Wreckage

Stomped on a fancy flashlight my dad gave me for Christmas.

Shredded my lovely jersey knit sheets with a palm tree print.

Cut up an little yarn doll a student gave me at work.

Took a knife to my brand new, purple Snoopy Easter Bunny decoration and tore all the stuffing out.

Slammed the coffee table around, breaking it in half.

Tossed and ripped apart my cell phone to keep me from calling 911 again.


This is my short list.


I remember slowly packing up all my mementos after each one of these incidents, fearing a framed picture of my deceased mother would be next.  I used to have my cookie jar collection proudly displayed in the kitchen trying to make my own chaotic world at least look a little homey.  But I knew any item of mine would be subject to being torn apart during the times he was not slamming his fist into my head.

He felt bad about the flashlight the most, I think.  It was a huge, black rubber flashlight, very durable, probably meant to last forever ~ except the Rubbermaid company had not anticipated the viciousness inside my abuser when they designed that model.  He stomped on the flashlight like he was trying to flatten a Coke can.

I remember getting flashlights from him every year for Christmas after that.

He liked to acquire my things when he was not breaking them.

I remember him helping me clear out my things out of my dad's garage and offering to take my boxspring and mattress "off my hands" ~ just temporarily ~ when I had no room for it in my tiny studio.  He made me sign over one of my cars to him as a form of "security deposit" when he finally convinced me to move in with him.  I kept thinking the car would still be part of my life ~ as it had been my mother's ~ and had been passed down through three family members before it finally became mine.  But, no, he sold it a week later and kept all the money for himself. 

He "borrowed" my family's rocking chair, Dad's old area rug from the old house in Aptos, and my grandfather Buddy's dark green leather, vintage desk pad from the 1930s that I acquired after they sold Nan's ranch house.  I would cringe seeing him slosh his coffee around on that desk pad, knowing it would never be the same if I ever got it back.

Once he moved up north, he wanted to take some of my collectible kitchen items.  He liked my mother's flour sifter that had once been a part of Nanny's original ranch house on the old Chicken Ranch, and he thought it would look great in his country kitchen.  So he just took it. 

I remembered all of these things once he finally left me.

I had a few short weeks to leave his house in Felton, and I used the time alone to reclaim my personal things.  I stuffed the rocking chair ~ now in need of mend ~ in my storage unit, grabbed Buddy's old desk pad, and scoured the property for what else he had taken.

And then I remembered the flour sifter.

I got in my car and drove straight to the Sierra Foothills.  I drove straight through.  He saw me pull up on that country road and came out to greet me with surprise.  I told him I was here for my things.  His new girlfriend stood on the side patio where just a mere two weeks ago, he had barbecued me a BLT on the 4th of July.  I said nothing to her but kept walking to the back of the house.  And there it was.  Perched high on a shelf.  The old flour sifter.  Shiny metal with red trim.  A relic from my past.  A family tie to my family history. 

He had destroyed so much of me ~ my spirit ~ my body ~ my safety ~ my world ~ that he was not going to have the one last physical thing that still connected me to where I came from ~ my family ~ who I had pretty much been keeping this deep, dark secret from for four years.

I remembered my mother and my grandmother in that moment.  I remember the flour sifter that had been used to bake dozens of cookies, dozen of pies, dozens of cakes.  I remembered the women who I had looked up to in my youth, the strong women who came before me ~ who helped build the character I still had in me.

The little flour sifter gave me newfound strength that day.  I placed it on the passenger seat beside me and drove back home.  Straight through.  Not stopping once.