13. Sidebar: What happened.

It's time to tell you about what happened, one night in March, about 4 months before everything went completely haywire.

Let's just refer to it from here on out as The Incident.

I wasn't sure how much D was going to remember about The Incident later, primarily because D had been spectacularly inebriated at the time. So after the police had taken him away, yes, really, I wrote everything down that I could remember. I wanted to document The Incident, not to disperse judgment or punishment. My hope was that it would give us both some insight into this event and help us figure out what to do next.

Well, that didn't happen, Dear Reader, because D has since, repeatedly, refused to read this here document. So, his loss is our gain, I think.

It was about 7:30pm one night in March, and I had just put Little One to bed. D had been on the phone for about an hour with his friend, Bob, who lived in another state. He'd been drinking for at least three hours, since shortly after a particularly vigorous phone call with his half-crazy mother. After he got off the phone with Bob, he was feeling pretty goofy. Happy drunk, you might say.

He came into the living room, where I, stone-cold sober, was sitting with my laptop. (I had remained sober for years in the hopes that it would inspire my husband to do so, as well. It didn't.) We lightheartedly bantered for a few minutes, and then he went into his office.

About 10 minutes later, D came back in and ask me if I wanted to go for a walk. I said no, since Little One was sleeping upstairs. (I was very kind, mind you, even though I knew this was a dumb drunkard asking the question.) D replied that then maybe one of us could go for a walk. Then he left the room.

After that, D went into the kitchen and started emptying things into the sink – Little One’s bottle bits and pieces and parts, things on the edge of the sink, etc. I came in to see what was going on, and he wouldn’t talk to me. So I walked back to the living room. Over the next 15 or 20 minutes, he went back to the sink twice, and started banging bottle parts on the counter. He went in and out of the house through the back door and kept closing the door loudly each time. I got the impression that D was trying to provoke me into some sort of reaction. Knowing that this was a no-win situation, I started to feel uneasy and tried to avoid him.

But D seemed intent on engaging with me in some provocative way. He came into the living room and told me I should stop doing “fucking stupid things.” Not really knowing what he was referring to, I looked at him, but didn’t respond. He left the room. From his office, D kept yelling things at me. Unfortunately, they were unintelligible, other than an occasional “bullshit” or “fuck.” Honestly, that’s all I could make out.

A few minutes passed, and D came back into the living room. He walked to the front door, taking his keys and wallet. I asked him what he was doing, and he said he was going out for a drive. I pointed out that he was in no condition to drive, and that I loved him, and that I didn’t want him to do any harm to himself or anyone else so please don’t drive. (D also had four DUIs from about 8 years ago or more. I felt this was a rather urgent issue.) D gave me the keys, and I suggested he go for a walk, get some air, if he needed to get out for a while. “I’ll fucking do that,” he replied, and left.

On the way out the door, D tripped over his cat, a large, white, sweetheart of a cat. As the cat ran to get out of his way, D ran after him and kicked him on his right side, about where his ribs are. The cat flew about 4 or 5 feet and then ran off. That cat died four months later of cancer, poor thing. (By which I mean the cat. And maybe D, a little.)

D left, and slammed the door shut. I closed and locked the door behind him. Five minutes later, he came back and was trying to get in, which he couldn’t do because the door was locked and he didn’t have his keys. D knocked loudly on the door exactly nine times. I counted. I came to the door, opened it, and didn’t say anything. D reached past me to get his keys and said he was leaving. He was standing with his back to the front door. I asked him to please not go, once again expressing how scared I was that something bad would happen to him. I reached out in the hopes he would give me his keys again.

Instead, D grabbed my shirt at both shoulders, shook me, and then shoved me until I fell on the floor. On the way down, I tripped over one of our pets, landing hard on my right hip.

I once again asked D, “Please don’t do this.” He told me, “Fuck off.”

“I’m going to call the police, D,” I said, my voice quiet, and solid, alas slightly shaky.

“Go ahead,” he said, and left, slamming the door, very hard.

As I laid there on the floor, for the first time in our relationship, I was really, really scared of D and what he might do – I was now in a situation where he’d shown that he would actually use physical violence. I no longer trusted D to NOT harm me, or - my God - Little One. Mama Bear was hunkering down to protect her cub. I was terrified that D might hurt himself or someone else by driving. Mostly, though, I was scared by what I saw on his face when he pushed me down. He was vicious. It was like some bad horror movie where a demon takes over someone’s face. Remember how the vampires used to turn all “vampire-y” on “Buffy, the Vampire Slayer”? Well, this was that.

I locked the front door, and heard the car engine turn on. I went over to the phone, picked it up, and dialed 911. They answered almost immediately. (Ours is a sleepy town.) I told the dispatcher that my husband was extremely drunk, and that he had pushed me down while trying to get out of our house to go and drive. I told them that he had taken the car keys with the intention of driving, and I was terrified.

While on the phone with the police dispatcher, I had no idea whether D had left or not. I was utterly panicked that D might come back in and hurt me, really hurt me. That’s what I saw on his face when he left – it scared the hell out of me. That person was not my husband, I reasoned.

As I paced around the living room, I suddenly saw D in the backyard – I didn’t know he was there. He’d snuck around the side of the house. He was sitting in one of the Adirondack chairs. I was now really, really scared. My God, my Little One was still sound asleep upstairs. And I was going to protect her from this madman no matter what. I held the phone tighter, now my lifeline to someone who could actually make this stop, make this crazy person go away.

About a minute later D popped up outside a large picture window in the living room. He banged on it several times to get my attention. “FUCK YOU!” he shouted twice, giving me the finger with both hands. I was clutching the phone to my ear, pleading with the dispatcher to get an officer to my house. Then D disappeared again.

At that moment, I saw one of the police cars slinking up the hill, its lights off, no sirens. I could see the glint of a streetlight in its darkened windshield – that was all. I felt only mild, mixed relief, because it was only going to get messier from here on out, though I did feel safer - a bit.

D came back to that same window. “I’m going to jail. I’m going to fucking jail!” he shouted. He must have seen them too. I was still on the phone with the dispatcher, who was assuring me that the police were coming. I was begging her, “Please, tell them to come. I’m scared of him. My baby is sleeping upstairs. Please, make the police come faster,” I whispered. “Please.” I recounted D’s every move to the dispatcher.

Then D came around to the back door and banged on the window, repeating, screaming, “I’m going to FUCKING JAIL!” In my ear, the dispatcher repeatedly asked me if I was all right, if he was attempting to come in the house. She could hear him. I didn’t know. I had no idea what the fuck was going on anymore.

At that moment, a flashlight lit him up, and I heard a stern woman’s voice out back:

“Sir, stand back from the door. Sir, step away from the door. Put your hands behind your head.”

The officers were there. D’s arms immediately went up, he turned around, and obeyed their every word.

Once I knew that D was being watched - and, well, subdued - a female police officer – a detective, I think – came in through the back door and asked me what had happened. I was very honest with her, both about what happened, and how scared I was. I told her D didn’t hurt me, but that he had pushed me down. I told her that D was very drunk, and that this kind of thing had never happened before. I told them I regretted having called them, and that I didn’t want D to get in trouble, but I was so scared at that moment that I didn’t know what else to do.

I watched them handcuff D and seat him on the bench on the back porch. My husband was in handcuffs, sitting on our back porch. There was absolutely nothing to be gained here, I thought. This would not end well. This was completely surreal.

I believe that they asked D about what I had said, about my recounting of the evening, but by that time I was crying so hard I couldn’t hear very much. She told me they were taking him to the county jail on suspicion of domestic violence.

What? I asked her. What? But that’s – he’s not – no, not D. I cried harder.

The officers politely instructed me to go inside and try to calm down.

Next thing I knew, I was watching them bring D around the pathway along the side of the house. The officer told me that this was a domestic abuse case, and here were all the things I could do about being a victim. Being a victim? I thought. Me? No way.

The officer gave me a pamphlet. A fucking pamphlet. Are you kidding? Seriously? I didn’t need a fucking pamphlet. I was not a victim! Not! NOT! (Sorta was.)

Then the officer told me this: “Your husband won’t be allowed to come home for at least 30 days,” she said. She saw the panic on my face, because she quickly followed that with, “It’s better for everyone – and safer for you.”

She sat down next to me on the couch and looked me in the eye. “Does he ever make you feel stupid? Does he get drunk often? Maybe say things to you that really hurt your feelings?” I didn’t say anything, so she continued, “Does he make you feel un-safe? Does he call you names?”

I numbly, silently nodded. Aw, shit.

“This is how domestic violence starts,” she said. “All the signs are there. Now, you have a little one upstairs who needs your protection. You don’t have the luxury of making excuses for this guy. Okay?”

I nodded again and signed the statement she’d taken from me. No going back now.

But rather than plot my divorce, I panicked.

I felt responsible for getting him arrested. I felt guilty.

So I reeled everything back in and thought, How can I change this? How can I fix it? How can I fix him? Maybe if I just love him more, he’ll get better, he’ll stop drinking, and we can be the family that we’ve always wanted to be. Yes, that’s it! I thought. I will get out my toolbox, and I WILL FIX THINGS!

So I did the only thing I knew how to do at that point: I rushed in and saved D. I stayed up most of the night, researching what would happen to D legally, and how I could help him. I found a top-notch, female lawyer who specialized in domestic violence cases and rarely lost. I called the court when they opened the next morning, and asked to speak with the Domestic Violence advocate. I pleaded my case to her, asking her, begging her to please not take my husband away for a month. “It’s not what will help us,” I told her. “This is not him – I can’t do this alone without him, I need his support. I work full time. I have to have his help to keep the household running and take care of my daughter. And no, he’s never made me feel threatened before.”

Honestly, I don’t know where those lies came from. But I was damn sure not going to let my husband sit in a jail cell for any longer than necessary. I had only called the police because he was going to drive drunk – right? Right?

Huh.

And so, believe it or not, Dear Reader, I succeeded. I got the judge to let him come home later that next day. When you ask a Domestic Violence Advocate how often a DV offender comes home the next day after a DV incident, they’ll basically tell you never.

Well, folks, meet the gal who managed to eek into "never" and find an "except this once." And I did it all because…because…well, fucked if I know. I really don’t know now.

But that was the beginning of the end, the true end, for the marriage.

(Soapbox. If you’re reading this, and relating to any of it, but you feel completely trapped in your situation, please know that the life that you have is not the only one that you can have. There really is a better, safer place for you out there – please, don’t be afraid to go and find it. That will be my only P.S.A. on the subject. End soapbox.)

Seeing D in court, in a bright orange jumpsuit, with his hands and feet tethered to his waist and to other prisoners - it gave me absolutely no satisfaction. All I felt was sorry. Sorry that it had come to this, sorry to see how hungover D was. And I knew he was very, very sorry for what he had done. He was also apeshit scared to have woken up in a jail cell.

So, there you have it. When you layer The Incident with everything that followed it – the bellydancer, the texts, the months of duplicity, the Facebook proof, the requests for alimony, the “I will bury you!” comment, the emails from Mr. Anonymous – well, it explains why everything that followed, did.

And it gives you a bit more insight into why I felt this story needed to be shared.