Movie Date

 Trigger warning: Fear of violence (maybe-how sensitive are you?) mental illness. I started writing something, and I am trying to reach in and pull out the experiences and de-ice the them. But...they are so vague.

Photo by Debby Hudson on Unsplash

 It was December and it was cold. My (now-ex) husband and I had just left the movies after watching The Last Jedi. I am a lukewarm Star Wars watcher. Of course, as a little girl with brothers, I liked Star Wars, but as an adult woman, I would say I can watch them, but Star Trek is more my jam. Science fiction over fantasy, is how one person put it when we were discussing it. 

It was 15 degrees cold in December, which is early enough in winter to feel very, very cold. Something happened-the windows were rolled down. 

"It's freezing! Will you roll up my window." An argument ensued. He was so insulted. Suddenly my being cold led to screaming about? I don't remember the words. And then we were speeding down Battlefield heading west towards home. "Stop! Fred (name changed to protect the guilty), slow down!"  We were going too fast, slamming on the brakes just before the lights. He was angry that I cared. Insulted. 

So much is foggy now. Too fast driving, me crying, him mad that I was crying. And I was furious that we were at this place. Something was clearly very wrong with him-more so than I had realized, and here I was in the car again, after the last episode a few weeks before where I swore I wouldn't let him drive me again. 

Finally, he stopped. Right in the middle lane of Battlefield in front of Sonic. 

"If you don't like my driving, then I am done!" He stepped out of the car and walked off into the frigid night. I was stunned, numb, and relieved that he was not driving. I climbed over into the drivers seat and slowly started driving home. He had no gloves, no coat on. I was worried. Even though I didn't want him with me, I didn't want to be responsible for driving off from a clearly unhealthy person who was inadequately dressed for the cold water. But I went home. 

I heard him stirring at the door about 30 minutes later. A surge of fear leaped into my heart, and I slipped into the laundry room and closed the door. 

"Jill! He walked around. "Jill!" A minute later, the laundry room door opened. 

"What are you doing in here? Are you hiding from me?" the fury was evident. He was so very insulted that I might hide. I felt my bladder begin to let go. Was this fear? Am I some sort of whimpering puppy? I thought in amusement. I slipped out of the laundry room into the kitchen.

I was met with a wall of fury. Screaming in my face about how ridiculous it was that I was afraid. Foaming spit at the corner of his mouth, occasionally spraying in my face.

Don't back down. I told myself. Don't flinch. I would not cower to someone who was being irrational. When had he gotten so very bad? Was he taking any medications at all at his point?

"I want my keys!" he demanded. I thought back on his driving and as much as I wanted him gone, I did not feel being behind the wheel of the car was where he needed to be.

I shook my head. "I don't think that's a good idea."

Thunder rolled across his features and vibrated through the kitchen. I had moved to place the counter between us. 

"It's my car!" 

He had a point. But again, what if he killed someone?

I stared back.

And suddenly, my determination to not back down, to stand my ground crumbled around me. A hand slipped into a drawer and pulled out a large kitchen knife. 

A knife is a scary weapon. Maybe not as dangerous as a gun, but much more personal. A person with a knife has to be close. Close enough to reach out and touch you. 

When a grown man pulls out a knife the air changes rapidly. I did briefly consider it was an old, dull plastic-handled cheap Walmart knife that had never been sharpened. But, I considered it, and thought if we could still push it through a pot roast, it could still slide through skin. And then he turned the knife toward himself. "If you don't give me my keys, I will END MY LIFE!" I thought of witnessing this. The rest of my bladder emptied, but I kept my face as passive as I could. I have my pride. A whimpering, wetting puppy I might be, but I wasn't going to call attention to this fact. He was too far gone for it to register.

And just like that, my resolve to protect the innocents on the road crumbled. I handed over the keys. He left. Left to go driving around all night, all over the state. 

What's weird about this, is that it should be so sharp in my mind I feel, and yet it's so vague. So tame. It must have been terrifying, but I feel as if the window to this memory is foggy and obscured by baked in dirt. I have no idea where the kids were. Were they upstairs sleeping? Who babysat? Was Taryn there? Caleb? Were the kids with Tierney? Was someone babysitting and then left when I got home. I have no idea.

And part of me thinks of the horrors that others experience and I think, who am I to call this trauma? Nothing really happened. 

And why, I wonder, does it feel so shameful to remember and share? Perhaps some part of me wonders about my willingness to overlook what others would call red flags. My belief that I somehow could handle the bad. My shame that I am not pretty enough to get something...saner, perhaps. Is that the shame? So many interesting things to ponder.