He had sent those emails, one after the other, building up his anger in each one. I had tried to defuse it by saying we could talk in the morning.
I had trouble sleeping that night.
During the long drive, I tried to keep my heart and mind soft and open. I told myself that there was no point in resisting and if I could just give in, it would be easier for me. If I could separate myself from him and hide inside of myself, it would hurt less.
Except I didn’t want to keep hiding anymore.
When I arrived, he didn’t let me get much more than a sentence out before he launched in. His anger grew quickly, he pounded on the table and jabbed his fingers at me. My own cheeks flushed hot. Instead of being soft and open, I met every one of his jabs with my own stammered resistance, even when what I said made no sense. I just resisted blindly, fiercely, those moments disassociated from my body. He told me to leave and I did. I gathered my things and started to walk out.
I thought maybe I would never come back. I thought maybe where I was going, I wouldn’t even need these things in my hand.
Only then did his temper break.
He called me back. And I came back. We both apologized, me for nothing except for my very existence it seemed. And I felt weak and fatigued by it all. He mistook my tears as those of remorse but I knew inside that I was crying because I came back. I had wanted to keep walking away. I had wanted to leave him and this world and everything it was. Because staying was death.
I was dying and I didn’t have the courage to save myself.