Kristi

He paced up and down the hall with a sledgehammer slung over his shoulder, marching with a drunken sway from the kitchen on one end of the house to the children’s bedroom door at the other. It was well past midnight and he had just gotten home from another late evening with his buddies. He reeked of rum and sweat. His hair was standing up in damp clumps and his eyes bulged out from behind his glasses. My three girls lay asleep in their beds behind the closed bedroom door. They were 7,6, and 4 years old, so young and innocent, and I desperately wanted them to sleep through this nightmare.

“I’m going to smash all the windows out of your van,” he bellowed at me with drops of foamy spit falling onto the floor between us. “I’m going to break something of yours, you fucking psycho bitch.”

He swung the sledgehammer down into the carpet and it made a thudding sound that I hoped was not enough to wake up the girls. Clenched in his other fist was a piece of paper I had not noticed when he came flying in the front door. He only swung the sledgehammer hard enough to terrify me, not hard enough enough to damage anything. He appeared out of control, but really was completely in control of himself and the sledgehammer.

I didn’t care about myself or the house or my van. I was only concerned with standing between him and that bedroom door.

“Yes, I checked the mail box and look what I found!” He threw the crumpled letter at me and swung the sledgehammer back up over his head, holding it over me. I hurriedly grabbed the crumpled paper off the floor and smoothed out part of it. The handwriting was that of my good friend Abrah, who lived 2600 miles away in Vermont. She was my roommate in college, my fellow traveler, and one of very few people he had not driven away. We stayed in touch through the years and I had called her a couple of weeks before, looking for some encouragement. Things were becoming increasingly difficult after eight years of escalating rages. She didn’t know enough to not write me letters. Most husbands don’t check every piece of mail, the caller ID every day, every person I ever talked to and every place I’d been.

“Don’t bother reading it,” he slurred at me. “I’ll tell you what it says. I’ve got it memorized.” Then he began to screech at me in a made up Abrah voice. “Dear Kristi, I was sad to hear things weren’t going well for you. Someday you’ll get your chance to get away from that man and if there’s anything I can do . . .” he paused to catch his breath.

Then his tone switched back to bellowing beast. “What did you tell her? What did you say about me? I own all of this. I put this roof over your head. Then you tell your friends how awful I am. Where’s the proof? You made it all up. Lies. Lies. You’re a liar. I’ll take it all away from you, you fucking bitch!”

His eyes were popping out of their sockets. Part of me watched this scene from the outside and laughed at how bizarre he looked. It felt like a freak show at the circus. Look at the scary angry man, angrier than any human ought to be. With his free hand he pulled on his hair, causing it to stand straight up in the air. I had been frozen in front of the girls’ bedroom door, more worried about them seeing this than for my own safety, but as his behavior was becoming more erratic by the moment I began to run through safety plans in my head.

I couldn’t leave the house while the girls were still trapped here with him. He knew I loved them and that I couldn’t live without them. I would stand in his way no matter how hideous he became. I couldn’t call the police. I had tried that before but they said all they could do was to escort me and whatever I could carry out of the house and we could stay in a safe house for three days. There was no place to put my cats and dog and no plan after the three days were over. He would kill the pets and I would be on the streets with the girls.

I had stayed home with them for the most part and had no resume, no paycheck, and he kept a careful eye on every penny so I couldn’t stash any away. I was broke. I was isolated from anyone who could help me. I was embarrassed by his behavior. I was backed into a corner, trapped like an animal. I looked at him with all the calmness I could pull from deep in my soul. He would not see my fear. My calm was the only thing I had left to fight with.

He turned to march back toward the kitchen. The phone was in the living room, through a doorway on the left, half way to the kitchen. If I was fast enough I could grab it and run back. If I was too slow he would be between me and the children, able to drive me from the house, lock me out and then . . . well then I’m not really sure what he’d do. I took a chance and ran into the living room, grabbed the phone which was lying on the coffee table and ran back to my place in the hall while speed dialing the closest person I knew who might be able to help me. He answered on the second ring as my husband was turning at the end of his path to the kitchen.

“Jason,” I half-whispered into the phone. “He’s got a sledgehammer and he’s walking around the house with it.”

“Do you want me to come over and talk to him?” he asked.

“Yes, please. But be careful. He’s drunk and he’s on a rampage.”

He was coming back toward me, eyes glaring at me, bloodshot from behind his thick glasses, pulling on his hair with one hand and holding the sledgehammer tightly with the other. A pause in his step showed me that he’d seen the phone in my hand and I let him grab it from my hand and throw it on the floor. We stood staring each other down. White flecks of spit clung to the corners of his mouth.

I concentrated on making it from one breath to the next.

It took Jason less than five minutes to show up at the front door. He didn’t knock. He just walked right in with a quiet courage I couldn’t help but admire. Joe quickly stashed the sledgehammer in the closet just off the living room and stopped pacing. He stood in the middle of the kitchen floor ranting to himself under his breath. It was getting more and more difficult for him to pretend everything was okay in front of other people. He couldn’t turn on that charm and tell everyone I’d made it all up anymore.

“I’m going to drive him around for a little while until he calms down,” Jason said, and he led Joe to the door.

Hours later I woke to the front door closing. Joe was laying on the couch, passed out. Feeling came rushing back to me out of the numbness that had filled my head the second I had seen him with the sledgehammer. Now I was angry. More than angry, murderous. How dare he! How was it my fault that I was unhappy in this and trying to get out of it? Was I to be punished for even thinking about it?Looking at him lying there all nice and peaceful now that the night was over I also knew that he was becoming more and more dangerous. He would get up in the morning and pretend nothing had happened and he’d play with the kids and cook everyone breakfast. He knew enough to never cross the line into something I could take to the police. He never said he was going to kill me. But it would only take a second for all that to change and for him to hit me with a sledgehammer.

This was the night I decided to start planning my escape. It would have to be an escape. There was no way to do it out in the open. He would kill me if he knew.

####

The following post was written about a scene that occurred nine years ago. Kristi says, “I did leave after a lot of careful planning and having to ask people for help. Although it was hard at times, I worked hard and earned a master’s degree and now I work as a therapist helping other people through difficult things. It’s now nine years later and while he still bothers me sometimes I’m doing just fine!” Today she writes over here .

Thank you for visiting Violence UnSilenced, a speak-out platform for survivors of domestic abuse, sexual assault, and sexual abuse. If you are a survivor and it is safe to do so, we encourage you to share your story here. If you are not a survivor but you want to support those who are, please click around this site and find out more about what you can do.

27 Comments | August 26, 2010 | Filed Under domestic violence, survivor story

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cbb

I think you have had the best ending so far. You made it work, and I highly respect your decision to go to school and put the financial situation under your own control. A master's degree while supporting 3 kids? Thats what I call Inspiring! Huge props and congratulations!

Kristi

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