Things were pretty bad
when Bob and I lived together when we were younger. How bad?
Well, with no reflection on his
current character, or his ability to be stable and healthy (because I still
hope for that for him and I know Cory would, as well) I can say, if I had not left him when I did, I think he
might have killed me…just snapped one night, and went too far. The image of him punching his
hands against the tile in my kitchen on Broadway until his knuckles bled will
never leave my mind. He threw his head
back until the cords in his neck bulged, and just screamed incoherently. All I knew during these times was to put as
much space between me and him as I possibly could. Calling for help wasn’t really an option
because the first things he did were pull the phone out of the wall, and block
the exit.
Bob seldom remembered anything
about his rages. I could see him then,
and I can see him now, sitting on a faded linoleum kitchen floor, with his
knees up, and his head in his hands, wondering desperately just what the hell
happened here?
I used to think he was
lying, but my years with Cory, and conversations with Dr. Z proved
otherwise. When someone is in such a
state, they can’t always remember the sequence of events, or sometimes the
events at all. Cory said that during her rages,
she felt like she was outside her body watching someone else, unaffected by
others' emotions, just intent on one goal: get the
poison out. Afterwards, when the object
had been thrown or the words had been spewed, she felt horribly ashamed.
Bob was always sorry
afterwards, too. Cycle of abuse aside, I
think that most times he genuinely regretted his actions. There was a look on his face that couldn’t be
manufactured- it was too bare, too naked, too genuine, too panicked. It was that look on his face that kept me by
his side…well, that, and I was madly in love with him.
That look was the miserable, self-loathing,
sick expression of the child who had wanted so badly to hold the hamster, and
despite all the reminders given, had gotten too excited at the last minute, and
squeezed it just a little too hard. Give
it five, ten, fifteen years, and I would see the same look on my daughter’s
face, over and over again. It was the
look that said, without any artifice, “Man, I screwed it up again. Do you still love me? Should you?”
It was a look that said I know I scared you, and I shouldn't have, but being out of control is scary for me, too.
It was downright eerie,
and it broke my heart to see Cory looking out at the world through her father’s
eyes. I would do better than what had
been done for him. I would break the
cycle, or die trying.
But back in those early
days with Bob, I was trying to rein in an illness that was out of control,
growing stronger and more aggressive every day with the substances he fed it to
get any kind of relief: something to
bring him up when he was feeling down, something to quiet his mind so he could
sleep. My efforts were as ridiculous as
an ant trying to rope an elephant and persuade it to come this way, please.
It was such a dangerous
mixture- the mood swings, the substances, and his model of problem solving
witnessed as a child. Enter one timid, eager
to please girl without a lot of life experience who liked to be alone, and
watch her fall ass over teakettle into the cycle of abuse. Just like those damn ashtrays that I washed
time after time, I was chasing down a certain moment in time. I would bear any indignity for the apology,
and the promise to do better next time.
And let’s face it, the treatment during the honeymoon period was the
stuff of which dreams are made.
I soaked up all that over the top, lavished
upon love and affection like I was in the middle of the desert without a drop
to drink. Walking on eggshells, I
convinced myself if I treated him well enough, and didn’t make him mad, he
would continue to treat me with the love and affection I craved. Surely, that elephant would follow where I led... someday.
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