An old poem found on my crap(lap)top
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Z baby
Talking in her sleep
so much like her father
gentle and sweet
yet often cold beneath
mad so she hits me
I cringe at the similarity
yet I see me too
I see my love
my heartbeat
my sassy
my smile
my temper
my creativity
fighting her sleep
soft and sweet
wild child
wild child
I adore you
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I read the entry about my ex, Zoe's dad. Gosh I feel sorry for him. What a stranger to me.
Cheating wasn't the only reason I left him. I forgave him, not forgetting, and we were to be "roommates" for our daughter sake.
I don't remember how this argument started. I remember seeing beer cans. Six to seven to eight, all over the living room. It was late, I had finally gotten Zoe to sleep. I came out and deb-bitched at him. Bitched at his predictability. Drink up all night, watch sports, watch the re-sports on ESPN, watch whatever and drink until 3 or 4 or 5am.
I felt like a single mom even then. Slept with my child. Nursed her, fed her, bathed her. Took her to daycare and back. Weekends were spent at the park, at the mall, running errands, playing. Me and Z, Z and me.
He was always too hungover to do anything with us. Slept until 1 or 2pm. Or if we woke him to go out with us he was Oscar the Grouch to the 200th power. I'd rather be alone to smile and be smiled at.
He was sitting on the floor. I said some mean, bitchy Deb thing and he grabbed my ankle, nearly sending me to the floor. I kicked him. He stood up and drunk punched me in the mouth. The start of the first and last time this man would hit me.
This was the end.
I remember my hand slapping him in the face. Hard. It wasn't a conscious decision, it just was a reaction. I felt my lip swelling immediately.
He shoved me down on the couch and started to choke me with his forearm on top of my neck. The look on his face was fiercesome. The end, the end. I bit him as hard as I could. I bit and bit and I tasted blood but I don't know if it was from my lip or his hand. I didn't care and bit him harder.
He drew back. He punched me in the eye. Again and again. I kicked him as hard as I could. He fell to the floor and I ran.
I couldn't see, but still ran. I don't know how I got out of the house, but I did, keys in my hand. Zoe crying. I remember hearing her cry and knew that I had to get out. Even if it meant leaving her. I thought he was going to kill me. I could not let him do that. She needed me. I am all she had.
I drove and drove, not knowing what to do. It was the middle of the night and I didn't want to bother my sisters. They had kids, they had lives and they had no drama. I drove to the local fat Texas sheriff's office. They escorted me back. Ready to wifebeater react. They asked me if he had a gun. No. They made him go downstairs. I had Zoe. Finally. She stopped crying. And forever she had me.
They didn't take him away because I kicked him first and I bit him and drew blood. We were equally at fault. Uh huh. But one of us had to leave.
I took the out.
I packed an overnight bag. Grabbed a blanket and a few of Zoe's things. She didn't even look concerned. Me and Z, Z and me.
I drove. I didn't call anyone. I wanted to sleep and be safe. I checked myself into the Galleria Marriott. $100 a night. A safe house, of sorts.
I knew I couldn't afford it. But I had the need to have some normalcy. Something nice and not a seedy or not so seedy motel. Room service, hot shower and anonimity. I don't remember what name I used, but she and I knew it wasn't mine.
I remember the look on the desk clerk's face. Horror and shame. They were supposed to charge me for that night and the next. $200. But she knew. She didn't charge me for that night. She knew. Frightened, exhausted woman, bloody swollen lip, black eye. Beautiful, peaceful child in pajamas and no shoes on a cold night. So kind. They were all so kind.
We all knew from the tales of Tina Turner. She gave me one of the nicest rooms I have ever seen (and I've stayed at the Fairmont Chicago and various Four Seasons, but this was plush). God bless that woman. We got extra food from room service. It never showed up on my bill.
And yes, this was the end.
I knew that even if Jesus touched my husband personally, erased his sins, took his drink, made him faithful, and made him Saint Ex Husband, I would never let that man touch me again.
We slept and we were safe.
*happily single with z*