Month: March 2017

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.