This is an old story, one I have held off on publishing. I had originally called it “But”, however when I came to this writing prompt, it was a perfect fit.

He never laid a hand on me.

It’s been ten years, but the memory of him still breaks me out in a sweat.

When he meets people and finds out they know me, I’m brushed off with a, “Oh, we went out a few times.”

I lived with him for two years. We traveled the continent together. We talked nearly every day for over six years. I loved him, because he made me. Because I didn’t know any better. I thought the constant struggle for air was a form of love.

This story is nearly impossible to write. I’ve had him out of my head for quite awhile, until a month or so ago, when in walked the director for the Women’s Center in Jefferson County. I try to make conversation while plugging in information on the QuickBooks invoice because it makes people feel more comfortable and it makes time go faster. There ain’t nothin’ quick about QuickBooks.

She was so confident in her mannerisms, just the way she carried herself and the way she spoke. She was approachable but businesslike and I found myself confiding in her.

“So what does your organization do? Provide shelter to women coming from domestic abuse?”

She nodded affirmation and told me a little about how many they had room for, some demographics of her clients.

“I was in a relationship like that once. It’s hard to walk away. You think they’ll change, you hope they mean it when they say they’re sorry. But they’re not sorry, they’re just biding time. They’re small men, who don’t have the courage to pick on the person who’s really angered them.” I kept inputting information as my eyes welled.

His eyes were like liquid chocolate when he was pleased with me. They twinkled when he teased me. But they were squinted and were the mud brown of a snapping turtle when he was angry or jealous.

“You’re a smart one,” she told me. “So many of these women keep going back, even after they know better. We keep taking them back and each time they’re a little more broken, a little more vulnerable.”

I thought of all the times he berated me for not having prepared the right dish for supper, for making an innocent comment about a guy I used to work with that pertained to something we were watching on the news. I remembered tapping my foot along to some music at a KFC way out in the desert of New Mexico. I shouldn’t have been drawing attention to myself.

“They’re jealous because they know what they’re doing behind your back and know you’re capable of it, too. They want to have the upper hand. They’re terrified if appearing vulnerable so they mask it with rage and paranoia,” I said.

“You’re exactly right,” she said. “The victims know it but they think if they act perfect enough, he’ll leave her alone and things will improve. One day they may not be able to break free. They’ve established a pattern.”

Patterns are hard to break. You see them as security, and the only stability you know. Your family is estranged because they wrote you off long ago, the first time it happened and you went back. Forgiveness is only an option so many times. You make your choices, you are accountable for them. And if you’re stubborn, you don’t want to admit that they were right. And sometimes the abuse is coming from home, too. You just fled one type and gained another. But these agencies are full of non-judgmental souls who understand and who can help you step to your next better life. People who will help you get your feet under you and be nothing but a supportive web to catch you and urge you on. There IS an escape.

I’m reading a book and the author says, “But I don’t go there anymore. That was in my other life.” I once had a different life. I had a life that everyone thought was an absolute blast- I traveled, I didn’t work, I lived on a farm with my horse, a goat named Daisy, and my longhorns named Gus and Clara. I went fishing.

He put on a good front for those around us. But I saw the cut of the eyes when I spoke and I knew what it meant. It meant shut up, or there’d be hell to pay later. But never a hand, only the mouth. I sometimes wish his words had left bruises, so people could see the pain was real.

But when he calls, I usually answer. I keep him at more than arm’s length. It’s not easy to talk to him. He knows he hurt me, but I want him to see he doesn’t have that power anymore. I’m happy. I’m healthy. I’m most definitely whole. And he should know that I’m not going to run from him. He should be the one to feel powerless. I try my best.

You have to stay strong. You have to say no every single day. It’s like any kind of addiction, they look so good at first, and you think you can have just one bite, just one piece, just one snort and walk away. But you can’t. You walked away once, don’t make yourself go through it twice. Just stay away.

If you go to church, you’re familiar with the preacher saying, “This message is for somebody. Somebody here needed it this morning. God laid it on my heart to share, and there it is.”

Somebody does need this message. As long as you’re drawing air, it’s never too late to get out. But don’t wait until it is too late.