My Verbally Abusive Marriage

I visited my attorney for the first time on January 26th – two days before our first court date. On that day, she asked if there was any chance of reconciliation. I told her that he would have to do a lot of things he swore he would NEVER do if we were going to reconcile. I told her that reconciliation was out of the question so far as I could see.

On February 13, I wrote Too Soon. At the end of the post, I said:

“Instead of blogging, I am going to write out what I want. I’m going to give that to my attorney (for record-keeping) and have her send it to Will. Then maybe he’ll tell me what HE WANTS and I can either be pleased, hurt, or angry, but I would be able to move ahead without feeling unheard and rushed.”

I wrote it out, everything I wanted. What it would take to maybe repair our relationship and maybe save our marriage. I never sent it to my attorney, but last weekend, I gave a copy to Will.

I told him that I was holding it back because I didn’t think he’d agree to it. I didn’t tell him that if he didn’t agree to it that I would be hurt because I’ll know that he didn’t think “I” was worth the effort. If he doesn’t agree to the terms, then it means we’re finished. Completely.

But I want to know. I want to move forward in this life knowing I did absolutely everything I could to prevent our divorce. To prevent my children’s hearts from ripping in two. To prevent my heart from ripping the rest of the way. To prevent destruction. To give him a chance to face his demons as I face mine, individually, but together.

In the document I gave him, I tell him the what I want. I tell him he can add to it, but not take away from it; if I cannot agree to his additions, then we divorce.

I wanted to lie to you for a while longer, waiting to see if he would agree or not. If he did agree, then I would tell you all about it.

But if he never agreed, then I would keep the shameful secret to myself.

I do feel ashamed. Once I left, I knew I’d done something that my family and some of you had prayed I would do. I feel ashamed because by giving him this chance, by giving us this chance, you may see me as a loser. You may see me as someone who retreats instead of someone who fights. You may see me as a true abuse victim, willing to subjugate my wishes to his. You may lose confidence in me, you may think I am a fraud.

I feel ashamed because I thought once I left, I would be gone for good, and here I am giving him another chance to break my heart. Even if he agrees to the terms, there is no guarantee he will honor them later. He has a tendency to forget things that are important to me.

But I do not promise that if he agrees to the terms that all will be immediately well. I want this year apart. At the end of this year, even if we’ve both done everything I’ve asked, I may not want to stay married. He may not want to stay married. Maybe we’ll go ahead with the divorce. Maybe I’ll think we’re reconciling but he hits me with divorce papers.

I know I’m leaving myself wide open. That’s what I do – expose my soul.

Maybe it is better if you read the agreement. The only difference between what I gave to him and what I’m providing to you is his name. I changed his real name to “Will” as I do on this blog.

What I Want

This morning, I sat down with my hot sweet coffee and my daily planner. I’ve got a lot going on. Fortunately, the time demanded of me by others is (finally) organized. I’ve got therapy sessions, domestic violence group meetings, a meeting with Mrs. Earl to hear the results from the military investigation, a court date on Monday concerning custody, a class from 9-1 next week called “Career Makeover” in which I hope to practice and relearn some networking skills, and of course, taking Marc to that stupid school that runs from mid-afternoon until way past dinner. Of course, that isn’t all there is to do…it’s just a sample of what’s happening next week.

This separation is overwhelming. There are so many things that must be done NOW, and that leaves little time to do what is also important and must be in place before the end of this year. Namely, I’ve got to financially support myself and my boys DESPITE the demands on my time requiring otherwise.

So, anyway, I was sitting there with my sweet coffee and daily planner, and decided to write in my journal pretty much what I just wrote. You know, “get it out” so I could move on to what I must do today. Taking one day at a time and all that happy horse shit.

But when I start to write, all that comes out is:

LIAR!
You damn liar. You promised that you would love me, take care of me, for the rest of my life. You said that if I agreed to stay at home and raise our children so you could go out into the world and provide for us, then you would provide for me always. You told me that if I waited to make a career for myself that you would support my dreams as soon as you retired – we were down to 5 short years! You said to wait, to trust you, to be a good wife and my turn was coming. Liar.

You said that you knew we had problems and you were willing to work on them. You said that when you got home things would be different. You said that it would be hard, but you were willing to put in the work. You said you loved me and keeping our family together was what you wanted too. When I told you back in July of ’09 that I had decided to stay, to trust that what you said was true, you had relief in your voice. You said you were so glad to hear those words, that you were happy for the first time in months. Liar.

You said that you wouldn’t be where you are in the military today without me, and now you’re doing your best to get rid of me, one rank from the top. You fucking suck, you abusive, sneaky, foul-mouthed, manipulative, lousy husband. You fucking lied to me about all of it. Liar.

And then you have the nerve to call me a traitor. Liar.

I am angry from my bowels up. I don’t know how long this will last. I don’t know how long until I am a “good enough” person to let it go. I don’t know when I will be free of you, of thoughts of you, of love for you. Back in July I decided to keep loving you. You had given me every reason not to love you, some reasons you gave more than once. I was willing to look past it, to look deeper into you for the guy I married.

I was willing to live with rough around the edges – you’re a self-proclaimed asshole and chauvinist, you stereotype people, you drink, you party, you work before you love me, … all of it. I was willing to look beyond who you are, who you are proud to be, in hope that ONE DAY you would treat me well, love me like you promised. Liar.

I only wanted you to be nice to me. Treat me and our children with respect and civility. You can be who you are and still learn to be nice. You could have even looked at it as if you were playing a game with me, fooling me, manipulating me to believe good things about you – that may have been fun for you. But you wouldn’t try. You wouldn’t listen. You wouldn’t tell the truth.
LIAR!

On January 22, I wrote My Heart is Failing. I’d been sitting here at my desk, writing in fear, for awhile at that point. But something about that post helped me to remember: It is NOT okay or reasonable for me to stay in a place in which I am afraid only because the one who I am afraid of once promised to love, honor and cherish me. He promised that he would, once, almost 18 years ago; the time between then in now is full of proof that he didn’t mean it.

Later that night in a voicemail, he called me a traitor and told me to never come back. And I thought, “I am the traitor?!”

But I’m a bit ahead of myself. After I finished the blog post, I realized that the feelings I was feeling (anxiety, angst, fear) were my CUE to get the hell out of here. I logged off my password protected computer, walked past him and down the hall to our bedroom. I put on my boots, my coat, and grabbed a small blanket.

I came back out and he said, “Are you going somewhere?” to which I responded, “Yes. I’ll be back when I feel safer,” then grabbed my purse and left.

I drove to a safe place, previously scouted, and parked the car. I shook out the tension from my hands and shoulders as best I could and let a tear or two fall. He had been calling my phone, but I’d been letting it go to voicemail. I decided that I didn’t want to hear that phone ring, so I called my sister and we talked for almost two hours.

We talked about what was happening, and later, we talked about my hopes for the future (getting paid to write – dare I say I wanna be an author?) and our kids and our mom and her idea to prepare a hypnosis session for me. Eventually, my caller ID stopped showing his calls. I waited another 45 minutes or so, and thinking he’d finally passed out on the couch from drinking all night, I decided to go home and go to bed. He probably would pretend to not even remember what had happened tonight, I thought.

When I pulled up in the drive, everything looked normal. Living room light and tv were on, I didn’t see Will roaming about the house snapping his belt; I thought he was asleep. It was about 2AM.

I unlocked the side door in the dark and pushed it, stepping inside. Suddenly, as if he’d somehow shot up from out of the floor, Will was there. He opened the door, but stood in my way. He said, “Give me your keys and drivers license and get out.” I figured he meant to give him all EXCEPT my keys and drivers license, but he was drunk and smelled like he’d bathed in Jim Beam while I was gone.

In a perfect world, with a perfect emergency plan, I would have turned away with ALL of my things and left for a hotel. But that isn’t what happened. I didn’t have a bag in the car, he had scared me with his appearance and tone of voice, and I didn’t think too clearly. Funny thing about emergencies – they don’t happen when you’re expecting them, and even if you are expecting “something” you’re never expecting the worst something possible.

Out of habit, I put my purse in its spot by the door while sidestepping the man blocking my way. (He would later claim to the police that I “shoulder bumped” him.)

I walked to my room as quickly and quietly as I could.

Will began yelling. He said that he had already woke the boys to tell them that I had abandoned them to go “f*ck a n!gg#r” and wasn’t living here anymore. He added with greater volume, “Even a WHORE doesn’t abandon her children!” and I heard his footsteps getting closer.

I locked the bedroom door behind me. I went to the bathroom to pee. Will hit the bedroom door and said, “Unlock this f*cking door or I’m gonna kick it in!” I said, “If you kick in that door, I’m calling the cops,” and it came out of my mouth more calmly than I thought it would. I exited the bathroom to him exclaiming that I had better get away from the door because he was going to kick it in.

As I listened to his threats and obscenities, I repeated what I would do if he kicked in the door.

I heard him walk away, his shadow disappeared from under the door. He was yelling something, I figured the boys were awake by now (I hadn’t seen them when I’d come home). I pushed my dresser in front of the door, realizing it wasn’t strong or big enough to keep him out forever but could buy me some time.

Part of me thought he wouldn’t be back, that he would carry on his rant in the other rooms and not try to come in the bedroom. He kept telling me to leave his house, reminding me that it was, in fact, HIS house because he’d paid for it and everything in it. That the boys were his too – they didn’t deserve a whore for a mother and he was taking them from me.

It got quiet for a few seconds. I contemplated whether I should pack a bag or if I should crawl into bed and pretend nothing was happening (or rather, pretend that nothing could happen).

His shadow reappeared in front of the door, I heard the tickling sound of metal on metal as he unlocked the door. Later, I noticed that the doorknob had been changed. I had installed a doorknob that needed a key (like the one on my keyring) to open it. I wonder when he changed that knob to one you could pick open with a hair pin? I wonder why he changed it without telling me?

He was surprised to find something behind the door. More yelling. He was pushing the door open, the dresser was pressing into the wall behind the door. There’s now a hole in the wall where the top edge of the dresser cut into it. I turned to the window, unlocked it, tried to raise it. The damn window was freaking STUCK. It wouldn’t budge. I was looking around for something to break the glass when the door opened a crack and I saw his red face smirking at me.

He forcefully hit the door with his shoulder repeatedly to gain entry to the room, to make a crack between the door and the frame. He didn’t take his eyes off of me as he squeezed through the crack. The door was pressing back against him and I remember hoping the doorknob would snap back and hit him in the balls. I had no where to go. I couldn’t think.

He was yelling at me to leave, to get out; I wasn’t welcomed here because I was a whore and a traitor and, yes, unappreciative of all he’d done for me.

When he finally made it into the room, I tried to go to the door. He was telling me to get out, and I wanted to get out. But when I moved toward the door, he pushed me on my chest. Hard enough that I lost my footing and fell backward onto the bed. My fear and the bouncy mattress put me back on my feet. I sidestepped him once, trying to get to the door, saying, “Then let me leave!”

As he grabbed my arms and shook me, he said, “NO! It’s too late for that!” My head snapped back on the shake before he pushed me backwards again. I didn’t fall this time. He had turned his back to me for some reason. I called out to Marc to bring me my phone (I couldn’t see how the kids could be sleeping still) and Will glanced at me over his shoulder before throwing out his arm and hitting me across the throat.

I coughed, got my voice back, started yelling for Marc to bring me my phone or call the police. Will said, “Why are you going to bother calling them? You ain’t gonna have no marks that show!” and he did a weird little spinny dance with his hands in the air – “You have no proof!”

“There’s a hole in the wall!” I said. “What? That hole?” he replied, “That has been there for months!”

Then, and this is possibly the worst part of the entire night, Marc finally poked his head through the crack in in the door and said, “MOM STOP!”

Yes, he said, “Mom stop!” Then Marc said, “If you respect me at all, you’ll just leave!”

I was hurt, but I remembered that Will had woke them up to tell them lies. I said, “He put his hands on me!” and Marc stared at me blankly. I looked at Will. Will stood there with his arms crossed, smiling at his son. Will was pleased, very pleased, and he certainly wasn’t going to touch me in front of Marc. I said, “Fine, Marc, I’ll leave, but you have to get out of the way so I can get out of here.”

Marc moved, I squeezed through the crack, went straight for my phone and called the police. I stayed on the line with the 911 operator until the police got there. At one point, Will had flipped out his knife to OPEN A PIECE OF GUM. He flipped it out twice while looking at ME, not at the gum.

After the cops got there, Will was handcuffed as a restraint. He was belligerent and ugly with the policeman. As the handcuffs snapped into place, I begged Marc to please go to his brother’s room (he hadn’t listened to me before) and he did.

Bottom line, there were no marks on me at this time. Therefore, the cops couldn’t remove Will from the home. I knew I didn’t want to be there with him after the cops left, so I packed my bag and went with them. Will was pleased. He thought they were forcing me to go.

I’ve had a long day. I haven’t experienced and emotional upheavals, and the doubts and fears seem to be at bay. I’m feeling really good.

But I noticed something weird. There is a lot of time to fill when there is no anxiety. Or at least, no anxiety dependent on another person’s actions.

Here’s a list of some of the things I did not feel anxious about today:

• Did I remember to pack his lunch last night? Did he go to work without it? I hope he had socks that were acceptable to wear – he must have because I didn’t hear any drawers slamming this morning.
• Is the house presentable? Will the other things I’ve done today excuse the dirt on the floor and the unwashed dishes?
• Did what I do today need to be kept under wraps or should I remind him that I went to the Woman’s Club meeting? Is what I purchased at the store on the way home “needed” or “wasteful” and do I tell him about it or let it appear like magic from the toiletry closet?
• Did I sit on my ass too long after I got home? Should I have been able to clean and wash clothes and pick up after the kids and clean the litter boxes and … ? Is he going to look around tonight with that look on his face? Is he going to say something to me before or after he starts drinking?
• Is he going to come home already smelling like alcohol?
• The report cards are due. I need to see them before he does so I know how he’ll react.
• Is he going to mutter about having chicken for dinner again after we take our separate rooms? I’d really like to watch Medium tonight, but I don’t want to sit in there with him – he thinks my shows are stupid. Maybe I can write without him getting mad that I’m writing. It depends.
• He didn’t ask me how I was or give me a hug when he got home. Does that mean something?
• He’s putting some ice in that glass. I wish he weren’t having another drink.
• He is in there talking to the air in reference to me. Should I acknowledge that he’s speaking to me (when he really isn’t) or do I pretend I don’t hear?
• Now he’s talking about me to Marc without saying he’s talking about me. He’s talking about women in general but picking my faults to complain about. Do I say something? How much has he drunk already? I almost wish he were drunk so I could more easily pretend his words are unintentional.
• He’s quiet. What time is it? Let me go see if he fell asleep on the couch.
• Should I wake him up to go to bed? Will he be madder that I woke him up or that he woke up on the couch tomorrow morning? Will he try to continue the conversation with the air if I wake him up?
• Is it okay to lie next to him or should I keep my distance. Maybe I can put my feet on him…I can pretend to be close.

You tell me…Am I happy he is gone?

Since he’s come home from his trip, he’s been on my ass 24/7. I have heard about how embarrassed he is because of me and how his whole family “knows” I’m on the brink of leaving him. He tells me that I am twisted and sick, and that I am doing the same thing to my kids. He’s currently on the couch, muttering. I cannot hear his words, but they’re hostile.

He’s told me that I’m selfish because I won’t listen to his family (not one has spoken to me, only to him) and no one matters to me EXCEPT me.

My heart is beating quickly because I recognize the signs, but there is no way to get out from under them. We are here. Together.

And I am “like all women” and do not appreciate how hard he’s worked for me to have this roof over my head. According to him, I am ready to leave and I want the house, the kids, and everything he’s slaved to create for the past years since becoming a man.

He told me that he doesn’t like to talk to me when I’m calm because he doesn’t believe me. He believes my anger only, and has worked very hard tonight to elicit it.

He’s walking around threatening the cats with a belt.

I wish I was already gone and hadn’t promised to be patient.

I wish I didn’t feel like I couldn’t support myself.

I wish I didn’t feel like I somehow deserved to be treated like a second-class piece of shit because I am not happy with … whatever HE deems I am unhappy with, not what I tell him I’m unhappy about.

I wish I wasn’t afraid to go to bed. Doing so requires me to walk past him.

I’m not fearful of physical harm; I’m dreading the emotional harm.

I’m dreading trying to go to sleep while he quietly sneaks through the house looking for things that piss him off, things that I haven’t done because my priorities are fucked up.

I’m afraid to think “this isn’t fair” because here I am, refusing to leave.

I’m afraid it would be easier to play the part of the adoring wife than to continue being me, because being me is scaring the shit out of him in some manner that I cannot comprehend. I can judge by his words and actions that he wishes I weren’t here. He wishes I would disappear. Life would be so much easier for him if I were dead and gone.

I’m afraid dying is easier than living, but I know that I will continue to do the hard thing because the easy thing abandons the children I love. And thinking that my children are my only reason for living makes me sad because it shows me that I haven’t really come too far at all, and all the work I think I’m doing has resulted in me being in the exact same place I was even before I started this blog.

My heart is failing, and I have to be the one to save it. I am unsure that I can do even that.

He’s smacking the belt in the other room. Smack. Smack. Smack.

Hello everyone, Susan has written a second testimonial, this time detailing some of the comments she’s heard from her abuser. Every abuse situation is different, so I am using the space to list these verbally abusive comments Susan has heard. Some I hear, some I don’t. Some I’ve heard and didn’t consider abuse, but I see that they are abusive and blame my conditioning for my inability to “hear” them as such.  Susan’s list also shows and how racism and stereotypes serve the abuser. Personally, I believe that many abusers are also racist and sexist, although I haven’t seen any studies on it. [sigh.]

Here is Susan’s testimonial of abuse, Part II:

I have written another testimonial before previously. In this testimonial I just want to write down all the things my verbal/emotional abuser has done or said to me.  I am doing this for two reasons… Continue reading

Individual counseling is today. I don’t know what I’m going to talk to her about. I’m feeling rather foggy.

Disappointed and pessimistic, too, in regard to my husband and my marriage. I keep hoping beyond all hope that there is the possibility of having a happy marriage in which both of us get to be who we are. But more than that, I want each of us to support one another in our quest to be more than we are right now.

Will keeps drinking and disappearing. He doesn’t talk to me, doesn’t like me, doesn’t want to be around me. I completely understand his feelings because I feel the same prickly heat toward him. The trouble is that one of us is going to have to overcome those feelings if we are going to reconnect.

One of us has to be the bigger man.

Frankly, I want him to be the bigger man. Although he says he’s suffered much during our marriage, I can’t help but wonder “HOW?”

I follow his career. I stay home like he asked (glad I did, but wondering if it wasn’t designed to keep me helpless in his mind). I forfeited my 4-year degree but fought for my associates with no support from him. I live in “his” house and drive the car he graciously supplied to me. I manage “his” money, clean “his” clothes, and generally live in “his” home (which I am allowed to decorate).

But asking him to explain how he has suffered is not going to work at individual counseling. He won’t be there. If I talk about it, it’ll be my own feelings about how he treats me, and I am drained from thinking about those feelings.

It is what it is.

I could talk to my therapist about the book I’m writing (and excited about). I would like for her to ask to read it and then spend the hour telling me how brilliant I am. My old self would expect that, and when it doesn’t happen (which it won’t), my old self would stop writing, and blame my lousy husband for clouding my life with bullshit so thick I cannot move.

But I’m not going to do that. Ever again.

I do feel oppressed; I know that is what abuse and control can do to a person. I am forcing myself to write this story EVEN IF no one who reads it loves it as much as I do. I am going to write this book even when my inner voices tell me it’s crap. And when I’m done writing it, I’m going to submit it to publisher after publisher until I find one who is at least half of excited about the manuscript as I am.

And then this book is going to make that publisher a lot of money.

But in the process of writing this book, I’m probably going to live with a man who despises me and wants me to apologize for making a police report against him and then grovel at his feet and swear that I’ll never do it again, no matter what he does, because his career cannot handle another bullshit drama queen antic like the one I pulled last December.

He’s going to ambush me with mind games, withdraw sullenly then come out fighting, attempt to provoke me and drink like a fish so he can say he doesn’t remember any of it.

Despite him, I will succeed in accomplishing the telling of this story running about in my head. And I am very excited about that promise to myself. I don’t think I’ve ever made a promise to myself that I knew, without a doubt, I would keep.

I’ll talk to my therapist about skills I may need to keep promises to myself. She may not be excited about my book, but she does love to help me set off in the right direction, and I appreciate her for that solidity and support.

Will has been drinking a lot since he returned home in December. Every night, Jim Beam and Coke (for color only) or beer. I expressed my concern in as pleasant a way as I could, telling him that I never know if he’s really “there” or not and that I worry about his health.

It didn’t get ugly. Typically, talking about his drinking turns ugly. He didn’t respond to the “being there” or not, but he said he changed from beer to Jim Beam to save calories. He doesn’t want to get fat. I suggested he check the calories. 12 beers vs a quart of Jim. Anyone know?

Anyhow, Will was promoted on Friday (not yet pinned), and I am very happy for him. Only one rank to go, and I’m sure he’ll get that in record time.

I’ve known for some time that there would be a change of command ceremony today. Historically, I’ve never attended a change of command as they are for officers, not non-commissioned officers. (Will isn’t a player in a change of command.)

Regardless, at the beginning of this week, I asked Will if he would like me to go. He said to wait, that he would get the details and let me know. He didn’t say anything else about me going until last night. The ceremony was at 2pm, and I had an appointment to keep, so I told him I wouldn’t be able to go.

This evening, around 5, he called to say that he was at a restaurant in town, and “everybody” was asking about me. At that time, I was transporting our son to the psychiatry appointment, so I told him I couldn’t attend.

Around 6:30, he calls and says I have two choices. Either his father can come get him and we can pick up his truck from post in the morning, or he could spend the night at his friend’s house.

“What?!” I thought. What is going on? Why is he at a restaurant in town, but he left his truck on post? Why is he drunk? Why did he plan on getting drunk? What was the real reason he asked me to join him at the restaurant? And why can’t he go anywhere without drinking?

I was obviously pissed off, and I told him, “I don’t like either of those answers, and I’m not going to choose one. You do what you think is best.”

He said that they were drinking to celebrate his promotion and to say farewell to the first sergeant. As if I care. As if I think celebrating with alcohol is the best way to celebrate anything (not that I never drink, but I can take it or leave it). Will drinks constantly, so how is drinking for a celebratory reason any different from what he does every night at home?

I was mad. I became short with my son (and apologized), but it bothers me that I was angry for an hour or so. I’m still angry, but I am not taking it out on anyone else.

I’m sort of thinking a “better person” wouldn’t be angry. Maybe a better person wouldn’t let this stuff bother her, would be able to say, “That’s my husband, his drinking has nothing to do with whether I love him or not.”

But I think it does. I think his choice to drink (constantly) affects my ability to love him. His drinking feeds selfish behaviors. It is very difficult for an angel like me (sarcasm) to be FINE with his choices when I am driving all over town doing stuff to help the family, and he seems to do whatever he can (besides go to work) to avoid helping himself.

Why didn’t I go today? Because I had a group meeting this morning. Then I had to go withdraw my son from his school and enroll him in the alternative high school. Then I had to take that son to a psychiatry appointment. Then I had to take my youngest to meet a friend (who never showed). Then I had to go grocery shopping.

And what is he doing? Drinking. Not coming home because he planned to get drunk from the get-go. Trying to force me to choose between two unsatisfactory solutions so I “can’t be mad at him because he did what I said to do.”

Bullshit.

So when is it okay for me to be angry? When is it okay for a human to be angry, and what do I do with it when I feel it? How do I get rid of it, find a solution for it, or at least just FEEL it, righteous or not, and move on?

Is it a sin to be angry?

On a side note and just for the record, Will brought home a bottle of Jack Daniel’s in his suitcase. He started drinking from it, and then on Saturday morning, he asked me if I had drunk any of the whiskey (I hadn’t) and said that it must have been Marc who drunk it.

I asked Marc who said that he didn’t even know there was JD in the house. So my questions are: Did Will drink it and forget? Did Marc lie? and most menacingly, If Will drank it and remembered drinking it, why did he say that Marc drank it? And if he thought Marc drank it, why didn’t he (or we) handle it?

That is manipulation, plain and simple. He asked me that question and implicated Marc but then did nothing about it because the purpose of the question wasn’t to find an answer. The purpose was to instill doubt in me, raise questions in me, keep me occupied with something else while he planned his next move.

Distraction.

passed out right after mumbling about milk duds

Yep. I knew it wouldn’t last.

The kids were gone last night, and they’re gone again tonight. Not that it matters; Willwould be “this way” even if they were here. He’s been drinking with the neighbor all day, burning trash and moving shit around the yard.

This morning about 11am, he goes outside to work. I don’t see him all day except for when he asks if I need anything from the store around 2pm. He brought some coffee home because I asked. I thought it was nice.

7:30 pm rolls around, and he comes into the house. He says, “Did you eat?” and I said, “Yes, I had an oven pizza.”

“An oven pizza?!”

“Yes, a pizza from the oven. You can have a pizza or I’ll heat up the pot pies you like.”

“I haven’t eaten all day. Did you eat today?”

“Mostly coffee. Oh – I did have a sandwich sometime around noon. Here, have some fruit salad. It will hold you over until your pot pie is done.”

We sat and watched Monk for awhile. My heart started to pound because I knew what was coming next, and I was trying to find a way to avoid it. When the microwave went off, I got his pie, put it on his plate, and gave it to him. I told him that the second one was in the microwave and I would get it when it was done.”

“I didn’t eat all day.” He said.

“Why not?” I asked him.

“Because no one told me there was any food ready.”

“Let’s not go here tonight,” I said, and went back to watching Monk.

“So, you don’t care that I didn’t eat today?”

“I think if you were hungry, then you should have come in the house and ate.”

“You didn’t think about me all day? I see how it is. You, you, you. That’s how it is.”

“No, I think that you’re a big boy and you don’t need me to come tell you that you’re hungry.”

“How do we do this? How do we do this when we don’t do things like our parents raised us?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Well, I was raised to expect to be called in for lunch and dinner. Here it is 7:30 and I haven’t eaten all day.”

I stayed quiet. The buzzer went off on the microwave, but I didn’t go get his stupid pie. I got up and went back to the bathroom.

When I came out, he said, “So, what I expect of you doesn’t matter.”

“I don’t think we should talk about this tonight.”

“You never want to talk about it.”

“No, I don’t want to talk about it tonight.”

And then I went and got the digital recorder. I turned it on to record, and it’s in my shirt right now.

———————————————————-

He just found some Milk Dud boxes in a blanket on the couch. “Mm hmm…” he said, walking through the kitchen looking at the boxes like he just struck gold.

My heart is still beating. I don’t want to go here tonight. I don’t want to do this. I hate it when he goes over to the neighbors house, drinks all day, then comes inside to pick a fight with me.

And, just for the record, we’ve had this conversation before. I told him that if he came in the house when he got a break, I would gladly fix his lunch for him. But I wasn’t going to fix him lunch, call him two or three times only to have him put me off and put off his lunch for hours. He wants me to take my time fixing him a lunch (waste my time fixing him a lunch) that he may not even eat. Bullshit. He’s lucky that I am willing to fix him lunch at all.

———————————————————–