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1. THERAPY
Every morning began with violence. It was his job to get our son ready, and it was my job to take him to daycare. Ear-splitting screams were coming from my son’s bathroom, “I KNOW YOU HAVE TO PEE. GO PEE PEE IN THE POTTY RIGHT NOW!” I clung to the edge of the bed, shaking with sobs, stuck by my fear. My son’s wails sounded far away, his two-year-old lungs muted.
I should’ve been the one to get him ready. A good mother would not sit still for this abuse each morning, she would do something. A good mother would not stay up all night, taking calls with Geneva at midnight and then with London at 1AM. She would not wake up tired, needing help from someone else to get her son ready. But I was exhausted, and my job kept growing bigger and farther away.
When I couldn’t take any more, I found a therapist in Oakland and told my husband it wasn’t optional. The therapist was a towering, bulky, Black man: Courtney. I squealed like a pig. I told him about the screaming, the hitting, the fighting, the ritual outbursts. But he showed sympathy for the man terrorizing everyone in the house. Maybe I had judged too harshly.
Courtney said giving our son an alarm clock to wake himself up could ease my husband’s morning fury. He suggested using timers and sticker charts to get the child to comply. He said, “I’ve seen many couples in here that are not gonna make it. You guys are not that couple.”
2. RETROGRADE
Every time Venus goes retrograde my fantasies of divorce became solid. This time, my journal was filled with promises to free myself from my prison of a marriage. I memorialized years of stifled rage and my continuous yearning to be free. The entries contained no encouraging words, no advice from the Bodhisattva, no reasons to wait it out. I knew it was time to book the Astrologer.
Giddy with impending freedom and emboldened by my resolve I said with confidence, “I want to know if you are seeing divorce in my chart at this time.” When the Astrologer said no, I was speechless, angry, confused. I scolded myself for booking him. He was the patriarchy. Now I would have to find another way, a different defense.
Years later, after the business was done, I watched the recording of our session and saw something different. Around minute 17, floating in the word-vomit of “My partner is great and I love him and he’s flexible and supportive...” I heard myself say, “Do I even have a problem with this relationship or am I using that as an excuse for some internal work I need to do?” I was again speechless.
3. STUDENT
I came back from Ghana healed. My therapist was shocked. She was mystified by the sudden disappearance of my anxious, depressive nature which had seemed clinical just a few weeks before. Now I was in the state of patient acceptance I’d struggled to reach through meditation. When I got back home, I knew I couldn’t stay married to this man. He was white. He was an oppressor in anti-racist clothing. I couldn’t honor my Ancestors while still trapped in a 400-year-old dungeon.
I resolved to find a spiritual teacher. Someone to be my guide, someone who could translate what I felt underneath the churches on the coast. I let go everything else and it was euphoric. When I met my teacher, the woman who ended up saving my life, I told her about the trip and my fantasies of divorce. We talked for a long time, we made plans to talk again, and she delivered messages from my grandmother.
After some thought she said, “There’s been a rupture – but you can repair. You just need to remember what you loved about each other in the beginning.” But I couldn’t remember any of that. She saw us in happier times dancing, going to concerts, enjoying nights out. But I didn’t enjoy nights out anymore, I hadn’t for a while. She said to start with a couple’s bath, we could reconnect. If this is what my Ancestors wanted, I would do it. But I did not want to take a bath with this man.
4. MOTHER
I hid my pregnancy for six months while I was warring with my boss. Having promised me a promotion, she was looking for a reason to renig on the deal. After the birth, I fought bitterly with my husband. He made a habit of staying out all night during my maternity leave. He said he needed to enjoy these last weeks of freedom. I decided to go back to work early so I could take showers and wear real clothes and speak to other adults. I had to use my breast pump in the office phone room while people banged on the door, needing to make calls. I left and got a new job where I was running the show. I brought my baby to the office for weekend pitch rehearsals and team outings, it kind of felt like bringing your dog to brunch.
The year we hid inside, watching the bodies pile up in trucks after the morgues were full, I saw my son differently. I knew his Zoom friends and the happenings in his virtual classroom. We started a garden of scrawny greens and baby carrots that the rats chewed up. I realized he was a living piece of me, external flesh, and I decided not to fuck this up. I gave him scathing yo momma jokes to use at school, I confronted parents of bullies, I texted with teachers and counselors, I organized playdates and carpools with moms I hated.
And when the CPS investigator whispered, “Do you have any of his medical records? I’m not going to get anywhere with him. He’s really defensive of his father,” I stormed into my room to get his charts. She failed to mention the only proof that counts is him asking a stranger for help.
5. SAFETY
Hi ______,
Following our conversation and interactions this morning, I wanted to put a few thoughts in writing so we can work toward clear, safe communication and a peaceful environment for all of us, especially ______.
…
It’s important to me that we both feel safe in our home. I’m not comfortable with and will not tolerate yelling, cursing, having my personal conversations monitored, or feeling like my space is being encroached upon. I’m asking that we give each other personal space (at least two feet of distance) and approach serious conversations, like matters about the house, at a mutually agreed time.
If we find that verbal communication isn’t working at the moment, I’m open to having those conversations in writing or with a third party present to help us navigate them more effectively and calmly.
Thank you,
B.
6. 10 THINGS
I went outside, pretending I’d forgotten something in the car. I crawled inside the car, locked the door, and called my lawyer. She was steady, “Are you sure you don’t want to go to a shelter? It might be the best option for you right now.”
“I’m not going to live in a shelter with my son while paying a mortgage.”
I refused to cede 3,500 square feet to the abuser who paid for nothing. Shelters should be for abusers, not victims. The police would not intervene without physical evidence. If I called ACS they would take my son from both of us. Seemingly, my options were to go to a shelter or wait to be seriously hurt so that I would have a case.
“Your safety does not have a price. Are you safe there?”
“I don’t know how to answer that question. I feel like I don’t even know this person. Is there some kind of quiz I can take that tells me if my husband is gonna murder me?”
It wasn’t a quiz; it was a list of warning signs used to judge the severity of the situation. She asked: does he encroach on your physical space, does he monitor or stalk you, does he scream at you or the child in front of others, does he blame you for his behavior, is he violent with other objects when he’s upset, does he use drugs or alcohol and the behavior gets worse, are you unable to physically get away from him …
Sitting in the car, I said, “Yes,” slowly, ten times.