Last night he grabbed me hard by the throat. It still hurts today.
There are no quiet moments anymore. Every sound out of his mouth is a scream out of anger or anguish. His whole being fluctuates between rage and tears. Last night he cried for 30 minutes, “I miss my daddy, I miss my daddy.” A daddy who abandoned him in his teens and even when they made contact a year or so before the old man died, it was strained, to say the least. And when we knew the guy was going to die, I encouraged him to go see his father, to get some closure, but he declined.
I hate coming home now. I hate leaving work even though I have had enough of work. I know I will walk into a bad scene and goddamn if every night isn’t the same shit over and over again. He has taken to calling me “fat cunt” all the time, when in our 15 years previous he never refered to my size to insult me.
He shrieks (constantly), “You’re hurting me, you’re hurting me.” And I wonder why it’s me that is hurting him. As if it's not the fact that he drinks to the point of complete mental breakdown every day…to dull the pain of his reality. I have been the sounding board, the punching board and I am oh so bored with the whole scene. Perhaps the fact that I remain calm (usually, for as long as I can) is upsets him. He yells, threatens, breaks thing (we no longer have a TV in the bedroom) and balls his fist up to hit me square in the jaw—but he doesn’t. I guess I should be grateful.
He carries a huge burden. He did terrible things. He needs atonement, which I thought would come through therapy, but the therapy isn’t helping. He is a tortured soul who takes his misery out on me. He needs God’s forgiveness but neither of us believe in that kind of God.
I feel so cornered.

I got him to a psychologist under the auspices of seeking marriage counseling. Just as I had suspected, the doc very gently said, “I can’t work with you as a couple but I would like to work with HIM.” I took this as code as I’m not fucked up, he is (which I believe). Unfortunately, after one session alone with HIM, the doc said, “I’m not sure I can help him, but if he wants to come back again, that’s fine.” Which is better than our usual past track record; every psychologist and psychiatrist we’ve seen in the past 10 years—barring one who saw him for two years—has declined to give him treatment.
Do you have any idea how that makes me feel, when I am vulnerable to attack at any moment? When I live every day with unfounded criticism, angry outbursts and violent threats? NO ONE can help us? And let’s not even talk about the legal system: an order of protection won’t protect any woman who has a man with hate in his heart—there’s nothing anyone can do. I must be smart and wily…I must stay centered and calm to persevere.

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.