Breaking Me

Our fights have never been normal ones. Even when things were good, we fought with a passion, our arguments took over the world, enveloped our surrounding, until there was nothing more important or more essential to gain. He knew me so well, better than I knew myself, but that is something I never admitted while we were together. He needed to be in control, and could not bear the fact that I had my own thoughts which he could not reach. The more he probed, the quieter I became, the only time my words stormed out were during our fights, which would last for hours, and always end the same. With me on the floor and him in the corner, finally calm and in tears. How I hated him at that point, I hated his tears, the accumulation of his lies and hypocrisy lived in those tears.

I knew what could make him crazy and drive him to the breaking point. I could pressure the point until he thought it was his fault and took the blame. I was heartless. But as the tension rose, I knew this time it wasn't going to be him who was the scapegoat.
I set my face in stone as he stood, swaying in his anger, asking me questions that I did not wish to answer. He was mad, and I in my stubbornness kept pressing his anger, until it swelled from something deep. I had always known what I could have done then, when he hit me, but instead took the matter into my own hands. I did not speak, nor did I take on the look of a frightened wife. I clenched my teeth and I burned deep, but I couldn't feel anything for the moment: it was like I was incapable of being. Any normal woman would have felt fear, but what I felt was indescribable.

But this was our worse fight yet. God, how did this even start? I try to remember as I sit in my corner watching him trying to decide what to do with me. It was only ten minutes ago when things were fine, sitting outside in his car, talking, but it only takes one wrong word to set him off, and I seemed to have an amazing ability to know every one of those words. Time had begun to race, a word, a response, a threat and I grew angry, jumped out of the car, slamming the door hard, he jumped out behind me.. I ran, immediately I knew that it was a hopeless matter, he was much too fast and much too strong. He first grabbed hold of my hair, and I cursed myself for allowing it to grow (I made a mental note to myself to cut my hair and never let it grow this long again). He turned me around, shook me, and smacked me hard.. I fell back towards the ground, putting my hands behind me to protect myself.. experience has taught me how best to fall. I push myself up fast but I don’t try to run again, I was angry now, too angry to be afraid, or to feel any pain, I stood inches away from him, lifting my heels so my eyes were on the same level as his, and I pushed him. As hard as I could, I knew it wouldn’t affect him, but I wanted him to know that I was not intimidated. He doesn’t say anything, grabs my arm and pushes me in front of him, the same way a soldier might lead a prisoner to his cell. I don’t resist, I fake courage and walk ahead, wondering if this is it, this is how I am finally going to die. We enter the apartment, and before the door is even closed, he pushes me to the floor with his leg, and that is how I have come to be in my corner. I think back to past fights, and see how much of my body I can protect in my position. I pull my feet up and roll myself into a ball. And watch.. He starts talking, but I am not listening, my attention is focused on what he is carrying in his hand.. what is that? A telephone cord? Amazingly I am insulted by the fact that he is not even willing to hurt himself and requires a weapon. I make another not to myself to get rid of the phone, along with my hair, and the man. Satisfied, I force my mind back to reality, this isn’t the best time to space out, I need to be prepared otherwise I may not make it out this time. He stands in front of me takes off his shirt, I look up at him, and compare to the man I thought I knew, the handsome man, with the beautiful eyes , the strong and muscular arms, that used to make me feel so safe, tattooed.. one side a dragon, the other side my name.. but those eyes were cold now, and his arms were flexing holding a weapon that was meant to harm me. I felt a wave of sadness, so strong it took my breath away, and for a moment I wanted to tell him these things, to tell him to stop, but I looked into his eyes and I knew there was nothing I can say that will result in any mercy at this point, so I chose to keep my illusion of dignity and braced myself for the first blow. I hardly felt a thing, I was too angry, the adrenaline was rushing in my body, and pain was not an option, I didn’t cry, I didn’t moan, I was quite, the way I am most days with him.. just waiting.. for the end. It was almost boring, and I found it comic that he would get bored of his weapon and go search for something else.. he always did like variety. When it was over, I was on the floor on one side of the room, he was on the other. My face was burning, he must have been really angry, he usually avoids the face. His eyes were on the floor, my eyes were on him. The enemy. And I try to ignore the pain that is beginning to come through.. what did he do to me, I wonder.. he gets up and leaves, comes back with ice.. puts it on my face.., he then picks me up and takes me to the bathroom. At first I don’t move, afraid of reigniting his anger, then I realize I can’t move, my body is sore, the pain is becoming unbelievable, he holds my face, moving it around, examining me like a doctor, then he starts to take off my clothes. I don’t resist, I don’t care. He lifts up my shirt, takes off my pants, and then turns me around examining his work. He continues with my panties and bra, runs his fingers down my stomach, turns on the water in the bathtub, and places me under the shower. It hurts, the cold water is hitting every mark on my body and I feel as if I were going to faint. He then shuts the water, puts a towel around me, dries me off, and dresses me as if I were a child. He turns me towards the mirror, and for the first time, I see what he is so worried about, I could not recognize myself, my cheeks, eyes were swollen, and there was a long mark across my chin. He starts to cry, and all I can think of is how am I going to explain this to my family. The holiday is after tomorrow, I will have to see them, and they will notice.

He takes me to the living room. Sits me down, and makes me a drink. He starts talking again, .. but I can’t hear him.. only key words make it through .. sorry.. you.. angry.. please.. I promise.. love.. I stare at him, wondering if I can wish him away. I think of all the girls who envy me.. always surrounding him, always trying to take him away, but he never saw anyone but me, funny thing, what was once a blessing to me, is such a curse now. And I sit there, on “our” couch, in “our” home, in his arms, holding me as if to protect me from harm. And I hold on to him so tightly as if he just rescued me from the pain instead of causing it, and I want to tell him… I want to tell him that that this is not good for him, that we bring out the worse in each other, and I hate what we are becoming, that I hate him, but instead I tell him I love him and I throw my arms around the one who provides for me, the one I once loved, the one I said ‘I DO’ to, and I cry.

Now, later in the night, lying in bed next to him, I’m writing this, I don’t want to forget. I look up from my laptop, and stare at him, how can he sleep so soundly? Not a care in the world.. and I realize; There is no war, not battle to be won. The war had ended a long time ago, my personality, my family, my friends, my life have been left in ruins and I am the prisoner, a year later, I am no longer the starry eyed girl that I once believed myself to be. No one held the door. No one pulled out the chair. No one met my gaze anymore-not the way in which I had become accustomed. That part of me that awakened muse in man and woman had gone to sleep.

It had been a long time since i had sung inspired, cooked without a recipe, or made love with abandon. I was dying, because part of me was already dead. What part of me now was left lay as dust on some mantle. All I have is my writing, in putting pen to page, I short changed my livelihood. All emotion – all passionate discourse – once reaching the written word, faded away. I struggled with my new dilemma; if it was worth writing about, is it worth losing? I decided then and there that I would never read anything I’d written again. And so it went, on and on, everything I wrote was edited by my sister who ultimately became my secret keeper. Every nuance of my deepest and most sacred fears were realized on the page and at the same time purged from my psyche.

One might think this a blessing considering what I’d been through. But the weight of it – the responsibility of it keeps me straight and tempered. So I chose carefully what would be emptied and what would remain forever guarded in my head. What I removed from myself were forgotten life lessons, and plagues of shortcomings that would visit me again and again.