August 2012

If you don’t stop, I am calling 911, I yelled.

It was around 6 am, time for Ethan to go to work, and he was still plastered from the night before.

After a night of drinking and embarrassing me in front of my co-workers, I could see he was still feeling it.

I tried waking him up for work multiple times, and he wouldn’t budge.

He finally got up, blaming me for his running late.

“All you had to do was wake me up, and you couldn’t even do that.”
  But add some colorful adjectives in there.

After urinating in the living room because he was that drunk, he started getting louder and throwing stuff.

He always yelled, and so did I.

But this was different.

He had never started throwing stuff at me before.

I told him he was scaring me, and I would call 911 if he didn’t stop.

He didn’t stop.

I called.

Immediately I tried to make excuses, like I usually did, and I told them everything was fine. I didn’t mean to call.

My husband was just scaring me a little, but I’m okay.

The cops showed up and escorted him to work.

“You could have gotten me kicked out of the navy.”

More colorful adjectives.

Well you shouldn’t have still been drunk at 6 am and been violent with me.

 

He knew I was leaving in a few days.

I told him, last week, that my parents were coming to get me after I caught him lying about pills, again.

I couldn’t do this anymore.

I couldn’t come second to pills and alcohol.

I couldn’t keep wondering if he was out getting drugs, or really at the store.

I couldn’t keep making excuses.

I couldn’t keep pretending that if he loved me enough, he would stop.

Obviously, that was never going to happen.

 

The whole week he was a roller coaster.

 

He was sweet.

“I need you.”

Mean.

“You’re never going to succeed, what, you think you’re going to work for The Wall Street Journal or something, yeah right.”

Denial.

“You’re not leaving. I know you won’t.”

But I was.

I was physically and emotionally sick.

It was time to respect myself and walk away.

I thought when we finally were able to live together, things would get better.

I thought I would become a priority.

I thought I would be happy.

Maybe I made things worse for myself by calling 911, but who knows what would have happened if I didn’t.

None of this was my definition of love.

“For better or for worse” didn’t really apply anymore.

These times didn’t fall under the, “for worse” category.

They were hell.

 

How far do vows go?

Because you say “I do,” should you let someone treat you anyway they wish?

Should you let yourself be miserable?

I’d say they aren’t upholding their vows at that point, so my end is “null and void” as well.

It was time to let it go.

It was the longest five months of my life.

 

I just want to go home.