Day of Dependence

July 4th, 2022

10a.m.

The nurse, with his I’ve-seen-this-too-many-times-before tone, and a somshow gentle yet firm glare, says, “Michael, I’m going to be honest with you. It doesn’t look good. Your leg is fractured in three places and it’s likely you won’t be able to walk the same ever again. The reason why I’m being this candid with you is because, statistically speaking, it takes 7 trips to the ER for domestic violence survivors to make a change. That means, either they get out of the relationship, or they are just no longer with us.” He looks me directly in the eyes and says, plainly, “You’re leaving him, right? I don’t want to see you here again.”

I don’t have words large enough to thank him. So, I let my tears tell him for me as I smile and nod in agreement.

6:30a.m.

I am on the bed, sitting beside my fiancé. I offer him water, begging that he stop drinking alcohol. A moment later my throat is in his hands and I cannot breathe. I don’t fight back. I just cry and wonder, “how long will this last?” A friend of ours pulls my fiancé away from me and asks, “why are you doing this to him?” Jake, our friend, is now emotional and says to my fiancé, “You are being mean. You are mean.”

I make my way to the living room, I’m crying, I’m petting my dog, imagining tomorrow’s apologies that will mask today’s mistakes.

I play through what he might say: “I am so sorry, I have no idea why I act like that when I drink.” Or, “I have no idea why I take out my anger out on you, the person I love the most.” It might also sound something like, “I promise I’ll never treat you like that again.”

I feel less valued than a shot of whiskey.

6:50a.m.

“Does he always treat you like this?” asks Jake. I respond defensively, “No, he’s only like this when he’s drunk, sometimes.” He reacts, “Do you want to be in a relationship where you’re treated like this?” I respond immediately, with disgust, “No! Of course not.” His next question and concerned remarks made me feel a deepening sense of shame: “So, why are you with him? You’re not safe, and you should be putting your shoes on to leave. Now.” Meekly, I respond by saying,“I have to protect him, he’s my fiancé.” Jake’s tone is now a demanding one, “Put on your shoes now, you can stay with me.”

I nod with hesitancy. I place my dog in his crate, and I go to put on my shoes.

7:10a.m.

I have never been in so much pain. I am on the floor, unable to move my left leg, and I’m crying out for help, screaming in pain, wishing I’d simply left the first time Jake told me to get my shoes on. I am filling up with regret, with anger, with deep disappointment. My focus shifts sharply back to my wellbeing, and I scream at my fiancé, “You have no idea how fucked up my leg is. I know it is broken, I can’t even move it” He disagrees, then tries to make me seem dramatic for crying so loudly. I respond, “I cannot work because of you. I need to walk for work, and you’ve stolen that from me because you’re an alcoholic.”

7:25a.m.

My fiancé, after realizing my pain might be real, allows Jake to come back into the apartment. My phone is within reach, and I am the one to make the call to the police. They ask me to describe my fiancé. I am asked to give details as to what occurred. Dispatch remains on the line until the police arrive at my door. They enter. 5 officers remain with me, 2 take my fiancé away and I am told: “He’s been arrested on assault charges and criminal obstruction of breathing.” They photograph my face, where I’d been hit with a shoe, and my neck, which had sustained substantial damage. I cry, non-stop, from both the deep emotional pain of knowing I have lost the love of my life to his disease, and from the excruciating pain in my leg. I could feel the bones moving, as if they weren’t attached to anything.

7:45a.m.

My fiancé is in jail. I am in the hospital. I cannot stop the tears, and the only thing lifting my spirits is the inherent joy of recognizing that on Independence Day, I am completely dependent, relying on everyone else to carry me into a better tomorrow.

7p.m.

I wake and I am out of surgery where they managed to screw my bones back together again. Reality sets in and I sob, quietly, alone. At this point I am mourning the loss of my partner, knowing things will forever be different. I mourn the loss of my ability to walk, even though I know it’s temporary. Just over a week ago we were celebrating our ability to love each other freely, and now I’m trapped inside feelings of anger and hate caused by the man I love and his reckless ability to treat me as if I’m less than human.

From this point on.

I forgive, love, and miss you. Even as I walk away toward a place where I can find peace. Even now, I still want to be with you. Be well, and goodbye.