It's wanting to know what he thinks, and answers as to why what happened, happened. What I really seek is an apology. He always fought dirty though, it didn't matter when we were pledged to each other - rather, me to him, him to whomever he wanted, when he wanted - why then would it matter when we split? Every component of life and self-assured strides that I held near and dear was viciously, publicly and cruelly attached to language that would deal out the ramifications for my life.
My ability to be a mother, to provide for my child, myself, my aptitude at work, choice of career, place of residence, my family and mostly, the way he would speak to me...over me, through me, as if I had no significance in his life; I had made no impact at all less being a bother, a bad decision. When I stopped responding (outwardly) he changed his tactics focusing instead on scape-goating our son in order that I might fall. Manipulation didn't work and so, deceit came in daily doses, cruelty established roots and honesty was absolutely out of the question. That still wasn't enough so upping his game, he moved to violence. I restate: more violence, and threats. Direct and indirect they were both present. Harassment showed up hand-in-hand with abuse: 100-proof.
Brought up with a strong sense of pride and responsibility, I asked for help though I may have asked with too much independence - too much accountability, because it seems as though the powers that be, well they just sent me home.
Home to what? What home?!
I wanted, really, truly want(ed) to go home. Home to my family - home to some place safe where I wouldn't be stalked, threatened, thrown around or mistreated. I pleaded for my son's safety, took pictures every time another hand print showed up on his face, or arm, or backside. They always showed up. I listened intently to each horrible story about fighting, bleeding and words that cut deeper than bruises that had just started to heal. Between tissues and my blanketing sweaters, I dried every tear that fell, matching each with my own and rose to my feet to answer an interrupting phone call only to find that his father had joined his cause and now slung the same cruel, name-calling, heart-breaking statements in my direction.
Still, I tried. When he learned the word martyr, claiming he was not eating, not sleeping, that he had no food, I split my food into portions and filled a paper sack. "I'll be right up," I said. "I'll leave it on your porch".
He met me at the door that night, gave a sniff in the air and with the phone already in his hand, dialed the police.
I left.
He got to keep the food.
And now...what is it? Five, almost six years later...I remember that feeling distinctly. THAT is what I couldn't for the life of me, figure out how to let go of. Today I had a little victory. Yesterday - I had one too. And tomorrow is promising in a wonderous way. My letting go comes from the way I define "holding on" and my victory resonates from understanding that I'm not in charge of much outside my walking, talking latitude to spiritualism. And from that I can say with all honesty that I tried every. single. time.
That I try still.
And each day is a promise to compassion and the unfolding of the blessed road before me.
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