Wide Awake Part 1 the Anniversary Assault

By ReclaimMyLife

It was our third anniversary...

Mike and I were sitting in a hot-tub in a hotel room, overlooking the beach, watching a television show on his laptop. The honeymoon period of the relationship was in the distant past. We had been chatting sporadically about mundane things, but the show had remained our main focus. That is, until our conversation landed on the touchy subject of our relationship, which had gotten progressively worse over the last three years. Predictably, the conversation was becoming more tense and emotional.

Although still trying to keep track of the details and direction of the discussion, my main priority had changed. The content was less important than establishing where Mike was on his emotional scale, and even more importantly, were we headed for physical confrontation. I watched his eyes closely. How frequently was he blinking? Was he looking at me or somewhere else? Was his gaze fixed or moving? As I sought his visual clues, I also listened intently to the tone of his voice and rate of speech.

Mike was giving mixed messages about his emotional state. His words and body language were not aligned. His tone was confrontational while his body remained relaxed. His hands were not yet forming fists, and there had been no shift in his muscle tone. I focused again on the content of the conversation. Did he seem accusatory? Frustrated? Critical? Yes, yes, and yes. Were his comments directed at me, was I the target of his frustration? Yes. Was his anger increasing? Definitely. How rapidly? It was a slow but steady increase. Was he having uninvited pauses (where his emotions blocked his ability to quickly process information and accurately articulate his thoughts)? Not yet. That was good, nothing triggered violence more easily than his inability to express thought or emotion. His body would soon align with his words, leaving me a short but precious window of opportunity to turn things around. If nothing changed, his anger would become aggression.

We had developed a system a few months earlier. It was imperfect, but the best tool we had. I would ask what his level of anger was, and he would let me know using a scale from one to ten. This system was created with assistance from five therapists and countless books. We had attempted to create tactics to communicate more effectively, hoping to diffuse confrontation. The ultimate goal was to never hit a seven, which was the point where he lost control, resulting in violent explosions. Those explosions had been getting progressively more frequent and severe.

On this particular occasion, I calculated the answer in my head. We had rounded four or maybe five. As if to confirm my conclusion, he sat up a little taller, angled toward me and peacocked his chest slightly. I needed a tactic, STAT! Sadly, the most reliable was the furthest out of reach. He needed to walk. Fresh air and being in public often helped bring him back from the edge before it was too late. It was my final line of defense. Although wanting to spring into motion, I instead cautiously climbed out of the hot-tub, being sure not to get a drop of water on his laptop. While walking across the room I asked him to repeat the last point he had made. The one I barely heard because I was focused on my safety. My intention was to slow the progress of the conversation, knowing that his next thought might be the one to take us right off the cliff.

I scanned the room for the things I needed. First, dry clothing, my dress from dinner was on the floor. The hotel key, on my bedside stand next to his car keys. My cell phone, not visible and I did not have time to look. I continued to talk, trying to reduce or maintain the current level of emotions. I needed a long story to illustrate a point, a fond memory, or something humorous to insert. Nothing came to mind. I thought a request for further clarification would do the trick, at least temporarily. But picking up my dress set off his alarms and he went back to his main point, speaking faster this time.

It felt like we were in a race, he was barreling toward explosion, I was fumbling with the grenade, hoping to throw it far enough, fast enough. He talked faster, I dressed faster. Damn, why do cocktail dresses have so many straps! The discussion took a sharp turn, his posture and tone became more aggressive. He was about to say something condescending, critical, perhaps patronizing. I had to keep my eye on the prize, not take the bait.

He had talked to his mother about our relationship. He had told her that we have really high "highs" and really low "lows." Although the conclusion had not yet been stated, I could tell he was proud of their analysis. There was a long pause. It was either an invitation or he was choosing his next words wisely. He processed more slowly than I did, which was both a blessing and a curse. I chimed in that, from my perspective, it was more of a cycle than a straight "up and down." It was not meant to be argumentative, I just wanted divert him temporarily. Don’t get me wrong, it was true, but it was meant to be a tangent. All that mattered was getting out of the room before we reached the punchline of the story.

He paused as I fumbled with the strap on one of my heels. I had momentarily given up on my dress, which I now held up with my armpits. When he spoke again, he insisted it was not a cycle. Mike's frustration grew exponentially as he maintained that he was very self-aware, that he would know if he went through cycles.

DANGER! This brought him right to the tipping point. He spat out that his mother thought our relationship was abusive. He seemed oddly pleased to label our relationship that way. Perhaps he was about to tell me all the reasons I was at fault… but he had paused, waiting for me to say something that would justify his impending explosion. I did not turn, but I could feel his eyes on me.

Part of me wishes that I had bit my tongue, or had used my filter at that moment. A larger part of me is glad, as dire as the consequences were, that I finally broke my silence. Without pausing or showing any emotion, I stated, “Our relationship is not abusive, you are.” I spoke the words meekly, but the weight of truth filled the room.

Somewhere in the brief moment of silence following that statement, I found the self I had lost three years prior and felt whole once more. Then, hearing the splash, my reclaimed sense of self was lost again. Before I realized the need to defend myself, he had me.

My assailant had grabbed me by the hair at the base of my neck and pulled me off balance. By the time my dress had hit the floor, I was completely in his control. My back and neck were arched to the point of extreme pain, my posture was forced beyond the natural range for my body. I panicked as I realized I could no longer breathe, because the angle of my neck was blocking my airway. He maintained his grip and bent me further as I tried to defend myself. His hands trembled so much that my body shook as well. I could barely see him from my position. He looked like a wild animal. He hissed, “I will fucking kill you.” We both knew he meant it.

Utterly and completely helpless, I continued to stare, terrified, into Mike's unwavering and unforgiving glare. The asphyxiation eventually caused me to lose consciousness.

As I regained my senses, still disoriented, I could hear Mike repeating over and over, “What have I done!?! Oh God, what have I done!?!” He was on the ground, curled up, rocking as he continued to repeat himself. He seemed oblivious to my waking up. My only goal at that point was to do whatever was necessary to get out of that room alive. Since that day, my aim has been to do whatever is necessary to remain safe and alive.

SAFETY!

Once I regained consciousness, I still had the problem of actually making it out of the room without being attacked again. I had learned from previous experience that there was generally a safe period following intense explosions, but this one had been different from the others and I did not know the threat level of my current situation.

To ensure my safety, what I needed was to not be alone with him.

Before he become aware of my being conscious, I spoke, disrupting his obsessive rocking and talking to himself. He looked at me and I repeated "Call your parents." I slid his phone across the room toward him. He looked bewildered but took it, and to my surprise, he dialed. He did not hold the phone to his ear, but put it on speaker.

I held my breath through the two rings before his father answered.

He asked Mike how he was doing, and the reply was, "Not so good." When his father asked what happened, he admitted that he had assaulted me. Mike and his father discussed family problems, from Mike's childhood, that had led to a decade of therapy.

I do not know what was said after that. I was completely paralyzed from the shock of the new information I had been introduced to, until I heard my name. His father was speaking to me, asking what I needed.

I told him I needed to steal Mike's car to get away. I asked that he stay on the phone with Mike for at least an hour to ensure a safe distance. He asked Mike if that was okay, and with all of his aggression spent, Mike said yes.

I took his keys and walked out the door, then ran to the car. I only drove a block before pulling over to sob for a few minutes. But still aware of the urgency, I got back on the road. As wide awake as I have ever felt, I drove in the direction of my home, although I knew it was the last place I should go. With no desire to actually process what had happened, I cranked up the radio and just kept driving.

I ask myself, from time to time, did he think he had killed me? Does he wish he had? Did he feel genuine remorse for his actions or just fear of the possible consequences? I also wonder, will he ever snap and not care about the consequences of coming after me? The reality, of course, is that I don't know.