I’m going to try to write about one of the worst nights in my marriage. This may help explain why I didn’t really want to have sex with this man, even if this kind of night was the exception.
My son was maybe 2 or 3 years old. It was winter. As a family we went to visit some good friends who lived nearby and whose daughters are close in age to my son. These friends like to drink, as do we. I was driving, however, so stopped after a couple of glasses.
Everyone except me got pretty blotto whilst our kids played upstairs. We had dinner and went through many bottles of wine, followed by after-dinner drinks. It was pretty late by the time we were ready to go. My son doesn’t do well when he’s tired. He was acting out, as is normal for a little kid. I don’t recall the specifics anymore but he probably didn’t want to put on his boots.
My husband, who was completely drunk at this point, got really angry with my son. He picked him up to stop him from running around. To me, it looked a little rough. As he picked him up, he stumbled and careened into a piece of art on the wall, with my son in his arms. He didn’t knock it over but almost did.
I tried, using a calm voice, to get him to put my son down. He refused. I could tell he was angry with me now.
We went outside and he stumbled again. At the top of the stairs, covered with ice, holding the person most precious to me in the whole world.
I said “please put him down”. My son started crying, asking his Daddy to let him go. I said “you are scaring him”.
He lost it. Screaming at me to never fucking tell him what to do, never challenge him in front of our friends or our son, that I was a completely selfish controlling bitch, etcetera, and if I ever fucking told him what to do again he would fucking kill me. Or take Isaac and leave me…something to that effect. My son was bawling, looking at me with fear and confusion in his eyes. This was not what he was used to.
I completely shut down in these circumstances. I don’t really remember his exact words, but they were vicious. I write this I can still clearly see his face, feel that awful tightening in my stomach, remember the fear that something would happen to my son. Worst of all, that thought of “who is this man…I am miserable.”
I should state that my ex never, ever, hit me. He probably smacked my son once on the ass out of extreme frustration, and then felt terribly guilty about it. He was hit a lot as a kid and didn’t believe in it should be a part of child rearing. He was never physically violent with either of us. I would not have described myself as abused…but there was definitely verbal abuse at times. It didn’t happen often, but on occasion, like this one, the combination of alcohol and some built up unresolved anger proved to be a terrible combination.
He wobbled, carried my son down the stairs, my son who was crying and calling “mummy?” Roughly put him in the car seat and then went and sat in the passenger seat of the car. I went to my son, did up the buckles, and tried to say soothing things to him that weren’t heard by my husband, for fear of another tirade.
It was a few minute drive to our house. Of course by the time I got our son in bed, my husband was passed out, asleep. The next morning was horrible – both my son and I remembering the entire event, and my ex having only a foggy memory of it. After events like this, I would look at him and feel nothing inside. Wonder how I could still be married to this person who had occasion to treat me so terribly. But I had no idea what to do.
I don’t think we ever talked about it, but it is something I will never, ever, forget.