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Lessons in Suffocation: Part 2
By Billy | February 11, 2009
Here is the continuation of this post, which I am linking despite it being the post directly beforehand. You should probably familiarize yourself with the beginning before you jump in here.
I don’t know what I was. Insane? In love? Stupid? Weak? Kidding myself? Naïve?
Some of these may go hand in hand, in fact. Whatever I was on the inside, I was bleeding on the outside. The scissors lay on the floor across the bathroom, without a sign of defilement; their seeming innocence as profound as my self-presumed guilt. I am a monster, I thought to myself over and over and over. So many things make so little sense in this situation.
Nobody deserves abuse; not from their high school sweetheart and not from themselves. Days ago I had been sitting in that very bathtub muttering to myself, God help me, God help me, God help me. Focusing on the sound of the ice cold water raining down on my head — trying to block out her mockery. “Your god won’t help you here. You. Are. Insane. Stop talking to yourself!” How dare she, I think now. My god is the only thing that helped me.
This time I was physically alone. She was beyond that bathroom door feeling sorry for herself. I sat on the rim of the tub contemplating the twenty four self inflicted lacerations. I continued to wage wars in my mind, do I dress this now or salt the wounds?
Why? Why does it make sense to run from one abuse to the next? Why would I contemplate self-termination for hurting the very oppressor who made me want to self-terminate in the first place? If I wanted to hurt myself, why wouldn’t I just walk outside and let her start again?
Why didn’t I just leave that place?
I thought I could help, to be honest. I thought I owed this girl something. Here we have a regular ol’ person who has been dealt a crappy hand, I thought, I can be the one to turn her life around. I was willing to sacrifice a lot in order to change her life. Some of these changes included deserting my friends and family, 100% ceasing communication with all unapproved females, not listening to or watching television, sticking to one radio station (the local Christian station), and frequent physical and emotional abuse.
I had so removed myself from friends and family that I truly believed I had no way out. I believed my family and I could never be reconciled, and my friendships had hardly been formed, let alone maintained. I was alone, emotionally broken, and felt completely dependant on this girl. I was living with her and going to a college I had never considered looking into because of her. I had invested so much in this relationship that I was willing to sacrifice much, much more to make it work.
I eventually decide to dress my legs with toilet paper and unlock the door. Our two settings merged into one as one would acclimate a new fish to an aquarium; slowly and hesitantly. I just cracked the space ship door, expecting any second for my eyeballs to be sucked out from their sockets due to the alien atmosphere. (Is it okay to put two metaphors in sequence like that?)
We eventually began talking. Even making progress. This is why I put up with her, I thought to myself, it’s actually working! I’m making progress. Progress towards what? We began quarrelling and bickering and she eventually declared that she needed to drop me off at my dorm. (I had never spent a night in this dorm room. My heart aches to think about that wasted energy, money, and all the deceit to this very day)
We sat in silence for some time, and the air in the car grew thick and awkward as she drove to Marymount. We stopped for gas, which was always a silly fighting-hiatus. We liked to pretend nobody would know we’re fighting if we kept it in the car with the windows closed. Back in the car (I had bought her goodies in hopes that material goods would appease her. Sometimes they did) we began bickering again as we drove down Glebe Road. I can’t even recall over what we were fighting. What I do recall is her fist. Her pinky knuckle glanced off my nose and landed squarely on my upper lip. I had screamed at her, and her response to my aggression was physical.
I thought I was bleeding, I thought I was going to explode. I grabbed her hand as she made her second swing towards my face in the awkward sideways punching motion she was making. This time I caught her hand. I squeezed. (Maybe I was a monster) I was on the brink of tears (I am on the brink of tears now trying to recall all this) and unable to think clearly. She breaks my grasp and throws one more successful blow. That was the straw that broke the camel’s back.
Opening a car door while moving at 40 miles per hour is not an easy task. The wind resistance at these speeds is surprising, to say the least. The door pushing back so furiously seemed to ask, “are you sure you want to do this?” I couldn’t have been more sure.
I am constantly amazed at the human body. Shock, and all the physiological responses therein, began immediately. This entire experience (at least in the physical sense) was completely painless. I landed feet first, but the ground’s relative velocity to me demanded that I use the rest of my body for this landing. The scar in my left elbow indicates to me that as my feet went flying to my right, I used my left elbow as another cushion. Perhaps I rolled over and skidded from there, for the only other scars remain the head wound (which got me 8 staples… we’ll get to that) and the road rash on my right knee.
At first I was a little insane. I stood up and screamed. I wailed and sprinted through some grassy field for a long, tiresome time. I had no idea where I ended up, but I began to regain some rationality as I realized how much I was bleeding. Turning around, I went to find myself some help.
It seemed three times the distance traveling back to Glebe Road as it had been running away from it. Whether I questioned if she even cared or if I actually wanted to see her, I don’t know. Either way, I wondered if my girlfriend was in the nearest parking lot waiting for me. She wasn’t.
Luckily for me, I had removed myself from the vehicle very near to a Rite-Aid. I entered the store and asked for a band-aid or some gauze. The man behind the counter directed me to the pharmacy in back. Approaching the pharmacy, and asking for the same goods, I was initially sent away. “That’s not funny, kid. We don’t appreciate pranks like that…” I kept approaching and asked if a symptom of shock was feeling inexplicably calm despite the situation. He realized that I wasn’t joking, and came from behind the counter. He informed me that it was and told me to sit down.
A police man magically appeared, informing me that there was a car behind the car I was in. It apparently looked like I was pushed out. I explained officially that I got out through my own volition as paramedics, who appeared under equally magical conditions, began to set up. As they cut off my shirt (one of my favorites at the time, too! I was very angry), I began to fear they’d cut off my pants too and see what I’d done to myself. I was certain I’d be going to the Looney Bin if they found out about those wounds.
—
This seems like as good of a place as any to stop. I’ll finish up retelling the rest of the night in the next post, and then a debrief in the following one. Though reading this was perhaps a terrible downer, recognize that everything in this life is an experience. I am still learning to appreciate the goodness in this lesson and trying to love the events and circumstances behind it, but I can at least recognize from an idealistic point of view that it is 100% lovely and perfect. I would not be the person I am, nor would I experience the immeasurable joy that I do, had I not experienced the things I did.
Until next time!
(Continue to Part 3)
Topics: Nonfiction, poetry |
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November 1st, 2009 at 3:43 pm
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