24 Jan Violated…part one
“…do you hate these things about other people because they are the same things you identify within yourself?”
…the question hung in the air like a cannonball waiting to splash out of the pool. For a second he didn’t look up, this man who has prided himself on “not taking any shit from anyone.” He is brusque and loud, defensive, and notably angry…and sometimes I wonder if he’s going to turn to his left and just take a swing at me simply because there are so many emotions raging inside of him.
He hung his head. Tears pooled at the corners of his eyes…”yes. I really wish that at least if I was going to drink and be so stupid that I would not be able to remember some of the things I did, some of the ways I treated them. That’s some serious self-hatred.”
It was a powerful moment which was interesting because the discussion had been entirely wrapped up in powerlessness. He wasn’t going to let anyone take away his power.
Except that he was. He feels he has no power. He feels powerless.
I didn’t realize until leaving the room how incredibly uncomfortable I had been. As my back made it’s way out of the door, I could feel a palpable difference…almost as if I had stopped breathing.
I remembered feeling powerless.
I remember that night. I was waiting for him to come pick me up. I had worked all day. The kids were in bed and the mom was home. We were chatting as we waited for him. She knew I’d be around awhile…promptness wasn’t a gift of his.
Then my phone rang. It was him. Out of breath. Startled. Confused. “Emily. I’ve been attacked. We’ve been robbed. Call the police!”
“Huh? What? Are you kidding? You’re kidding! You’re not serious!? What!!?” …I scrambled trying to make sense of how our peaceful, Indian-filled, quiet neighborhood apartment had been robbed. My husband…assaulted!!?
It wasn’t until he screamed, “Emily! Call the f&%$ing police NOW,” that I understood.
I called 9-1-1…but what was I to say? “Hi…my husband just called and said that our apt has been broken in to. He was there and was assaulted. He says he was hit over the head and zip-tied at his ankles and wrists.” Followed by a bunch of “I don’t know”s after that.
I was stranded. Helpless. Powerless.
The dad took me home. He made a passive comment about drug lords. “That’s absurd,” I thought, offended by his insensitivity to the situation.
As we pulled into the neighborhood a firetruck and two cop cars pulled out. I arrived to our little apartment. One wide open front door and three police cars awaited me.
I’ll never forget the next three hours, despite their bizarre dream-like qualities. I walked up the stairs and there he sat, my husband. A policeman…and one disheveled apartment. My camera, my only material possession that I care about, gone. My stash of money for school, gone. I felt completely violated. Totally powerless. The look in his eyes was tired, scared, and almost apologetic. I expected him to jump up and run to me, to embrace me, but he just sat there and looked at me…until I crumbled in sobs onto his lap.
A fierce, aggressive detective showed up and I was asked to step outside. It was cold. I was scared. I didn’t want to be alone so I asked one of the police officers to come with me. After shivering for an unusual amount of time, I ventured to ask the officer if this was standard protocol…what was taking so long? I had been outside shivering for over an hour. At that point he indicated that some things about the break in didn’t seem right, they were a little off, not all of his story fit together. He informed me that home invasion is a felony and something they take extremely seriously so they have to be cautious when investigating.
It was then that I asked, “are you saying that you think my husband did this!!?”
My gut didn’t have the courage to say that I might could possibly maybe in some alternative universe not be surprised by that, but my brain and my heart were terrified.
….and in denial.
The next two months were filled with more chaos. What was going on? Husband made me believe that drug criminals from his past were coming after him. He slept with a hammer next to his bed. I had nightmares (more than the reg). I didn’t feel safe.
I did feel confused. Overwhelmed. Powerless. Helpless. Heartbroken. Scared. Bewildered. And alone.
Who was coming to get us? Was it him they were after? Or was it me?
It wasn’t until I realized…through multiple confrontations with the aforementioned scary and aggressive detective…and a very weary and weighted-down-by-lies Husband…that I came to discover the depth of my powerlessness.
What do you do when the very person that is harming you…and has harmed you the most…is the one lying next to you? When the person who took from you, violated you, and consistently terrorized you…is on the “safe” side of the door?
Breathe. Pray. Call for help. Grab your pup.
And run towards Jesus…and sanctuary.
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