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1. Missionary Position
My husband and I have been together almost four years now. We have a new baby girl with wispy blond hair and big, steely blue eyes. Everyone tells me how much she looks like her father.
Four years together, and little of that time with him sober. He is not a mean drunk but a reckless one. What was fun in college has become tedious in adulthood. He hit rock bottom so hard one winter that he landed in rehab. Last year I was proud of him. I felt sure he had finally beaten his addiction — only to find out this year that much of that success was a lie. He can control his urges for a few months, swearing that this time it will be for good, but it never is.
And here I am, still in love with the sober man he occasionally is, still defending his character, still believing in his potential. He relapsed again a few weeks after our daughter was born. I had thought that perhaps having a child would inspire sobriety, that he would not want her to grow up with an inebriated father, the way he had. But tonight, less than a week after he received his umpteenth thirty-days token, he came home from buying us ice cream with that certain dismissive tone, that careless sway to his walk.
I used to ignore the warning signs. I became a pro at pretending, at making up excuses for his erratic behavior. But now, with my baby sleeping in the other room and him lying in bed in a stupor, my question to myself is: What am I going to do about it this time? He avoided sex when we were dating, saying he wanted to wait until we were married. Separately, each of these signs might be seen as insignificant.
Taken together, however, they reveal that I married a gay man. After twenty-three years, still having no idea that he was struggling with his sexuality, I was so unhappy that I initiated a divorce. Even after the marriage had ended, he was unable to live openly as who he was. He would be seventy-two today.
He must have feared being ostracized or losing his job. Even more, I believe he truly loved the family we had created and simply could not bear the thought of losing it. Tell her what it is. Our daughter was pink, rosy, and healthy. My daughter has graduated from high school, and we will soon drop her off at college. I must have had some warning somewhere along the way that this day would come, but I missed the signs.
Was it when she stopped crawling and took to running? Was it when she begged me to let her wear shoes with a heel? Was it when she hit the gas pedal instead of the brake and plowed down the fence in the front yard? Was it when we had the talk about sex, drugs, and rock-and-roll?
How did I miss the moment when she stopped holding my finger? Six years ago I thought I had found the love of my life online. In the second month of our relationship, at our first social outing together, he became angry at me for some reason and would not talk to me or look at me for hours. I was confused and hurt. He got over it, but I thought it was strange and asked a co-worker if I should move on.
A domestic abuser will ask you to make a big commitment early in the relationship. After a few months we had decided to move to another town together.
An abuser will isolate you from your friends and family. Six months in I was pregnant. An abuser will find a way to control you. For most of our relationship I felt caught between trying to make things better and finding a way out.
An abuser is most dangerous when the victim tries to leave the relationship. One night after I left him, he snuck into my apartment and crawled into my bed with a butcher knife. I am lucky I survived. She was ten years older than me, frustrated with life, and fat. Back then I was thin, youthful, and active. I did not care how she looked, and we went to movies and other places together.
Over the years her health deteriorated. She got a scratch on her foot that became infected and landed her in the hospital, where she discovered she had diabetes. In time she lost her sight, and she finally died at the age of fifty.
I should have seen it coming. Tina and I had been friends for just a few months. She talked often of her suicidal feelings and her addiction to prescription medications. I listened patiently and shared my usual platitudes about the importance of living. Then her finances took a hit, and the doctors stopped prescribing her pain pills.
She killed herself soon after, took every pill she had left. A year ago, worried about my health, I quit smoking. As expected, I began eating more. Today I weigh almost three hundred pounds. I get winded easily. When I talk on the phone, the other person can hear me breathing. My feet are sore in the morning. I look at myself naked in the mirror, amazed. I can see it coming. On a crisp September morning I was running late for class, and my father was preparing to leave for a trip east for his final round of interviews to become a federal judge.
Love you! My sister Em had a long, uphill walk home from high school. One hot day she bought a cold soda for the journey. When she got home, she put the half-empty bottle in the fridge. Knowing that anything in there would be considered fair game by the rest of us seven kids, she left a note saying, I spit in this. I was in the kitchen later when she went to retrieve her soda. She reached for the bottle, then stopped to look at the note. Beneath her message our brother had written a new one: So did I.
In his second year of college my brilliant brother was hired to program computers. At the age of nineteen he had an office and a secretary. He lost his job, however, when he came to work one day in bare feet and a suit slashed to shreds with razor blades. He gave away everything he owned, then got arrested for stopping traffic and telling people they were going to hell. I brought him home to live with me.
He seemed fine. He went on and got married, but before long I got a call from his wife, who believed he was plotting to kill her. I flew to California from Texas and found not my brother but a maniac. He was going to call down Jesus to kill us both, he said. We got him to a hospital, where he sweet-talked the doctors into thinking we were crazy.
It was at that point that I acquired a book on schizophrenia. My family insisted there was nothing wrong with my brother except for his divorce and his newly acquired marijuana habit. Then one day he tried methamphetamines. He lost touch with reality and has since been diagnosed as schizophrenic. Despite all of this, my other siblings still believe his brief drug use caused his madness. The litter box was just six feet away. I chased her out of the house, yelling obscenities.
The veterinarian ruled out a bladder infection. But, no, her behavior continued for months after he left. When I was very young, my parents would ignore my siblings and me at family get-togethers as they drank and laughed and told jokes. My older brother would disappear with our cousins, and my younger sister would fall asleep on a couch, but I would sit there feeling neglected and forgotten, asking my parents in tears if we could please go home.