Unspoken Rage

Son of a bitch.

I can vividly remember the first time he laid his hands on me. I also remember the last.

The last time, he had both hands around my neck, then just one as he reached down and grabbed an object from the floor with the obvious intention of hitting me with it. I remember the look in his eyes right before that moment of object-to-face impact.

He was a monster. Blood in his eyes.

And right before I truly feared for my life, he stopped.

It was like a switch flipped. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Undoubtedly terrifying, but what frightened me most was the possibility of my young sons finding my lifeless body after he killed me.

The volatility had become constant. I had forgotten how to live without fear and hostility, relying on alcohol as my buffer and my invisible shield.

That time was the last time.

I wish I could say I left because of self-respect, but I didn’t. I left for the sake of my children and my family.

I had lied to my mother about what he had done—and continued doing—to me. I was ashamed. Embarrassed. I still don’t know what prompted her to ask. We hadn’t seen each other in years, and she lived across the country. Maybe it was that mom intuition I have since experienced myself.

I want to delve deeper into this experience: how it developed, why I didn’t run after he drunkenly verbally abused and degraded me. How could I not have seen what this simpleton truly was after the first of so many abusive encounters?

I have never considered myself a fool.

But my abandonment issues, my lack of knowledge about what healthy relationships looked like, my youth; all of it made me the perfect target. Somewhere along the way, I lost sight of who I was.

And I think some part of me knew.

There was a reason I had no interest in things becoming serious with him. Maybe a fling, but certainly not the kind of relationship that would give him the privilege of meeting my beautiful children or anyone in my loving family. They would have seen him for the monster inside that lanky human skin suit.

Maybe I knew that subconsciously.

Eventually, he did meet my boys. The “fling” became a relationship.

He never hurt me in front of the boys. I even believe he loved them. So when he choked me behind my closed bedroom door while my littles were watching TV in the living room, my reality erupted.

I knew that if I survived, I was out.

And then I was.

There were all the nights of being called a whore and a slut. The spitting in my face. The degradation. He even abused me in front of his elderly Portuguese granny at his parents’ house, then gaslit her, telling her she hadn’t seen anything and needed to go back to bed.

I hid behind a column until it was safe.

I have so much more to say.

The list of disgust is so long, and while he is not worthy of my time or attention, I feel like getting this out might help me heal.

And, on an embarrassing note for him: I discovered that he was jerking off to screenshots of his teenage neighbor. I believe she had turned eighteen by the time I discovered what he was doing.

It still makes me sick.

There is so much more to this demented story, but I will end this chapter with the last time I saw him.

It had been years since I finally got away from him. I had eventually threatened to send photographs of my bruised ribs, along with other images documenting the bruises he inflicted, to his parents if he did not leave me alone.

Years later, I was working at a gas station between other jobs.

He walked into the store.

I froze when I realized it was really him.

He spoke to me casually. He asked how my boys were, as though we were casual acquaintances. As though he had never threatened to cut my head off during one of his drunken rage “episodes.”

I could feel my heartbeat. I had to steady my hand just to check him out at the register.

I was polite.

I was even friendly.

And I was shaking with fear, frozen in my spot.

He smiled.

Then he left.

I had a panic attack.

I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t speak. Tears were flowing down my face.

One of our regular customers, Mr. Dave—a rich old white dude who drove a silver Mercedes and loved to play the slots—came out from the games in the back and immediately noticed that I was not okay.

But I still couldn’t speak.

Old Mr. Dave came around the non-customer side of the counter and held me.

I could smell Dave’s cigars and B.O.

And it comforted me.

Eventually, I could speak again. I gave Mr. Dave the short version of what had rattled me so terribly.

I put in my notice shortly after that experience.

Observing people. Understanding behavior. Finding light. Trying not to be an asshole.

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