Futile Attempt

There was only one moment.

My only attempt.

To break free.

The only moment came during a fit of rage.  Rage that went on for hours and hours.  To this day, I do not remember if the abuse had turned physical yet as it had as I entered my second year with him.

But the rage was there all four years.  Verbal abuse of the most vulgar kind.  Words that slammed me just as viciously as his fists.  Words that degraded me, humiliated me, stomped away any shred of me ~ those words I listened to every day for four years.

"Shut the f up!"

then

"Shut the f up you f-in ________________ (insert b word, c word, or w word)!"

then

"Shut the f up you fat, f-in  ________________  (insert b word, c word, or w word)!"

I can't really write those words down today without hearing his voice all over again shouting them directly to my face like a drill sergeant.

But in that moment ~ of fitful rage ~ I found the courage to run from him and try to leave with the clothes on my back just like I had heard other women having to do.

But I needed to take more than just me and the clothes on my back.

I need to get Lil' Red, my beloved orange marmalade tabby cat who had been with me for nearly 12 years now.  There was no way he would be left behind. 

He had his own room ~ a tiny sunroom with a sliding door to the main house that I would close abruptly each time the abuse started to drown out the drama as best as I could.  I would close the curtains and pray that Lil' Red would stay sleeping and not wake up during my ordeal.

This time I ran to Red's room, flung open the door, grabbed the cat carrier, scooped up my baby, and quickly pushed him inside his sanctuary from the chaos of this moment.

I fumbled for my purse and my car keys and headed toward the back door to the alley.

But suddenly there was the man ~ with his giant fists ~ grabbing the cat carrier away from my grip ~ and while yelling and screaming his vulgar words ~ he shook the carrier back and forth ~ not too hard at first ~ but threatening to shake harder and harder.

Shake, Shake, Shake!!!

"Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!  Give me back my baby! Let us go! Don't hurt my baby, please!!!" I pleaded with the man who would not stop yelling and shaking my baby's carrier back and forth.

I  knew what I had to do in that moment to protect my baby.

I bowed down ~ with my words ~ I gave in to the abuser and the abuse.

"Okay, I will not leave!  I'm not leaving!  I'm sorry!  Please don't hurt Lil' Red!"

He gave me back the carrier.  And left the sunroom.

I stayed with Lil' Red.  Took him out of the carrier.  Held him tight.  Told him I was so sorry. 

"I'm so sorry Lil' Red, my precious boy.  Mama's so sorry."

I slept in Lil' Red's sunroom that night.  Spooned with my boy.  Comforted my wonderful companion of nearly 12 years.  Told him I would try harder next time.  I would try to figure out another way to get us out of here.  I gave him my promise. 

On that night, the sunroom became our sanctuary, and I would retreat there for long nights after other episodes of abuse.

Three years later, I remembered my promise to my precious boy as I put him in his carrier, loaded him into my Toyota, looked over my shoulder as I backed up the car down the alley, and never looked back.