Choked

I stood by the stove with my back turned and listened to the creak of the lock as his key turned in it.  Six o'clock, time for him to stomp into the house and in his silent, brooding way, sit down on the sofa by the door to unlace his boots.  I didn't turn to speak or even say a "hello" over my shoulder.  I knew that to do so would only annoy him and frustrate me.  He needed thirty minutes, he told me, after he got home from work, to just not speak to anyone.  I did my best to honor his request, although it felt odd to ignore him for a half-hour every day after he came in the door.

I heard him grunt as he bent over to untie his laces, heard the dog excitedly panting, pawing at his knees, begging to go outside.  I ignored that too, focusing instead on the hot pan in front of me, sauteed onions and peppers for the sauce.  The aroma surrounded me and I tired to only let that aroma fill my brain; not the stench of the man who sat a few feet behind me in the next room, talking to his dog instead of me.

Things went downhill fast after I moved in.  Instead of basking in the newness of cohabitation we began a war of wills.  He gave me so many rules to follow I couldn't keep up with them all.  I felt as though I invaded someone's private space against their will, even though I came to live there by invitation.  I kept my things tucked away in drawers and closets, out of sight because I felt afraid of making myself too comfortable in his space.  We shared a bed, a shower, a living room, but so much of what one would expect to share in such an arrangement remained absent from the equation.

As I worked on dinner and waited for the thirty minute clock to run down I contemplated how I would tell him my news.  Excitement welled up inside me as I thought of my new apartment.  I already knew what color I wanted to paint the walls, already knew what furniture I wanted.  I paid my deposit that morning and planned to start moving the following weekend.  Even though I knew he wanted his cave back all to himself, I feared telling him I was about to leave.  Something in me just knew he wouldn't take it well.

He didn't.

"What are you cooking?" He finally asked about twenty minutes after walking in the door.

"Spaghetti." I answered.

"You aren't putting meat in it are you?"

"Of course not.  Veggies only." I said, not looking up.

He went in the bedroom to retrieve clean underwear, stopped to pat my butt on the way back through to the shower.

"Should be done by the time you're out of the shower." He always needed a heads up about when dinner would be served.

He gave no response, just went on his way and out of sight for a good twenty more minutes.  I felt grateful for the reprieve and stood there in the kitchen fantasizing about cooking dinner in my apartment for just me and my boy; no one there to give me orders or remind me of rules I must follow.

As I prepared to strain the pasta I heard the bathroom door fling open and before I knew it, he stood behind me, his arms around my waist.  His wet skin soaked the back of my shirt.  I used to love his affection, but that night it made my skin crawl.

"Hot pot of water!" I warned, and he backed away.

"What's up with you lately anyway?" He wanted to know.  "You don't even want me to touch you anymore."

"Nothing's up." I lied.  "Just didn't want to burn you."

He looked sidelong at me as he leaned against the kitchen sink watching me work.

He never asked about my day, but usually found something over which to pick a fight every evening.

"So why didn't you speak to me when I got home?" He asked.

"You told me not to bother you for thirty minutes after you got home.  I was respecting your wishes." I answered.

"You never seem happy to see me," he accused.

"Am I supposed to pant and wag my tail like the dog?" I shot back.

"Yeah," he said with a giggle.  "'cause you're my bitch."

Silence.  I kept at my work as I felt him staring me down.

"I'm just kidding." He plead.  "Don't take things so personally."

I sighed heavily and sat the pot of spaghetti down.  "I have some good news." I announced trying hard to smile and seem upbeat.

"You do?" He looked puzzled.

"Yeah," I said.  "I found an apartment.  I'm planning to move this weekend.  Would you like to help me move or should I hire a mover?"

"You're moving out?" He asked, shocked.  "Did I say you could move out?"  He was trying to sound like he was joking, but I knew he felt threatened by my assertiveness.

"I didn't ask you." I said.  "I think it's best for both of us if I go. We are not happy together.  I make you miserable and you make me sad."

He took that as an insult.  "I make you sad, huh? How do I make you sad?"

"Look," I said.  "I'm not having this conversation with you.  Let's eat dinner and have a pleasant evening.  The good news is I'll be out of your hair soon and you'll have your house all to yourself again." I smiled up at him as I picked up a spoon to stir the sauce.

He looked at me with that seething anger burning in his eyes I'd seen  a thousand times before.  He stepped closer, pinning me between him and the stove.  His skin felt hot through the thin cotton t-shirt he'd slipped on while we talked.  As he leaned in my face I could see the pores on his cheeks, feel his breath on my skin.

"Girl, you better appreciate all I have done for you."

"What have you done for me?" I asked, not backing down.

"I let you live here for one thing, so you could save money."

"You let me move here so you could take financial advantage of me and use me as a maid." I replied firmly.

He moved closer still.  I didn't try to pull away.  I wanted to show him I was not intimidated. I hoped my racing heart wasn't so loud he could hear it.

His big hand was wrapped around my neck as he leaned right in my face.  "All I have to do is squeeze." He said with a grin.

"Then squeeze." I dared him.  "Go ahead."

He stood there, staring me down, his eyes glazed over with the haze of weed. In that moment I realized he could kill me if he wanted to, with one hand.  He was strong, bigger than me, trained by the military to kill in ways I probably couldn't imagine.  Still, I didn't waver.  I didn't want him to think he could intimidate me.

"I'm not scared of you." I said.

"You should be." He threatened.

"Squeeze, then." I tempted him again.

"Girl, you don't know who you are messing with." He told me as he let go and walked away.

"Oh yeah I do," I said under my breath as I turned back to the spaghetti, now turning sticky in the pot.

It was two weeks later before I finally got moved.  He insisted he wanted to help me so I wouldn't have to pay a mover; however, he kept stalling until finally on a Tuesday morning, I decided for myself that I would move my things without him.

Angry that I took control of the situation, he took the day off work and moved all of my stuff at once.  He piled it all in the middle of my apartment living room and disappeared out the door.  It was one of the last times I ever saw him.

My life started getting better by the next day.  Over time I saw more and more that I lived in a prison of sorts throughout that relationship, even when we didn't live together.  I lived in a prison of anxiety and fear without ever acknowledging that he held the keys to my cell.  Only after I escaped, did I finally see clearly the oppression of life with that man in it.  He might as well have kept his big hand around my neck for the entire four years with me playing the fool, thinking I was courageous when really I was just too scared to make a move away from him.

Fear can rule us in many ways.  Fear keeps us too long in the grip of toxic people, jobs that rob us of our joy, lives that give us nothing worthwhile to strive for.

I thought this morning as I got ready for work, that life is just a series of seasons rotating around us year after year.  We are cogs in a clock, winding ourselves up again every January so we can cycle through another year of seasons.  We live the same lives over and over again, year after year, everything so the same that we often forget the smallest details that differentiate one year from another....Sameness and nothingness, life in it's predictable loop lulls us like a ticking clock in an empty room.

Children grow up, things break down, people die.  Every year we welcome babies and say goodbye to our elders.  Every year we say, "This year will be different."

We live in blindness; we cannot know every outcome.  Our blindness instills such deep anxiety. Fear of failure, fear of success, fear of dying, fear of living--we are consumed by it.  Restlessness  nestles deep in the pit of our stomachs telling us we need to change, but change is scary.  The devil you know...

I speak from experience when I say, the Devil you know may very well kill you.  Maybe he'll put his big hand around your neck and squeeze, whether or not you act brave and dare him to do it.  Maybe he'll stifle your spirit or drain your bank account.  He might stomp your very soul into the ground, not with fists or heavy shoes, but with words that choke the life out of you.The Devil might be your partner or your boss, your mom or dad.  He might be your next door neighbor or your sibling.

Maybe the Devil you know is slowly dragging you away from who you were meant to be.

Sooner or later, you have to break free.
There is no shame in running away from the Devil in work boots, lurking behind you.

Once you're free, the calendar will ride you along it's pages again, through Summer and Fall and back again through Winter.  You don't have to live them all the same, with fear guiding you day after day.

You can create your own season.  You just have to leave fear back there in another year--a year spent, gone by, lessons learned.  You can create your best tomorrow, head held high, no Devil lurking
behind you.  Why wait for his approval?  You can walk away today and never look back.