because she is gracious and patient and wonderful.

I dropped the restraining order today. It was not my intention as I methodically made my way down the corridor. I made a quick decision in the chair next to you at the end of the hall. I felt manipulated. I said I didn’t trust you. It’s not normal. But I don’t love you in a regular way. I love you like… kooky and weird. Like in 4th grade instead of chasing the boys and playing hopscotch at recess I hung artwork in the classroom. I love you like a special obligation for being alive. I didn’t like it back then in grade 4 either but I knew I was okay and it was what I should do. And I definitely didn’t care for allegations by my caregivers that it wasn’t okay, and that I should be more like the other kids at recess, especially when it was those very adults who cultivated that feeling of duty and requirement. But now I love that I love you like I know no better. Wayward. It’s just that sometimes you show up like that dude Kid Rock. Wayward and awesome. And it fucks shit up. I think it’s cool to take my shoes off, and sit on the grass, and drink beers, and be free and go for a ride. Because I trust wayward and weird. But, you know, that doesn’t really ever fly with you. Like… ever. You end up stealing my shoes or some stupid shit like that.

I saw that judge judge me today. I felt his wise, kind, and concerned eyes travel over me, and I sensed contempt when he spoke to you. I know he was there to help me and I guess I’m under the impression that I can just overrule him because the holy spirit has my back. I’m winging it, but I dropped that order. I guess what I don’t need is some piece of paper that tells you it’s not okay to hurt me. That’s not where the truth is or where the protection lies. The safe house is always inside of me. My craft is to till the soil, and stack the timber, and mold the beams into place around me until it comes to life. The work is to cherish the dwelling and honour the sacred land upon which it stands, fierce and vulnerable. The truth is in defending it even when I’m alone and even when I’m tired of fighting.

I did not request to continue the protective order but I do not consent to you. I just don’t want these rulers measuring and constricting our beings. That, to me, is prison; to be bound with you inside this gritty, stringent document. I’d rather just be free, and take a chance that we can continue to move apart from each other somewhat gracefully, and responsibly on our own, and with some dignity. And I guess there are people who don’t get that. Some maybe, like my sister said, who can’t admit their own flaws or are terrified because they recognize themselves in me.

That’s okay. I run towards my pain. And I’m doing all of this with broken wings, one solo, hopeful flight at a time. I know the spirit is in the gravel; where we stumble, where we rest, and where we rise.

I don’t know who I am. It’s dark in here. It’s the middle of the night and I am curled up in a ball on the fold out couch. I’m exhausted, but I can’t sleep because I don’t know who I am or what I am doing here. Biff is asleep on the bed. At least the pattern of his breath – a deep and heavy staccato – makes it seem as if he is sleeping, but I can’t assume anything about him. I don’t know who he is anymore either. When we met a year and a half ago, he was strong and tanned and wonderful. I was naive and carefree. We moved in together after only a month of dating. He used to light candles and pour bubbles into the bath water. Now my bottom lip is cracked from the force of his hand. The soft, pink flesh of my lip is torn and swollen, and it stings on the inside like a canker sore. I can feel my pulse throbbing through the cut. I roll over onto my back and stare up at the ceiling.

We were sitting outside, watching the sun set over the lake. It’s February, but the weather in California is mild. Beyond the thick cover of cedar trees I could hear the train moving through the mountains. Earlier in the day Biff had taken his chainsaw into the wooded area behind the house and returned with a load of firewood. He built a fire in the pit and was cooking chicken over the open flame. I sat in the lawn chair and watched him for a while. His body was bent forward over the grill and his hands worked quickly, flipping foil-wrapped potatoes. Each time he flipped, he snapped his hand away and fanned it at his side. That made me smile.

“I’m lucky,” I said. He turned to look at me and his hair fell into his eyes. “What?”

“I said I’m lucky.”

He tossed his head, moving the hair off his face, and he smirked. “Why are you so lucky?”

“Because of you.”

He took a few steps and leaned toward me. He took my face in his hand and traced my lips with his thumb. He kissed me softly and his fingers twisted in my hair. “I’m the lucky one,” he said. I stood and reached for his shoulder to draw him closer to me. He flexed his bicep and we laughed.

We sat outside and ate chicken and cobs of corn with our fingers. I watched the stars coming to light in the sky. The fire burned and crackled between us. After dinner I went inside to clean the dishes. Through the screen door I heard him talking to someone in the yard and then my friend Sabrina knocked and came inside. “Hey,” I said as I set the dishcloth down. “What are you doing here?”

She said that she had a fight with Steve and we sat down at the kitchen table to talk about it. She lit a cigarette and said she wanted a six-pack of Mirror Pond so we went to her car. I told Biff we were going to the store for beer but then on the way into town we changed our minds and decided to stop at the bar instead. Sabrina gave our order and paid with her credit card. We sat on the bar stools and listened to karaoke. The bartender read our tarot cards. We talked. Sabrina said she was tired of fighting all the time. I listened and nodded. Several hours passed. When I got home, it was late. As I made my way up the drive, the door to the house opened and Biff came out. He was naked and holding a nearly empty bottle of whiskey. “Where have you been?” he asked.

He followed me inside and closed the door. Then he pushed me down on the bed. I struggled to sit up but his arm swung forward and he caught my lip with the palm of his hand. The slap stung my face. I fell back on the bed and banged my head on the frame. I started crying. He clenched his teeth. “Don’t cry,” he said.

“But I didn’t do anything wrong.” He grunted and shook his head. “You don’t stay out until two in the morning.” He took the last swig of whiskey from the bottle and lay down beside me. The bed springs creaked while he shifted his body around and I waited for him to get comfortable. When he started snoring, I sat up on the edge of the bed and wiped my nose with my sleeve. Then I moved to the couch.

I’m still staring at the ceiling and the sun is coming up. I am expected at work today but I want to call in sick. I close my eyes and I check in with myself. Am I weak and submissive? Is that who I am? Am I stupid? Am I wrong? What the fuck am I doing here?? This isn’t the first time Biff has acted this way. Sometimes when he drinks, he loses control. Last month he made my nose bleed. We were driving in the car and having an argument. I was mad and yelling. He started to yell also but then he reached across the seat and hit my face hard with the back of his hand. I felt my nose pop, and blood gushed over my chin and onto my jacket.

I shake my head and take a big breath. I have to maintain control. I can’t call in sick. I lay on the couch until the last possible moment. I’ll be late if I don’t get up now so I push myself up on my elbows. I place my feet gently on the linoleum and tiptoe into the bathroom. My face is pale in the mirror. There are large, dark circles under my eyes. I touch my fingers to my mouth. The water runs cold out of the tap and I lean over the sink as I try to clean the dried blood off my lip. It doesn’t come off, not all of it, so I press a pink lipstick gingerly across the wound. I hear Biff stirring in the bed. I wait while he gets dressed. We don’t speak.

He drives me to work in his truck and I stare out the window. I wipe tears away from my eyes with a Kleenex. I fold and unfold the damp tissue in my hands. He parks outside of the building and we turn to face each other. He notices my cut lip and he looks at me with disgust. “Can’t you clean yourself up?” he asks. I gape at him in disbelief. I squeeze my fist tight around the door handle and count to ten in my head. I’m angry and I’m devastated but I don’t want him to lash out again. I sigh and say, “Whatever. It’s fine. If anyone asks, I’ll just pretend that I tripped on my shoelace and fell.” He doesn’t say anything. I wonder if he feels anything.

I say goodbye and close the door. He watches me as I walk across the parking lot. I watch my feet. They are furious, and they are flawless. They are doing their job perfectly. One foot in front of the other, my feet are moving me away from him. And then I make them stop. I always do this. I stop my feet from leaving him, every time they try. He calls my name across the parking lot and I turn around. Our eyes meet and he gives a small, sad smile of resignation. I know he’s sorry.

He turns back to the wheel and I watch him drive away. I know that this time will be just like the others, and that in a few hours I won’t be mad anymore. I know I’ll get in his truck at five o’clock and I’ll ask how his day was. I look down at my feet again and I know who I am. I am a woman who makes excuses for a man. I am a cliche. I am a lost little girl in an abusive relationship with an addict, but I don’t leave because sometimes, around a fire pit, and under a sunset, I feel lucky.

He stands in the elevator with his head tilted to the numbers above the door and I lean back against the wall watching him. We descend the floors in silence. His hands are hidden in the pockets of his jeans and his shoulders are rolled forward. He moves his tongue slowly back and forth between his teeth. He usually does that when he’s nervous or thinking, but also when he’s high. For two days now we’ve both been high, and thinking, and nervous. It’s my birthday and we’re here to celebrate but everything has gone wrong. The gambling, the drugs, Vegas; it’s all horribly wrong. Our money is gone and Biff is angry because this trip was my idea. I’m angry because I don’t think my 30th birthday means anything to him, and I think he is behaving selfishly. I want to tell him to stop. I want him to stop, and to turn around and look at me, but we hit the ground floor and the elevator door opens. The noise of the lobby rushes inside and the space among us is filled with a rumbling of laughter and strange voices. I hear coins jangling endlessly in a slot machine and Biff steps out ahead of me onto the marble. The casino is already crammed at six o’clock on Saturday evening. We push our way through a group of people gathered in front of a makeshift stage as a Reba McIntyre impersonator taps a stiletto boot on the plywood. The speakers have static and her voice is cracked and incoherent. Biff walks quickly past the bar and the black jack tables and I step in behind him as we go through the revolving glass door. Outside of the hotel, he takes long strides over the pavement and I can’t keep up with him. He looks over his shoulder and smirks at me, and then he makes a sharp turn toward the parking lot. I watch him walking away from me, his arms swinging arrogantly at his sides. I’m sure that he wants me to follow him, but I’m not going to follow him. I want to be alone. I need to breathe.

I turn in the opposite direction and go down the long, circular driveway that leads to Las Vegas Blvd. The sidewalk is heaving with people. The desert air is cold and I pull my jean jacket tight around the collar. Music blasts from a patio bar and several people are resting their forearms on the railing and leaning out over the sidewalk. Their faces are so close to mine as I go past. All the girls are wearing mascara and lipstick and low cut tops. I look down at my sneakers and wide leg sweat pants that are dragging under my heels. I put my hand on my stomach. When I look up again I meet eyes with a man who is smoking a cigarette. He smiles at me. I turn away from him but I smile back. He doesn’t know that I am pregnant. I’ve known for a week. Last Saturday I woke up early and used a home pregnancy test. Biff was sure I was carrying our baby and he was excited. I was sick about it and praying for a negative result. I waited in the bathroom until two solid lines appeared on the stick. Positive.

“This one is defective,” I told him. “We’ll have to get another one.” He just smiled and kissed me.

“You’re going to be such a  good mom,” he said to me in the shower. I yanked the curtain back and leaned against the sink, naked and dripping water onto the floor. I focused on my breath. In and out. He went back to sleep for the rest of the afternoon and I sat at the kitchen table and stared out at the rain. I had a craving for Chinese food that night. He drank straight whiskey at the restaurant.

Now I am in Las Vegas and the sun is falling quickly. The street lamps have just come on. I feel nauseated. I find a bench on the sidewalk and sit down. My stomach is churning and I am lightheaded. I wrap my arms around my waist and drop my forehead to my knees. I feel bloated and I burp several times in a row. I press my palms into my eye sockets. I knew this weekend was wrong. I knew the drinking and the drugs would create arguments between us. But I didn’t know that I would be pregnant. And now I am pregnant, but we didn’t stop. We got high this morning. We did lines in the hotel room, and now we hate each other for it. I lift my face and cover my mouth with the back of my hand.

Three days ago we held each other in the dark of our bedroom. “We can’t have a baby,” he said. “I know,” I said. He got up from the bed and walked away. We agreed that I would see the doctor next week about ending the pregnancy, and that everything would continue as planned for my birthday. The drugs wouldn’t matter. The baby isn’t real. The baby is going away anyway. But we were wrong. It matters. And now we’re both angry, and ashamed, and torn apart.

I wipe the tears off my cheeks and continue on the street. I grab some saltines and a bottle of pink lemonade from a gift shop, and I walk for several blocks among the tourists. I wonder about these people as they pass. I’m interested in their lives, and their thoughts, and their addictions. I see a girl about my age coming toward me, and she is alone. I’m alone. I’m curious what she’s doing here. I look through the crowd, and I’m curious what they’re all doing here. I stop walking and I stand on the sidewalk. The people rush past me. They step around me but I stay, standing, watching, wondering, and it hits me. I came here. I got drunk. I gambled. I lost. I was greedy. I was selfish. I was stupid. And now I just want to go home with the things that I brought here with me. I want Biff, holding my hand, telling me we’re gonna be okay. I want to go back and take away the drugs. I want my baby. I clutch at the waistband of my pants. It’s snug around my hips and I dig my nails in as I try to squeeze some flesh there, but my stomach is flat and I have nothing to grasp. A cold sweat breaks at the nape of my neck but my cheeks are flushed with heat. The noise around me fades and the faces blend into one another. Everything is a blur.

Oh God.

A baby.

I’m dizzy.

There is a guardrail on the curb of the road and I lean against it. I stick a straw in the lemonade and sip, and then loosen my jacket. I stare at the laces on my shoes. They are tied in double knots. I sit on the guardrail for a long time. I don’t think anymore. I just take in the lights on the strip. I walk back to the hotel. The elevator button in the lobby turns bright red when I stab it with my finger. A bell chimes above the door and it slides open. I walk down the empty corridor to our room and turn on the lamp beside the bed. I close my eyes and listen to my heart thumping. It echoes across the desert.

It’s the morning after I turned forty-two and I am staring at my face in the bathroom mirror. My eyes are dull and watery, my skin blotchy and red. There’s a rash of broken blood vessels across my forehead, and bruises above my right eye and on the bridge of my nose. I can’t see the bruise behind my ear but it hurts the worst. I’m reminded of just how badly every time I look down at my left hand which I used to cover and protect my ear from the blows he so preciously wrapped in his fist and delivered to me on my birthday. I only have a moment to survey the damage and to lift myself up a bit with a halfhearted breath and a promise not to ever break a promise to myself again.

I am expected back in the bedroom, and I’m already late. If I don’t go back soon, he will be here to fetch me before I can bat my eyelashes. It’s not time now to cry or hold a grudge, not yet. There will be time for me to grieve later but first we dance. We play. Each little game, each little move, splendidly choreographed and agreed upon in advance. It’s my turn and all my knights are well-placed on the board. I recall the playbook as I am met by him in the doorway. He points to the bedroom and follows me back in. I lay down on the bed and wait for him to assume his position, his advantage, the little fix he needs in order to be able to stack any sensibility up against this. He throws his arm across me and squeezes my body close. I force myself to lay there for a spell. Sleep is not possible but rest is necessary.

I’ve done all the right convincing and I am finally permitted to leave the room to make a hot cup of tea, but I am watched closely and it is several more hours before I am left to be alone in the bedroom at last. I turn on the TV but can’t process the affairs which are unfolding on the screen, and I can’t remember the dialogue from one scene to the next. The tea grows cold on the bedside table and he returns a few times throughout the day to warm it for me. He insists that I must eat something and hands me a plate of food which I do eat after a while. I pick up the mug which is steaming from the last round in the microwave and rest it in my lap. My grip on it is rather feeble and I’m not sure if it’s negligent or rebellious. I cry.

I go back to the mirror. It looks the same as it did this morning. It looks the same now, at forty-two, as it did at thirty-two. I struggle to conceive of this. I feel as if I’ve been laying by the side of a car wreck hemorrhaging to death, and slipping in and out of consciousness, for the last ten years. I have no memory of the impact or any idea what it has cost me, and I don’t get why no one has come along to scrape me off the asphalt. I’m expecting rescue breaths and chest compressions but there is no distant call of a siren speeding toward me. I am just a body, my limbs twisted, my blood splattered, gasping for air and praying for my own demise. I’m wasted. I’m a mess. I can’t even.

So I go back to the bedroom and I lay beside him tonight, studying the back of his head, for the last time. I did all the right things today to minimize the injuries sustained from this collision. Tomorrow I will do the next right thing. I will shock my quivering, twitching heart and steady my ravaged breath. I will peel myself off the pavement. I will do the only thing which there is left to do now. I will do what I should have always done. I will burn my white flag. I will keep the enemy at bay.

Tomorrow I will file a protective order with the court. I will raise my red flag. I won’t ever look back. So help me God.

You rang again last night. You always call when you’re drunk; pleading, and it seems impossible for me to turn you away. I don’t even know why it’s so difficult, but when the signal pierces my dark bedroom and rouses me from sleep,  and my heart startles and pounds in my ears, it’s all just so confusing. Your voice is so thick and caramel, and my body is so weak and trembling with the urgency of your summons, that I simply allow myself to believe in you every time.

When we were sixteen, I thought you were going places. I thought that you had the world by the tail and that one day you would be a great man. So I followed you. I watched you break track and field records. I listened as you told funny stories at parties. I shivered when I felt your hands gently stroking me. You made it easy to love you. You kissed me on the school bus in the mornings. You cried in my arms if you felt betrayed. You waved from outside on my first day of work. You had the cutest laugh. You said I was smart and beautiful. You still say that.

Now we are twenty-eight and you have the saddest eyes. You gave up your job that you wanted so much because it wasn’t as sparkly as you had hoped on the inside. You don’t rest your head on anyone’s shoulders now because you cannot tolerate any weakness in your character. You speak fondly about things that command little respect, such as a trip to the emergency room after you lost a bar fight and a drink in the face after you deliberately insulted your date. You rarely smile in my presence anymore. You act serious during our meetings and you are very vague about the contents of your life. You don’t want to share yourself with me like you once did. You want to live in Florida with a Jeep and a rifle, and make an island out of yourself.

So I have come with you to your dead end. And I wait, like a platform, for you to push off from me, to find your way into the world that will separate us, the world that we have been avoiding. I feel sorry that we can’t make our lives fit together in any form. I feel sad that we have grown from happy children into defeated adults. I feel irritated because I just want to be free of you. Sometimes I feel like I’m a drug; a cock-sucking, pussy-wielding drug that makes you feel alive and welcome. Sometimes I feel like I’m a fortress that you just cannot reach and you will keep attacking until you take possession of me. And sometimes I feel like a foolish and frightened teenager who has never said no.

So, I say no. No more phone calls in the middle of the night. No more dull conversations. No more meeting for a drink. No more canceling our plans at the last minute. No more awkward goodbyes. No more drunken nights of secret sex. No more telling me that you still love me. No more keeping my mouth shut.