As he started putting more and more money into our house, now phrased the money pit, I knew something else was going on. I tried talking to him about it, but also finally admitted to myself that I was falling out of love with him. I cared what happened to him, but I did not really even love him anymore. This was not the man I met so many years earlier.
In August of 2005, I watched as he sat in his recliner. Tears streamed down his face as he looked at me. I don’t remember the exact words, but I remember him begging me for one more chance. I stood up and walked over to the window and then turned around. I looked at him. He asked me if we should get a divorce or try one more time. I said that I didn’t know. I didn’t know what was happening to him or to us. We were living together, but neither one of us was happy. I didn’t know if we weren’t happy with each other or just how our lives were going into a downward spiral.
He stood up and looked into my eyes. He begged me to give us one more chance. He said if it didn’t work out, we’d make a clean break and figure out what to do after that. I remember the words, “one more chance.” He begged.
When I think about it, I knew that I wanted out, but I didn’t know what to do. I was so afraid of what would happen, but I didn’t have anywhere to go. I had no one to turn to. No help. This was a familiar place to me, even being unhappy. I agreed to one more chance.
I regret that moment. Out of all the time in our life, he never hurt me physically. There were a few fights where we pushed each other and sometimes, I expected to be hit, but I wasn’t. I grew up in a home where domestic violence existed. My mother had put up with it throughout her marriage. I expected a fight to have that result, but it had never happened … until two months later.
I remember walking into the emergency room and telling them that I had fallen down the stairs. Yeah, if the stairs were his fists. He had never done that to me before but this time, he let all his anger out, or at least part of it. I didn’t know what to do, so I returned home. I walked back into the house and looked into his eyes. He apologized and swore it would never happen again. I only had a broken eye socket and a few bruises. The next day, things were a little different. He seemed like he actually cared about what he had done. This was a man who admittedly didn’t have a conscience. He finally told me a couple days later, that he had been using drugs. He didn’t know what brought him to that point, but I guess he had been using drugs for quite a while.
There it was. Admission. All this time, I swore it was depression. I guess it was and that’s why he turned to drugs. I gave him the ultimatum. He needed to decide between his family and his drugs. A few days later, he made his decision.
The past few days had been stressful for me. I was trying to figure out how to get out of the house with my boys and never turn back. I just didn’t know what to do. This day, I knew something was wrong. I had gone out and ran a few errands. When I came home, he demanded to know where I was. I told him that I had paid a few bills and even showed him the receipts. He tore them up and told me to get out of his face.
I figured leaving him alone was the best thing that I could do. I went into the kitchen and proceeded to make the school lunches for my boys. As I was making the sandwiches, he came up behind me and asked me what I was doing. I turned towards him and told him I was making lunches. Then I turned my back and continued making the sandwiches. He called me a “f***ing liar.” Then he grabbed my ponytail, knocking me off my feet and dragged me down the long hallway towards the living room.
To me, I knew that was it. I knew … I felt I would not survive. I remember being thrown to the ground and him kicking me. When I tried to get away, he grabbed me and threw me on the sofa. I remember trying to block the multiple punches that were coming at and hitting my face. I also remember the hate in his eyes. A lot of things happened in that forty-five minutes. Several beatings with punches and kicks to my head, knees and back. Being thrown against the wall. Being kicked in the head and calling me a faker when he had knocked me unconscious.
At one point, he pushed me away and I tried to run, but he grabbed me again. He pulled me onto his lap, as he sat in that recliner. He said very calmly that I was going to die tonight. He wrapped his hands around my throat and started to squeeze. With each squeeze, he said, die, bitch. Time to die. I felt my body starting to black out. I knew I was going to die. I had no strength left inside me. Suddenly, I pictured my dead body on the living room floor and my children finding me. Somehow, I managed to get up the strength to kick him and then I catapulted myself off the chair and out of his grip. I ran. I ran as fast as I could. I even locked the door as I ran out. I just ran. I ran and ran.
I found myself hiding in the bushes. It was cold and all I had on was a sweatshirt and jeans. I hid until it was dark out. I was so afraid that he was going to find me. I knew in my heart and my head that he would not hurt my boys. I also knew that I had to either die or get help. I wasn’t sure what would happen, but I ran. I ran through woods. I wasn’t even sure where I was going. I didn’t have my glasses on, since he had ripped them from my face. I couldn’t see two feet in front of me.
Several times, I sat down and cried. I wanted to just drop dead. Something inside me though, kept pushing me to keep going.
I’m still here. Still here, and still, suffering in silence.
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