It is a damn plague! A level six epidemic! It’s a path to world destruction, this chain linked gene of mental illness, these psychotic episodes of sexual rage; they’re a pile of shattered glass that we all just sweep under the rug, left there to rip into our skin another day.
How can this be?! How can we say that we are loving creatures, that we are humane, charitable, and intelligent beings… if we can’t recognize, admit, or even talk about these appalling travesties to humanity, let alone, solve them? We are our own abusers.
I used to burn myself with cigarettes when I was seventeen.
I thought feeling the pain would let me know that I was still alive. I thought that hurting myself would… would… teach me some sort of lesson. Like, if I could just slap myself right out of it, then I would wake up and start living for myself. Does that make any sense? Is that therapeutic? Hurting yourself to make yourself want to live? It sounds disgusting, doesn’t it? The desperation that is takes to blame yourself for something that someone else has done to you… it is disgusting. I think what I hated the most about me, was my lack of courage. I knew that I needed to do something, anything… to stop my stepfather from hurting me. But I allowed it to go on. Hell, for a while I even thought that I deserved it.
Until Jim came along. Then, I knew that life could be sweet. He used to pick flowers for me along the road on our way home from school. The white and yellow ones that grow wild in the spring. He would pull a small vine from the brush and tie it in a bow around the stems. He said that I was as beautiful and as wild as those flowers. He told me that I was those flowers… and anytime that I felt like hurting myself, I should just pluck off a petal, crumble it up in my hand, feel the moisture, the stickiness, the soft pieces of destruction rolling between my fingers, and then open my hand to look at what a beautiful mess I had created… and to know that I am fully capable of being beautiful even if I am in pieces.
Jim put my stepfather in the hospital the day that we ran off to get married. I was two weeks green at eighteen, and Jim was just shy of twenty-two. He was working construction, saving up to study criminal justice, and I was a few days from graduating high school. He picked me up from school like he always did, and we drove out to Seneca Lake. I loved to sit on the tailgate of his old stepside Chevy, parked at one of the pull-off spots along the water’s edge. I would hold onto his strong arm and rest my head onto his shoulder, watching the gleaming ripples break onto the sandy pieces of shale stone. Every now and then a couple of ducks would fly by, and I would joke about how that could be us someday, free and soring to wherever the wind would take us.
That sunny day, he leaned in to kiss me and said: “let’s do it.”
He hopped off the tailgate, ran into the trees beside us, came back out with a smile, and lifted me off the tailgate. He knelt to a knee, and in the trickling crash of dirty lake water and distant quacks of ducks flying away, he asked me to marry him. He didn’t have a ring, of course, but he asked for me to stick out my hand, anyway. Then, he tied a vine into a bow around my ring finger. Of course, I said yes! He was my salvation! He was the feeling of life, he was the wind, the warm sun, the splash of water, the smell of dirt and earth… he was the world to me.
We ran home to get a few things before we rode off into the sunset, metaphorically and literally. That old Chevy slid to a stop in my gravel driveway. That Garth Brooks’ country hit, Ain’t Going Down ‘Til The Sun Comes Up, pounded at the speakers, and died at the twist of the key. We ran into the house holding hands.
That’s when my stepfather stopped us.
“Where the hell have you been?”
“At the lake… daddy.” He forced me to call him daddy ever since I was three.
“Well, lose your friend, it’s time for you to make dinner.”
“I’m not making dinner tonight. I’m leaving.”
He shot us a look of confused anger from his living room armchair.
“Like hell you are! Now get your ass in the kitchen and make me something to eat.”
Jim hated when he spoke to me like that.
“No, I don’t think that’s going to happen tonight,” Jim said. “And maybe you should learn how to talk a little nicer to your stepdaughter.”
“No one asked you for your two cents, boy. Now shut up, and get out of my house.” He took a swig from his Old Milwaukee, rattled it around, and tossed the empty can towards a full trashcan. It skidded across the floor and crashed into one of the three other empty cans starting to make a pile.
Jim shook his head and smiled to comfort me.
“Run up and pack a bag, babe. I’ll handle him.”
I ran upstairs to pack a few things, and it wasn’t long before I heard the rumble and felt the walls shake. By the time I hustled back down the steps, Jim was wiping blood from his lip, and my stepfather was lying unconscious in his own blood underneath a head-sized hole in the wall.
We drove most of the night until we bumped into this quiet little town. We got married at the Cambridge Courthouse that next day.
For what it’s worth, we had several years of happiness, in the beginning, while we both got our degrees. Life was good back then. We took our time. We waited to have kids until we were sure that we were ready. Hold on, let’s be honest, are we really ever ready? But, I’ll never forget the look of love in his eyes the day that Ally was born.
It was a look that was not duplicated when the doctor finally placed Tyler into his cradled arms.
. . . . .
It’s hard to say this… I’ve never actually told anyone this before but given the circumstances, and the “honesty atmosphere,” I guess it’s safe to say…
Nikki… was a rape baby… by my own husband.
Hell, I should’ve seen the signs. I should have been more vigilant, more perceptive. But you know, it’s a funny thing, what we do with our minds, convincing ourselves that what we see isn’t actually there. I mean, how could a man that was so loving, sooo… heroic, my Hercules… or Cronus, rather… how could a man like that, a father, do something so evil?
He was never the same man after Tyler was born. It was like a switch flipped inside his psyche, and all of a sudden, he was the real American Psycho. It came in spurts, in waves. Small, gradual white caps, rolling in on our perfect little beach. He let his mind go, gradually at first, like a melting popsicle in the August sun. When I finally realized that I was standing there holding onto nothing but the stick, it was too late. My hands were just as messy as his, sticky, and red. Regrettably, I spent too many years in denial.
I just kept making excuses for him. Oh, it must’ve been another hard day at work. He’s just stressed out. He still loves us, but he has a lot on his mind. I couldn’t possibly understand what he goes through each day. Yes, I tried to rationalize his actions. And when that didn’t work, I tried to justify them. Well, Ashley, if you would’ve just cleaned up the house before he got home. Maybe if you weren’t high all the time. He needs to let it out, or he’ll explode.
The night that he forced himself inside of me… that should’ve been the night that I left him.
He got home late, again. He’d been out at the bar with a few of the other cops on his shift. I could smell it on him, stale fermented air, cigars, fried food, and rage. It rushed in like a tidal wave through the door and lingered on the rug where he stood, stumbling while he tried to undress.
“Dinner’s in the oven,” I said wrapping the dragging blanket tighter around my shoulders as I made my way back upstairs to bed. I decided to just let him in, myself, after listening to his key poke at the keyhole and rattle on the porch for five minutes while Shooter barked and growled in the yard. I wanted no part of this Jim. The drunk rage monster that fires on whiskey fuel and snide remarks.
His voice was heavy and smoky. “I ate.”
“Okay,” I muttered halfway up the steps.
I was close to the top when I heard him stumble and ask for help. I should have never hesitated. I should’ve never turned around. Then maybe that night would have been different. But… then again, maybe Nikki would never have been born.
“Help me.” He said from his back, reaching for the one untied shoe still on his foot.
I should’ve just gone to bed and been done with it. But, seeing him so helpless, so weak, so little… I felt empowered to have some sort of control over him. So, I sluggishly made my way back down the stairs to help him remove his shoe and pants.
He grabbed my butt as I held him up.
“Not now, Jim. It’s time for bed.”
He squeezed my cheeks and moaned.
“Come on. Up the steps. Bedtime.” I slapped his hand away, talking to him like I would talk to Ally at bedtime. I nearly had to drag him toward the stairs.
“No!”
He shifted his weight from my shoulders to his feet, leaned back and smacked me across the face.
Just like that, the switch had flipped.
I turned by the force of his hand and covered my face.
“Jim! No! Stop! Please!”
He half tackled, half fell onto me right there in the hallway at the bottom of the steps. Before I knew what to do, he was on top of me, slobbering all over my face and neck. A real turn-on for a half-asleep, angry woman.
“Jim. Jim! Quit! Stop it!” I tried to push him off me, but he was dead weight.
He sat up, pinning my waist under his, and forced my arms to the floor.
“Stop moving.” He was looking at me but wasn’t there. He was somewhere else, buried deep in a drunken state of painful, adolescent emotions that were never mended.
He ripped and ravaged my blanket and t-shirt, smacking away my protests until there were no more. Then, in a twisting fistful, he yanked off my panties.
“Jim…” I uttered one last plea before he had his way with me.
. . . . .
After that night, I tried to drown myself in alcohol until I realized that I was pregnant.
Since it was his idea not to have any more after Tyler, he wasn’t excited when he came home from work and found me crying in the bathroom holding a positive pregnancy test. There was no joy, it wasn’t a happy moment. Instead, he yelled at me as if it were my fault.
“How could you let this happen? We agreed, no more kids!” He slammed the test into the trashcan as if that would make the pregnancy disappear.
I shuddered at the sink, reaching for a bottle of painkillers, reliving exactly how it had happened. Well, Jim, it happened from you raping me at the bottom of the stairs two months ago, asshole! I don’t know how many pills I popped, I just remember crying all night, wondering what had happened to our family.
After she was born, I suffered from postpartum depression. Jim still blamed me for the pregnancy, but at least he stopped hitting me for a little while. At first, I tried to drink it all away. And it worked for a short spell. I even felt proud that I had the control to handle it myself. I felt like a real Hemingway or Poe. Writing and drinking, drinking and writing. For a few short years, I was in control.
But, ultimately, the pain from his drunkest nights would never go away. After a rough “fall down the stairs,” my doctor prescribed Percocet for the pain. Well, it wasn’t long before I became addicted. They were so good at making me feel so numb. They were perfect for letting me escape. And I didn’t care how it went away, I just needed the misery to stop. I slowly fell deep into a dark hole of prescription medication and alcohol. It was my sole salvation, my only escape… my further damnation.
I wasn’t high every day. I was still a good mother. I went to all of Tyler’s t-ball and biddy league games. I helped Ally with her dance and music recitals. I did… stuff… with Nikki. I was a good mom. I was a good mom.
Jim got more abusive as the years went by. Then, he would try to make up for it by buying us anything we wanted. Underneath all of that damage, I still believed that he loved me. And I think, somewhere… somewhere down inside of me, I still loved him, too.
Some days were even calm, sweet days. There were marvelous parties and formal balls with the police department, where I’d get to wear a dress and heels, and him looking so handsome in his suit. We would dance the night away, back then. I would flaunt the diamond earrings and flashy necklace he got me for our fifth anniversary. You know, I felt special some days. And I admired the school events for the children – when we were more of a family than we were at home. But even at home, some days were still decent, some days we were still a loving family.
That’s about the time that Ally ran away and tried to kill herself.
There had grown a huge disconnect between my children and me. As they grew, they distanced themselves from me… or maybe me from them. Honestly, I don’t know what happened. I don’t know what made us stop being there for each other. It just seemed to unfold that way, like one of those memory foam toppers out of the package, we just gradually expanded our distance. I thought that maybe it was just the teen in them. But I didn’t have a clue as to how gone they really were. Well, not until Ally drank the bathroom cleaning supplies, and I found her in her vomit on the bathroom floor. If it weren’t for the three glasses of wine, I wouldn’t have moved from the couch. She would have just laid there dying while I was comfortable and high on the downstairs sofa. I hate myself for that. I hate myself for losing my children.
The truth is, I dug myself in deeper and deeper until I couldn’t see the light. And by then, I was so numb to the pain that this dysfunctional life just seemed normal. It felt normal. Like, oh, it’s just Jim hitting me, again. He’ll stop eventually and leave me alone. Then, I’ll get some new shoes or jewelry. No big deal. This was the world that we were living in. Like some thriller crime novel where the main characters are doing something so illogical, so annoying, so painful and self-inflicting, that while you are frustratingly flipping through the pages reading, you are begging them to stop, pleading with them to find the courage to do what they need to do, yelling at them to just open their eyes.
I wish someone would have begged me to stop.
Six.
Jim
2018, May
Let’s just get one thing straight, here–I never did whatever it is that they say I did– and I don’t need this. Matter of fact, if it wasn’t court ordered, I’d completely blow it off, if we’re “being honest.”
My side of the story? What is there to tell? I have three spoiled little brats and a gold-digging wife who has no respect for the man of the house. Yes, the man of the house. Some families still believe in that tradition. I certainly do. I’m the breadwinner, I pay the bills, it’s my land, it’s my house… and I have authority over what happens in my house. End of story. If someone steps out of line and needs to be reprimanded, then, by all means, they will get reprimanded. It’s that simple.
You know what’s wrong with the world today? No discipline. That’s right. All of these kids are running around with their faces stuck in their iPhones and iPads, having no clue as to what’s going on around them, no respect for order, or tradition, or power.
Yes, power. It’s what runs this country. It’s what drives every decision, forces every move we make. Power. People will steal for it, fight for it, even kill for it. Believe me, I’ve seen it al
l in my line of work. People want power, whether they’ll admit it or not. They need it! And, they will do whatever it takes to get it. Think about it, Doc, that’s how we’re raised, that’s how we’re trained in school, organized in our careers, manipulated by our government… it’s all about power.
Let me tell you about power. By the time I was seven years old, my father had already taught me two important lessons about power. Number one: He has all the authority under his roof. And number two: If you want that to change, then do something about it.
You see, growing up, we lived a few miles outside of town, just off a narrow, pot-holed, and gravel road. It was the country as far as I was concerned. We ran through the sprinkler when it was hot, and we put wood on the fire when it was cold. My father worked construction; my mother kept the house clean and warm food on the table. We weren’t poor, but we weren’t rich either. We kept a few chickens, goats, and horses in the barn, I was in charge of tending to the goats and chickens, while my older brother tended to horses.
Even at the age of five, my father was trying to teach me something about life– about power. Each morning before school, and each evening after school, we would do our chores. We’d feed the animals and make damn sure that our rooms were clean. Trust me, it didn’t take too many whips from my father’s leather belt to understand how important it was to keep things tidy. He would often tell us, “I spend all day in the dirt for my family, and the last thing I want at the end of a long, hard day, is to come home to filth.”
Anyway, there was this one goat, I remember quite well, that would give me all kinds of hell while I tried to do the feeding. He would charge from behind and ram me with his horns or, if I got too close, he would kick me to the mud. It’s sort of funny now looking back on it, but I wasn’t laughing back then. That goat tormented my life for the greater part of my kindergarten year. It became so traumatic that I was scared to go do my chores. So, some days I just wouldn’t do them. Well, my father certainly didn’t appreciate his children not doing what was demanded of them… and I would get the belt, but there were days where I’d rather have the belt than deal with that damned goat.
At Daddy’s Hands Page 7