"A thing is not necessarily true because a man dies for it." -Oscar Wilde

The night trying too hard almost killed me.

The evening started as a success. Thousands of dollars were being spent with each paddle's rise, benefitting a charter school on the island. On the microphone a local, well-liked politician energized the group with his beaming smile and rhythmic descriptions of items up for bid. Wine flowed endlessly, poured by the smiling staff hustling around the tent to ensure glasses remained full. Alcohol is a good fund-raising lubricant. The team of servers kept close watch on our table especially. At our table, their boss, my partner, was keeping close watch on the execution of this important evening.
The auction ended and as we all dispersed from our seats to congratulate our table-neighbors on their winnings, my partner approached me quickly. His hand firmly grasped my empty arm (as the other was holding a wine glass) and he told me we were leaving. I was confused at first but as he began to describe the flaws in service he noted during the dinner, his anger became apparent. This wasn't the first time a bad day at work for him became a bad day for the rest of us.
We loaded into our little island hopper golf cart - modified to be taller and faster than most - and headed through the Amelia Island Plantation on a 2 mile ride which felt like all night. As he ranted I tried to console him. To the naked eye there were no flaws in the service. But fueled with his hand-selected single-barrel tequila, his vision of the night was distorted and exaggerated. 

He drove fast. I slid closer to try to calm him. It was dark and a chill in the November air added to the tension and fear. We approached the little bridge passing over A1A as I laid my hand on his shoulder and said the worst thing you could say to an irrational person, trying to make him see that things were really fine, "Calm down!" With one shove, expelling me fast and far, I slid from my calming position by his side, landing on the ground a couple of feet from the cart. The first moment on the ground my vision was blurry making it hard to focus or move. There was a simultaneous pain and numbness setting in, and I could not move easily from my position.

"Get up!" His voice boomed through the cold air hitting me like an anvil. I couldn't get up. The soft hum of another cart could be heard approaching in the distance. "Stop crying and get off the fucking ground! I'm not losing my job because of you! Get up now!" I tried to contain my sobs and gain some composure as the lights of the cart grew closer. It parked adjacent to where I laid and a familiar security officer stepped down shining a light at me. He asked if I was ok. I said I think so. My partner also answered, telling the office that I was fine. "She fell right out of the cart, we are almost home." The officer looked down at me and asked me, "Is that what happened ma'am?" I laid there unable to move for a moment as every decision I had ever made in my partnership with this man flashed before me. I lied. "Yes I just slipped right out, I'll be ok. Just need some help getting up."

He assisted me into the cart. The pain was nauseating and I found it difficult to sit in the seat. As we headed onward toward our home my body became jelly, unable to maintain a grip on the handle and I tumbled from the cart for the second time. Again on the course asphalt with one leg beneath me and the other strewn about lifting my dress above my waist he became even more angry than the first time. He threatened to leave me there on the ground. "You're a real bitch aren't you? What are you going to do when I get fired and we all have nothing?" I sobbed and looked above me trying to devise a plan to reclaim my seat as he did not move from his. I pulled myself to the first step, then using my elbows to raise my head above the frame of the cart. I shifted closer raising myself slowly to the seat and he grabbed me beneath the armpits and yanked all 140 pounds of me to the bench. A few minutes later we were in our driveway where he left me. The night was silent and neighbors were few and far between. Knowing there would be no one coming to help me I somehow made my way into the house.  My son emerged from his bedroom as I came through the door. It was obvious he had been jarred by my partners usual conspicuous entry to the home. "I'm just going to lay on the couch for a bit." The fact was that I knew I couldn't make it up the stairs to our second floor bedroom. I laid down on the sofa and my son went to bed. My partner was nowhere to be found. 

As I lay in the quiet living room it was clear this was not something I could talk myself out of. I felt sick, my body broken, and my entire center felt like it was disconnected. I yelled for my son calmly asking him to wake my partner and call 911. For a moment after that I am sure I lost consciousness. As the EMS crew loaded me into their rig I felt delirious. I was unsure what was happening inside my body and the nightmare of how I got here replayed in my head. It was then that I began to blame myself. I asked myself what I had done to deserve this. I begged the universe for another chance to do better next time. To be more successful at calming him down.

After my injuries were assessed at a nearby emergency room, the internal bleeding and fractured pelvis would mean a transfer to a regional trauma center. My memory is clear - of the ceiling as I heard patients with a gunshot wound to the foot and fall from a horse come in behind me. Who will care for my son? Who will walk my dogs? How will my family know that I need their help? The semi lucid stream of panic centered around how to main control over my curated life from beneath the straps of a stabilization board in the Trauma Center. From there to the ICU. From the hospital to rehab where I would learn to get around without walking on my left side for 90 days. And if I was really good I wouldn't need surgery. My focus began to shift back to getting well so I could get home, and work on doing better. For him. There's no logical explanation for why I would put myself and my son through this nightmare. But even as I look back I actually think, "well he never actually hit me." He also never apologized or took responsibility for nearly killing me. It was my mother and sister who traveled great distances to care for me as my partner went to Mexico and to Miami to escape what he had done to me. It was my son who helped me put my socks on and friends who helped get him to school and back every day. 

 

After this night, it took 3 more years of gas lighting and master manipulation, financial and emotional abuse, and name calling until I was able to leave the relationship. It took me this long because when I had the chance to tell the truth and expose my partner, I lied to protect him. I lied to own my own mistake in choosing and standing by him.  I pictured telling the truth and no one believing me. I didn't want to be a "bitch."  I envisioned the things he would say to me, and being abandoned in a place where I had no one, no support, no way out. In fact, it was the opposite. The longer I stayed the weaker I became, and now the longer I'm without him the stronger I become.   Though time has strengthened me the scars remain.  I view these scars as those from a battle I’ve won.

If you know someone who appears to have it together on the outside, don't underestimate their need for your love and support. When you hear of their struggles don't judge them. Either share with them your unconditional kindness or stay out of the way as they try to recover. Without the love and support of my friends and family I could not be free today.