He finally hit me the other day. After 15 years, he hit me. It's not like I didn't see it coming, it had been building up for weeks, for months...really, for years. And it wasn't that hard of a smack--just enough to make my nose bleed and bleed and bleed.
I would like to say it scared him more than me, but it didn't scare either of us--it was just the next stage being put into action, the confirmation of how badly this relationship has deteriorated.
It was not surprising at all--AT ALL-- to either of us.
The blood poured down my face and didn't stop for hours. I worried that I might not be able to go to work in the morning. He said, "I'm not sorry, I'm not sorry."
This train don't have no brakes. Never did. The craziness of youth has metamorphosized into middle aged desperation. What was sexy, dangerous and non-comformist ten years ago is now just sad and desperate--dangerous behavior doesn't play so well in your forties. What seemed like a life living on the razor's edge back then now just looks like a thousand bad decisions and indecisions (thank you, t.s. eliot). And it wasn't ever violent before--it was dabbling with violence, it was thinking his angry outbursts were part of his joie de vivre. Seriously. His aggressive behavior was very attractive, sexually, until it became directed towards me.
Is he a bad man? Am I a bad woman? Are we trailer trash screaming out the door so the neighbors can hear and call the cops? I HAVE screamed hoping the neighbors would hear me and stop the craziness--call the cops who would put a good jurisdicial foot down to end the madness that happens in our home, but no one ever dials 911 and I have realized that the hitting and bleeding are on me--they're my responsibility...not my fault but my responsibilty because no one can help.