Why I Could Not Leave My Abuser
Because, for years, I lived in sadness and he was luminous, a dark angel.
Because I read Carl Jung who claims dark angels contain light, contain the sky.
Because the sky is cold, so I took his coldness, his indifference, as a symptom of love.
Because I am driven to please, yet could not please him. This failure spurred me. I was a horse kicked with steel spikes. I was forced to run and running felt good.
Because his mouth was a rotten plum and when I kissed him, liquid ran down my throat as bitter as poison, nourishing some part of me that desired to be corroded.
Because, at night, I dreamed of burnet moths—insects that swallow cyanide to poison predators, to lure mates. I believed I was a cyanide moth. I believed poison was my element, a part of my blood.
Because, while with him, I stopped fearing my own death. I stopped fearing crowds, spiders, or the eyes of strangers. The only thing I feared was him.
Because, each morning, I awoke wondering: would he hurt me today? Would he call me drunk to say those words: You’re stupid, ugly, a loser? He was a newspaper filled with terrible news and I was addicted to reading this news.
Because, when he wrapped his heavy arms around me, I felt at peace. Because, in those moments, I could almost believe he loved me, even as he reached for his phone to speak to the women he was cheating with.
Because, once, I was a woman he was cheating with. He lied to his wife and she left him. Then I wondered if I deserved the violence I’d begun to receive.
Because, when I explained our relationship to a friend, she likened it to a ride.
Because a ride is a thrill, because, even when you’re terrified, you’re exhilarated, so when I felt him pound my head against a car window, raising bumps across my skull, I could not bring myself to leave the vehicle. I clung to the seat, to the handle of the door.
Because burnet moths both consume and produce cyanide, and this clinging, this need for him, was the poison I made.
Because, when he degraded me, I carved my arms with shards of glass as if to bleed the poison out.
Because my blood soaked the snow outside his house, staining it pink as a valentine.
Because the emergency room was an hour’s drive away, and he was too drunk to take me there.
Because I was falling and had been for seven years.
Because seven years is a long time to fall.
Because, when I finally hit bottom, I feared I would fracture.
Because his angry beauty dazzled me and in my dazzlement, I was a deer staring into the headlights of an oncoming car.
Because light that bright is easy to confuse with heaven.
Because I read Carl Jung who claims dark angels contain light, contain the sky.
Because the sky is cold, so I took his coldness, his indifference, as a symptom of love.
Because I am driven to please, yet could not please him. This failure spurred me. I was a horse kicked with steel spikes. I was forced to run and running felt good.
Because his mouth was a rotten plum and when I kissed him, liquid ran down my throat as bitter as poison, nourishing some part of me that desired to be corroded.
Because, at night, I dreamed of burnet moths—insects that swallow cyanide to poison predators, to lure mates. I believed I was a cyanide moth. I believed poison was my element, a part of my blood.
Because, while with him, I stopped fearing my own death. I stopped fearing crowds, spiders, or the eyes of strangers. The only thing I feared was him.
Because, each morning, I awoke wondering: would he hurt me today? Would he call me drunk to say those words: You’re stupid, ugly, a loser? He was a newspaper filled with terrible news and I was addicted to reading this news.
Because, when he wrapped his heavy arms around me, I felt at peace. Because, in those moments, I could almost believe he loved me, even as he reached for his phone to speak to the women he was cheating with.
Because, once, I was a woman he was cheating with. He lied to his wife and she left him. Then I wondered if I deserved the violence I’d begun to receive.
Because, when I explained our relationship to a friend, she likened it to a ride.
Because a ride is a thrill, because, even when you’re terrified, you’re exhilarated, so when I felt him pound my head against a car window, raising bumps across my skull, I could not bring myself to leave the vehicle. I clung to the seat, to the handle of the door.
Because burnet moths both consume and produce cyanide, and this clinging, this need for him, was the poison I made.
Because, when he degraded me, I carved my arms with shards of glass as if to bleed the poison out.
Because my blood soaked the snow outside his house, staining it pink as a valentine.
Because the emergency room was an hour’s drive away, and he was too drunk to take me there.
Because I was falling and had been for seven years.
Because seven years is a long time to fall.
Because, when I finally hit bottom, I feared I would fracture.
Because his angry beauty dazzled me and in my dazzlement, I was a deer staring into the headlights of an oncoming car.
Because light that bright is easy to confuse with heaven.
