was arrested on a technicality. Hours later he is released by the judge without being jailed, which was acceptable to me. The point had been made. There is always someone whose authority, just or unjust, supersedes one's own, and I had made that abundantly clear. My pride at resorting to calling the police was a small price to pay.
It was the last time in our marriage that Gregory ever threatened to throw me out of my home. Over the years, his comments would be, "If don't like it, there's the door." And though he would never threaten to toss me out, I began to wear flip flops in the house year-round, and with each passing year, became less concerned with my appearance in his presence.
This is not a battle of words, or battle of wills, or a challenge of authority. This is a silent war. A war in which I will physically transform and begin to breathe again in his presence. I will take back lost ground, one pair of lace panties and colorful espadrilles at a time. It is a war I know how to win, if I remain strong. I toss the black flip flops into the garbage, and carefully apply a French pedicure to my clean, polished bare feet.
***
The months following Gregory's arrest were clouded with despair, doubt and strife. There had been a short separation, many entries in my journal, talks of him getting his own apartment. Anger ran deep in him, and he became more of a stranger to me than ever. He would come home from work in the late evening, wake me up, and berate me for one thing or the other. If I was silent, he would demand answer and when I would begin to speak, he would shout over me, not allowing me to answer. If I was fool enough to buckle under interrogation and begin to cry, he would scrunch his face in a grotesquely twisted manner and mimic me by making squealing sounds. No words. Just squealing sounds, like a pig being slaughtered. If I tried to leave the room, he would scream for me to get back until he was finished with me. Finally, I would crumple into a thousand apologies and beg for his forgiveness, which he would always deny. Satisfied with my brokenness, he would say that I needed to take responsibility for my actions and if that meant I didn't receive the comfort of forgiveness, so be it. He became a monster. I had dared to resist his power the night I called the police and I would be made to suffer for it. And suffer I did.
I would hide him in my closet, and like a child, I would fall asleep praying that he would stay there, for who was there to save me? I would drown in my private pain. I would stay quiet and out of his way, for Sam's sake. My sleep was heavy with burden. I would fall asleep after crying until my eyes were swollen, and it would be as though a boulder was tied to my chest, pulling me to the bottom of an ocean. Each breath seemed labored. The bed would be empty night after night, thank God, but it was unnatural for me to accept that my husband, the father of my son, was my greatest source of pain.
Deep in the vast quiet of sleep, I see a choir larger than the entirety of my father's congregation. Hundreds of faces inches apart, bodies clothed in choir robes, and a song rising, swelling around me. I cannot make out the words, but they surround me, fill me, and seem to lift me from my pillow. It had been months since I had felt any relief from the tremendous pressure that bore down on me. My body is light. My mouth is moving, joining the choir in song. I am asleep but I feel myself crying tears of joy. "Holy Spirit," I sing ... "Holy Spirit." I am moving higher and higher, lighter and lighter, and somehow I know that I am close to waking up. I can feel myself fading into the dream, the words of the song drifting away, the faces fading from view. I open my eyes to the sun and the wetness of my pillow. Something has changed. A new strength is born in me. I am not alone, and it would be in my praise that prison doors would open. When the nights became long, and sorrows heavy, a song would come to
It was the last time in our marriage that Gregory ever threatened to throw me out of my home. Over the years, his comments would be, "If don't like it, there's the door." And though he would never threaten to toss me out, I began to wear flip flops in the house year-round, and with each passing year, became less concerned with my appearance in his presence.
This is not a battle of words, or battle of wills, or a challenge of authority. This is a silent war. A war in which I will physically transform and begin to breathe again in his presence. I will take back lost ground, one pair of lace panties and colorful espadrilles at a time. It is a war I know how to win, if I remain strong. I toss the black flip flops into the garbage, and carefully apply a French pedicure to my clean, polished bare feet.
***
The months following Gregory's arrest were clouded with despair, doubt and strife. There had been a short separation, many entries in my journal, talks of him getting his own apartment. Anger ran deep in him, and he became more of a stranger to me than ever. He would come home from work in the late evening, wake me up, and berate me for one thing or the other. If I was silent, he would demand answer and when I would begin to speak, he would shout over me, not allowing me to answer. If I was fool enough to buckle under interrogation and begin to cry, he would scrunch his face in a grotesquely twisted manner and mimic me by making squealing sounds. No words. Just squealing sounds, like a pig being slaughtered. If I tried to leave the room, he would scream for me to get back until he was finished with me. Finally, I would crumple into a thousand apologies and beg for his forgiveness, which he would always deny. Satisfied with my brokenness, he would say that I needed to take responsibility for my actions and if that meant I didn't receive the comfort of forgiveness, so be it. He became a monster. I had dared to resist his power the night I called the police and I would be made to suffer for it. And suffer I did.
I would hide him in my closet, and like a child, I would fall asleep praying that he would stay there, for who was there to save me? I would drown in my private pain. I would stay quiet and out of his way, for Sam's sake. My sleep was heavy with burden. I would fall asleep after crying until my eyes were swollen, and it would be as though a boulder was tied to my chest, pulling me to the bottom of an ocean. Each breath seemed labored. The bed would be empty night after night, thank God, but it was unnatural for me to accept that my husband, the father of my son, was my greatest source of pain.
Deep in the vast quiet of sleep, I see a choir larger than the entirety of my father's congregation. Hundreds of faces inches apart, bodies clothed in choir robes, and a song rising, swelling around me. I cannot make out the words, but they surround me, fill me, and seem to lift me from my pillow. It had been months since I had felt any relief from the tremendous pressure that bore down on me. My body is light. My mouth is moving, joining the choir in song. I am asleep but I feel myself crying tears of joy. "Holy Spirit," I sing ... "Holy Spirit." I am moving higher and higher, lighter and lighter, and somehow I know that I am close to waking up. I can feel myself fading into the dream, the words of the song drifting away, the faces fading from view. I open my eyes to the sun and the wetness of my pillow. Something has changed. A new strength is born in me. I am not alone, and it would be in my praise that prison doors would open. When the nights became long, and sorrows heavy, a song would come to
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