Please, Let Me Go

Even though the night was still young, I was already incredibly drunk. Trying to drown the anger, fear, and pain radiating inside of me with cheap tequila and wine coolers. Earlier that day, I had felt so hollow, my emotions echoing inside of me. But their echos became louder and louder, instead of fading like normal echoing would. Normal...why had my life been so very abnormal? Why couldn’t I be like a regular person, a person who doesn’t so consistently make horrible and self-deprecating choices over, and over, and OVER again. Maybe I deserved this...that hours ago, my request for a protective order against my recent ex-boyfriend was denied. After all, I was the one who chose to stay with him for so long, through all the abuse, lies, and constantly being taken advantage of.

Yes, I had tried to leave; I lost count of how many times. But he would always somehow talk me into staying. Just months ago, I had actually made it out of our shared apartment, with almost all of my things. I stayed with my parents for a few weeks, battling some of the worst depression and anxiety I had ever faced. Probably some PTSD in the mix, as well. Eventually, he talked me into “just coming to hang out” with him. When I went to leave again, he had somehow sabotaged my car, and it wouldn’t start. He told me he would only fix it if I promised to go get my things and return “home”. And again, I gave into him, like an idiot. Such an idiot.

I should have done a 180 and ran the first time he put my life in danger. Less than two months after officially becoming a couple, I found out that he was also still in a relationship with his long-distance girlfriend. Both of us had been clueless. Until that New Years Eve when his little brother confided to me that while I was awaiting midnight with my two best friends, he was celebrating with her. I had my mother take me to the hospital that night. I was so taken aback and heartbroken that I had spiraled into considering suicide. How could a man (a boy, really. He was 18 at the time, I barely 16) who had only just crashed into my life, already make me want to give up on my future completely?

It was 5 years later, and by the age of 21 I had been abused by him in every way. Physically, emotionally, and sexually. He had wreaked havoc on me financially and on my mental health. And now that I had finally, really freed myself from his grasp, I was told "No" when I asked for legal protection against him trying to worm his way back in again. It didn’t matter that he was stalking me in real life and virtually. It didn’t matter that via text and email he was constantly telling me outrages lies, merely to upset me. It didn’t matter that he had threatened my life and his own on multiple occasions. It didn’t matter that I’d prepared to present my case with print outs of these texts and emails, and letters that dear friends had written to the judge in my behalf, telling of their personal witness to my abuse. It didn’t matter that he didn’t even show up to defend himself. The judge said that, "Because it had been over 30 days since he’d actually laid a hand on me," he would deny my request.

So... disheartened, confused, and furious, I threw a party. My intent was to be surrounded by people I loved and get stupid wasted. In my mind, I was giving middle fingers up, and a big “FUCK YOU!” to everything. Really though I was only hurting myself.

There were many of my closest friends there, plus their friends, plus some strangers from my apartment complex who heard the rager going on and invited themselves in. They brought with them more liquor, and even narcotic pain pills, which we would crush into powder and snort. At some point, I was approached by a woman who I hadn’t ever come across until now. She had dark hair, a dull complexion, and appeared to be at least 10 years my senior. She brought with her a weird and dark vibe that I could feel the moment she entered the room. “Hi…” she said, hesitantly “I wanted...I just...I needed to tell you. Your boyfriend that used to live here, he’d come over to my place and smoke meth with me.” At that revelation my ears started to ring, and everything seemed far away. I could barely hear what she said next; something about her living just two floors above me, about them hooking up, and that she’d felt so guilty for keeping this from me until now. Suddenly, vivid memories came flooding back to me. That night...that night makes so much more sense now.

*************

We had finished 2 or 3 large bottles of wine between the two of us. He’d been a borderline alcoholic for the past couple of years, and when my many, many attempts to slow him down had failed, I’d resorted to an “If you can’t beat 'em, join 'em” kind of mindset. It was past midnight by this time, I had an early morning work meeting at 7am, and the day after would be Valentine’s Day. I think we’d just been playing Mario Kart on the Wii, or something like that. It had been a pretty chill evening, thankfully. These days it was pretty 50/50 on whether the alcohol would bring us closer together, or fuel a fight of monumental chaos. Since I had that early meeting ahead of me, I knew I’d need to resign to going to bed soon before getting up and riding my bike over there, either very hungover or still minimally drunk. I was pretty used to this type of schedule, and even though I would need to arrive much earlier than I typically would, I’d be able to go back home immediately after and nurse my post-slightly-poisoned-for-fun body.

I had just emerged from the bathroom, planning on coaxing my toxic other half to bed soon. Even though I needed rest, in the back of my mind I was dreading it. There was a 99% chance he’d try to coerce me into sex that always felt more like a chore than intimacy. If I were to make an attempt at standing my ground about not wanting to participate, an angry tantrum would ensue. He would put me down, berate me, and threaten that if he couldn’t get it from me, he’d go and get it from someone else.

When I again entered the living room, he was no longer on the couch where I had last left him. He wasn’t in the kitchen, either. I couldn’t find him in the bedroom, or in the master bathroom that had become a storage area after he’d busted up and broken down the door to it. I thought to myself that maybe he’d taken our two dogs outside. That theory was soon quashed when I realized both dogs were present and accounted for. Maybe he’d gone out to smoke? I opened the door and peered out to the grassy area, adjacent to the concrete pathway from our door and under the stairs of the top two floors of the apartment building. I didn’t see anyone. I padded outside, barefoot, even though it was a cold February night. I hurriedly walked to the large, open, grass area that was in the middle of the entire complex. As I looked around in every direction, still failing to find him, my heart started to pound in that all too familiar way. That ramped up level of anxiety that I always felt when he was suddenly gone and I didn’t understand why. Yes, he’d done this kind of thing before, and it made me feel completely horrendous.

Feeling panicked and abashed, I dashed back into my unit and out again, this time with keys in hand. I basically flung myself into my car’s driver's seat, started the engine, and quickly drove through the parking lot and to the exit of the complex. After searching around a couple of blocks, it suddenly clicked in my mind that I shouldn’t be doing this, I was definitely too drunk to be operating a vehicle. With my anxiety pushed yet again to another level, from fear and shame in what I was doing, I carefully made my way back to the assigned parking spot.

I ran, following the sidewalk that traced around the inside, outside, and between the apartment buildings, which seemed to tower over me more than usual. Once I realized continuing to search for this guy was useless, I trudged, forlorn, back into my home. Where the fuck was he?? Typically, he would only vanish like this when we were fighting, or if he was out with his brothers or friends and would suddenly go radio silent and be gone much later than he said he would be. But this time it was with no warning. On a night when we were alone and getting along just fine. What was going on? Should I be worried? Should I call hospitals or the police?

By now, fear, physical activity and time had me mostly sobered up. I decided to go try and sleep. That would make the time go by faster, and I could escape from the painful anxiety radiating through my entire being. Also, I still had that damn meeting to attend and needed some rest. As I laid in the darkness of my bedroom, I repeatedly called his cell from mine. I had already tried calling a few times, in moments sprinkled throughout my searching. Now and then, after numerous rings, I’d hear a click and then the beginning of his voicemail greeting. I had come to associate that stupid audio message with times that he’d disappeared on me or scared me in some other way. It had become so triggering to me that I rushed to hang up as soon as I heard that click, and before it would start playing.

I would call and text him a few times, then make an attempt to sleep. As I repeated this process, so many thoughts raced through my mind. Why oh why does he do this to me? I’m so worried and hurt that it’s literally physically painful. How can he just leave me here feeling this way? I’ve told him how bad it feels, begged for each time to be the last. Why does he leave me alone to feel like this, and how doesn’t he care how miserable it makes me? My stomach felt like it was pulled in the tightest knot, and every once in a while, it would get that sensation of falling from someplace high. My skin felt as if it were being burned. My mind was going too fast, and I was experiencing the feeling of being kicked square in the chest. You know when people say they feel like they’re going to crawl right out of their skin? That is a very accurate representation of how I was feeling. Except it was more like my soul was desperate to claw its way out of this mental torture.

I wasn’t going to be able to sleep, adrenaline was pumping too hard. Once I accepted that, I slowly got out of bed, noticing the eerily quietness of my home. I felt so bitter, so resentful. I picked up each wine bottle from the counter. They were empty, damnit. I wouldn’t be able to douse the furious flame inside of me like I’d hoped. And so, it engulfed me. I threw the bottle in my hand onto the kitchen floor and it exploded into jagged green pieces. I grabbed the sharpest looking one I could find. Then I sat down on the rough carpeted space between the open kitchen and the living room, my knees bent, and ankles crossed.

My head was throbbing, my breath catching. The first cut was always the hardest. With my left hand holding steady the soft skin on my inner thigh, I placed the point of the glass piece against my flesh, daring myself to press harder, and then harder. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and quickly pulled back my hand holding the blade-like piece of glass. Immediately, my pale skin opened up, and little pools of blood began to form across the incision. Before I could rethink it and stop myself, I quickly created another gash running parallel to the first. Now I stared at the wounds, watching as those same red dots popped up against the second bright pink opening. As the spots of blood grew, they joined together. Soon the fluid from the first was running down the fatty part of my thigh, soon chased by and joined with the stream from the second. This was the part that brought me the most comfort, watching the blood trickle and flow. It was such a beautiful shade of red. And the sting of pain was a welcome distraction from the pain inside of me.

I turned my focus to the other leg, dragging the glass shiv across a spot down closer to my knee. Then immediately after, creating a smaller line crossing that one, making an X. That little flesh doodle began bleeding in excess faster than the others. Also, now that my blood pressure was slowing, I realized this hurt a lot more than the tiny razor blades that I would typically use. I hadn’t done quite enough yet though. I hurriedly created two more, smaller horizontal cuts on my thigh, higher up above where I’d created the X.

Satisfied with my work, I just sat and watched the liquid crimson drips make crude pathways down my legs. I’d resorted to this because it kind of felt like some of my huge, all-encompassing emotions flowed out along with the blood. Or maybe it was because this was a type of pain that was up to me, that I had control of. I also knew that a large part of my reasoning for hurting myself, was because I wanted to show my asshole boyfriend a tangible, physical representation of the way he was tearing me up inside. An image of the damage I felt had been inflicted on my heart.

Our carpet was one of those repeating tight stitches of many different colors, the kind that looked as if someone had eaten denim jeans and then threw up on the floor. It was good at hiding stains, hence why it was so popular in apartment units. But, before too much blood could end up on it, I headed back to the bathroom to clean up and bandage myself. Now was the time where the stinging and burning of the cuts was the most painful. Then the regret for what I’d done started to seep in. I hadn’t done them up high enough to hide under shorts, either. I started feeling weak and stupid. But what’s done was done. I couldn’t take it back now. I shoved those thoughts into a back corner of my mind and went to the living room couch. I turned my favorite comfort show on, and the lights off. I covered myself with a blanket and carefully pulled my injured legs up to my chest, into a tight fetal position. Now I began to let the sadness overwhelm the anger, and salty, hot tears started flowing. I hiccupped with big sobs, feeling very sorry for myself. Eventually, I cried myself to sleep.

I awoke with a start when the front door swung open and collided noisily against the wall guard. He was finally back. I jumped up and the questions started pouring out of me. “Where have you been? Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving? Why couldn’t you answer your phone, or even text me back? Do you know how worried sick I’ve been?” Saying nothing, he swung a fist into a blow to my left arm. I took a step back, shocked. It wasn’t like this was the first time he’d put his hands on me, but never so suddenly, without warning like that.

That’s when I saw how dead his eyes looked. He looked as if his soul had been sucked out of him and was replaced by some kind of evil entity. I knew that I was in real danger and bolted towards the door. But just as I began to open it, he grabbed me roughly and yanked me back from the opening. “Stop it! Just let me go. I just want to leave! Please just let me leave!” I shouted as I tried to break free of his grasp. But it was useless, he had a strong hold on me. I started to scream shrilly, hoping that a neighbor would come to investigate and help me. Then, he slammed me against the wall next to the door, holding my arm with one hand and wrapping the other around my throat. Realizing I couldn’t breathe, I started to flail. Soon my head began to buzz and there was a noise like a freight train in my ears. Dark spots began to blur my vision. Was he really not going to let go? Was he going to actually take me out like this?

End of Part 1