It's Not Something I Talk About

            It caught me off guard. He knew that I was vulnerable, we had talked about it before. But, when he shoved me to the floor, I still never expected it. We had been drinking Jack Daniels all day and were both pushing one another’s buttons. We were shouting so loud the neighbors were yelling at us to shut the fuck up. And then he pushed me down. I wasn’t hurt, but I was petrified. I ran to the spare room and locked the door. He came and spoke softly to me, apologizing over and over, so I opened it and we passed out for the night.

            I thought that was it. But, it really wasn’t. He didn’t shove me again, but he scared me regularly. He was a big guy, and he would use his size to intimidate me. We would “wrestle” and I would be covered with bruises after, but it was always a “game”. When I would complain that he was hurting me, he would tell me I was a pussy. “We’re just goofing around, I’m not trying to hurt you.”

            Eventually, I believed him. I was an educated woman, from a stable family with a good job. That kind of stuff wouldn’t happen to me.

            I started to get him back. When he would get in the mood to “play”, I would pinch him hard on his inner bicep. I knew that it would hurt and leave a mark. Once he was put on blood thinners, it was easy to bruise him and feel like I had gotten him back. But he was never afraid. I was always scared that when he wrestled, he would go too far and break one of my bones.

            He thought it was funny to try to make me flinch away from him. He didn’t even have to touch me, I would pull away and then get punched in the arm, “two for flinching!” He always made it seem like a joke, it wasn’t until I was far away from the relationship that I realized I was always terrified. The man who was supposed to keep me safe from harm and make me feel secure just kept me on edge.

            For fifteen years, I thought that it was no big deal, he was just a rough person who didn’t understand boundaries, but then he did it again. We had been at a family reunion, our marriage was on the rocks, and we had fought the entire way home. I spent the several hour drive with my body pressed against the passenger side door because he was so incensed I didn’t know what he would do. Once home, while our son was playing in the other room, I went into the bedroom to continue the argument. He was lying on the bed and we started yelling. I don’t remember him moving, but he had me by the hair and all I could see was his eyes. They were black. They were chilling. I tried to pull away, and wrenched my neck, smashing my head into the wall. I heard my son’s little voice, “Mommy?”

            He released me and I grabbed my baby. “If you come anywhere near us, I will call the cops.” I don’t know if I really would have; he got up and left the house without a word, slamming the door behind him and knocking our family portrait off the wall. I put our child to bed and slept on the couch. I didn’t know if I could leave. I knew that I had to, but didn’t know how.

            A few days later, the opportunity presented itself and I took our son and moved to my parents’ house. I didn’t tell anyone what happened. It took a few months before I was able to face it, but I filed for divorce.

            I was with him just shy of fifteen years, and he only hit me twice. For almost fifteen years, I lived under a cloud of foreboding, scared of what he might do to me. If he enjoyed hurting me for fun, what could he do if he wasn’t playing? I’m lucky that I never found out.