The Night the Sh!t Hit the Fan

I've never written about this. I'm not even sure why. I've talked about it, but for some reason I've never once thought about writing my account of the final night my ex and I lived in the same house. It's been over two years now...maybe two and a half? Timeframes and dates escape me pretty much all the time. Regardless, it's been a long time coming. But first, I need to tell a little (and I do mean little) backstory. This may end up a little longer than I'd like, but this is the best way I know how to tell it.

We had been broken up for a couple months. He was “nice” enough to let me stay at our house…excuse me, HIS house, until I got my tax return and could find a place to live. Some nights he slept on the couch, other nights he’d sleep in bed with me. I mean why not take advantage of the sex he knew he’d get? He knew I still loved him and wanted to make it work.

I remember asking him shortly before we broke up if he’d ever cheat on me. I knew in my gut that he was, but I didn’t want to believe it. We were just getting home from the grocery store and the vibe was tense. I don’t remember the conversation leading up to it, but I know I couldn’t keep it in anymore. I simply asked him, “would you ever cheat on me?” He was silent for a few minutes, then replied with, “I don’t think so.” We took the groceries in and I sat outside. I wanted to cry but I couldn’t. I mean who says that? I don’t think so? Really?? He found me outside and asked what was wrong. When I told him how bad that hurt me, he tried to play it off like he was joking and I was being too sensitive. That’s what he always said when his words hurt me. He was joking. I’m too sensitive. I need a sense of humor.

There was a bit of a build up to the night the shit hit the fan. I had gone to spend the night with a friend. When I got back, he was drunk (as usual). He was standing by the fire pit drinking a beer and offered me one. He kept asking who I slept with. Like I said, we were already broken up, so he had no right to ask that. But I didn’t sleep with anyone and I told him so. I had this underlying sense of dread. Something just didn’t feel right. He had spent a couple days on a bender with his cousin and ex wife drinking and partying. He was acting strange, like it was more than alcohol in his system. So I did what I always did when I was afraid things would take a turn for the worst. I joked my way through it and tried to redirect him. He was like a toddler when he was wasted. If things started to go downhill, I’d always try to redirect him to a different subject. That day it didn’t work. He kept accusing me of sleeping with someone and was acting super jealous. We ended up arguing and he took off drunk in his car, spinning the tires and almost losing control before he even got to the end of our road. I contemplated calling the cops on him and giving them his license plate number so he’d get pulled over for drunk driving. I contemplated that every time he took off like that, but as usual, I didn’t. He wasn’t gone long…maybe an hour. He came back acting even more strange, like he had done some kind of drug. I knew he liked cocaine. He had also done meth for a while when he was younger. I didn’t know what he was on but I knew it was more than just alcohol. But he was happier, so I went with it. We drank more, we awkwardly laughed, and we went to bed. Together…and we ended up having sex. I couldn’t say no to him. Part of me wanted it. I wanted to feel close to him again. The other part of me was afraid to say no. I was always afraid to say no to him. But all in all, the night ended well.

The next morning some friends of ours called to ask if we wanted to go to breakfast with them. With these particular friends it meant lots of Bloody Mary’s and tequila shots. Again, I just wanted to have fun. During that time that we were broken up but still living together, I was walking on eggshells even more than before. I was still trying to make things work, hoping and praying he’d realize how much I loved him and he’d take me back and stop drinking so much. So anytime we had an opportunity to do something fun, I was all in. I wanted to be happy. I didn’t want to drink like I was, but living with an alcoholic changes you. It’s hard not to drink when you’re with someone who drinks so much. So off we went to the bar for those Bloody Mary’s and some omelets. The friends we met up with are huge drinkers as well, so the drinks kept coming and the mood was good…at first.

I had gone outside for a cigarette and he followed. I actually got giddy when I saw him walk through the door. I was so excited that he wanted some alone time with me. How stupid and naive I was. We were talking, and since he was being so nice I thought I’d try again to ask him why we couldn’t work things out. I ended up crying. He started yelling at me. People heard it and came out so I quickly dried up the tears and changed the subject, faking laughter. Our friends came out a few minutes later and the wife was so drunk she fell down the three stairs at the door. Somebody helped her up and we all decided it was time to leave. It was maybe 10 am at this point and she was obliterated. Honestly, we all kind of were. So we went back to their house. We sat outside listening to music, singing, talking & laughing. It was honestly a good time and for a little while it felt normal. It felt good, like old times again…until it didn’t. I don’t know what flipped the switch, but even though things looked good on the outside, I could tell something wasn’t right. I got scared. I knew whenever I had that feeling things were going to take a turn for the worst, so we left.

When we got home he kept drinking. I was sitting on the couch watching TV and he was in the other room playing video games. He eventually sat down and we started talking. I could tell he was about to get angry so I just kept my voice calm and tried keeping the conversation light. Before I knew it he was screaming at me, asking why I hadn’t packed anything yet. He kept telling me how much he hated me and that he wanted his house back. I grabbed a beer. I didn’t want to deal with it. I hoped I could just drink my feelings away again. He kept flip flopping from talking nicely to yelling, and I knew that was a sign that it was going to get really bad. He stood up so he could hover over me, bending down to scream in my face. He walked over to the bookshelf and started throwing books at me, screaming insults.

For years, whenever he’d start to get nasty, I’d record video of him with my phone camera. Usually it was just audio because I’d start recording then set the phone down so he didn’t know. Early on in the relationship I’d show him the next day so he could see how he acted when he was drunk, hoping he’d change. He’d say he didn’t remember, he’d give me empty apologies, and we’d move on. As the years went on, I stopped showing him. I was recording him so I had proof of what had been going on. I thought maybe I’d use it if I ever got the courage to call the police, or if God forbid he ever killed me, somebody would get a hold of it and they’d know what happened to me. So that night, I hit record. There wasn’t much video but there was audio of him throwing the books, me staying calm and asking him why he was doing it, trying to get him to be rational. The next thing that can be heard is me crying and begging him to stop, then my scream when he came at me. He grabbed my phone and threw it on the ground, shattering it. That’s the last of the audio.

After that he grabbed me and threw me to the ground. I dried up the tears and walked into my son’s room and told him to pack a bag because we were leaving. I walked into our bedroom and started packing. He kept coming at me, hitting me and slamming me around. He told me I wasn’t allowed to pack a bag and I had to leave with nothing. I tried to walk out the door but every time I did he’d just grab me and hit me again. Whenever he’d walk away I tried to pack again, but he kept coming back and refused to let me. He wanted me gone but he wouldn’t let me leave. The night is still kind of a blur but I know I threw a coffee cup at him. I also threw a little ceramic pumpkin that connected with his face. I throw like a girl, and usually have really bad aim. We both laughed when it actually connected but didn’t hurt him. It was a weird fight, going back and forth between yelling, laughing, and physical violence. At one point, he threw me to the ground in the bathroom. My head bounced from the toilet to the bath tub. Things started to go black but I fought with everything in me to stay conscious. I was screaming for him to stop. He tossed his phone at me and told me to dial 911. I did. When I heard the operator answer I froze. I didn’t say a word. She kept asking, “what’s your emergency.” I was sobbing. I hung up. He came back in laughing because he knew I couldn’t ask for help and grabbed me by my hair and dragged me onto our bed. I was on my back and he was standing over me with his hands around my throat screaming at me. I couldn’t breathe. I knew in that moment that it was the end. I stopped fighting him. I gave up. I said a prayer in my head that my son would get out and live a happy life. I prayed that my family would move on and know how much I loved them.

My youngest was 16 at the time. I think he got scared when he heard me stop screaming. He went to the doorway of our bedroom and screamed, “get the fuck off my mom!” My ex went at him. I jumped up and grabbed him. I pulled him so hard that I tore his shirt and scratched his chest with my nails. My son ran out the door and called 911. Little did I know, he had a knife in his hand, ready to stab my ex if he needed to. I’m so glad it didn’t come to that for his sake. I don’t want him to know what it feels like to put a knife in human flesh. He still says he wishes he would have, but I know that would be traumatic for him. After that my ex just sat down again and started playing video games. I was about to start packing again when there was a knock at the door. He answered. When I walked into the living room there were two police officers, a man and a woman. My ex was outside talking to another one.

Those officers were so nice. They asked me what had happened. I told them as much of the story that I remembered. At that point I was in shock. I honestly couldn’t remember the events of the night. I had been drinking a lot, but I think the shock of it all was more of a hinderance to my memory than the alcohol. The female officer started taking pictures of my face and neck and had me push my sleeves up and lift my shirt. I had no clue that I had any bruises, but when she told me to look in the mirror on the wall I froze. My face was a mess. I had bruises on my neck. They were all over my arms and torso. I stood there staring at myself and started to laugh. When I say I laughed, I mean I laughed hysterically. They looked at me like I was insane. In that moment, I may have been. My neighbor came over when she saw the lights from the police cars. I was laughing and joking with her. The officers kept asking me to write a statement of what happened. When I finally did, I genuinely couldn’t remember. I don’t remember exactly what I wrote, but it was short. It was something like, “he threw books at me and broke my phone. I was trying to pack a bag to leave and he hit me.” Short and sweet. Nothing close to what had really happened.

The entire time the officers were there I kept trying to go outside to get a glimpse of my ex. They assured me he was handcuffed in the back of a police car and that he was going to jail. They told me he couldn’t hurt me anymore. They thought I was afraid. But my dumb ass was worried about him. I didn’t want him to go to jail. I didn’t want him to be afraid. That’s a battered woman for ya. Stupid. So so stupid. They convinced me to go to the courthouse the next morning to file a temporary protection order. They said that would give me time to figure things out. I almost didn’t go that morning. I wanted to apologize to him. For what, I don’t know. But I felt like I had to. I was so used to apologizing for provoking him that I felt like I really needed to, especially for putting him in jail. I went though. Not for me, but for my son. I couldn’t bear for him to see any more violence. I knew it was tearing him up seeing me treated that way. So I went. I filled out the paperwork. He was served with it in jail. They let him go the next morning. I couldn’t believe it. How could they do that? But I saw online that the prosecuting attorney charged him with a misdemeanor for hitting me and a felony for breaking my phone. Apparently breaking an expensive phone is a worse crime than breaking my face…and my spirit.

I was in contact with the prosecutor a few times durning those 30 days. I told him I didn’t want my ex to go to jail. I wanted him to go to rehab. He told me it wasn’t my choice. He told me I couldn’t press charges. Only he could. That blew my mind. He told me it didn’t matter what I said or what I wanted. Then about 2 weeks in, I got a letter in the mail saying all charges were dropped. I called him sobbing. I couldn’t believe they dropped the charges. When I asked why, he actually had the nerve to say that they had bigger fish to fry. That was that. As usual, my ex got off Scott free. He always has.

When the 30 days was up and it came time to go back to court to extend the protection order, I dropped it. The judge wanted me to extend it for a year but I was still trying to be civil about things. He looked at me like I was insane. He kept asking if I was sure and I kept saying yes. I told him I needed a little more time to stay in the house without my ex and secure a place to live. When my ex took the stand, he strongly cautioned him not to go to the house while I was still there. My ex agreed. I found out later that he was going to tell the judge that I fractured his jaw bone when I threw that stupid pumpkin at him. He actually had the nerve to try and turn it around on me. I couldn’t believe it. But since I dropped the protection order, he said he decided to be nice to me. What a fucking joke.

Needless to say, I’m not there anymore. He did come over a few times before I left that house for good. He took me grocery shopping a couple times. He spent a couple nights there. We argued a little. We had sex. He left. In a way it felt good to have him there. It felt normal. Yet it didn’t. He was smart enough not to hit me again. But he was still playing games with me. He kept doing it for over a year after we broke up. He’d call me yelling about something stupid one minute, pissed if I didn’t answer his calls right away. But then he’d get drunk and call me just to talk. He didn’t want to work things out and he made that very clear, but he was nice enough to give me hope, even though I knew I didn’t want to be with him anymore. That’s the shitty thing about leaving an abusive relationship. Staying in contact with them messes you up. Bad. It’s a roller coaster of emotions, just the same as being with them. That’s why so many women go back. Honestly, had I not flown from Washington to Virginia to spend time with my daughter back then, I may have ended up right back in that house. I may have ended up dead.

People always ask battered women why they stay. They ask why they go back after they get the courage to leave. Abusers take everything from you. They make you feel like you can’t live without them. They put you on a pedestal then knock you back down, just so they can put you right back and be your hero, your savior. They break your spirit. It’s been a little over 3 years since that night and I’m still healing. Those thoughts of self doubt always creep in. He made me feel worthless, even though I knew deep down I wasn’t. Every now and then I still feel that way. I’m lucky enough to have found a man who loves me unconditionally and has been my rock through everything. We’re getting married in a few days and I couldn’t be happier. But sometimes I still wonder…will I ever be good enough for him?

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Lynae

Writer • Healing Advocate

Rewriting the stories I once survived