Living used to be so dreadfully cluttered. Between two boys and myself, there was always a mess somewhere. Then came my daughter, and it was all over with. Now, imagine trying to move.
May of 2005 was the first time we separated. Initially, he stayed in a hotel room. Either that got too expensive, or he was having issues with the girl he was talking to. That is one story I’ve never uncovered completely. From my perspective, he was giving us another try. It didn’t matter to me that I was miserable and we fought all the time.
After he came back from the hotel, within a week he decided we were over. I came to my senses and moved out the following week. The day of the move, I had family coming to help. I think the idea of it made him anxious, so he was ready to throw everything out into the yard. Family was always the source of a lot of anxiety, and it always caused many problems between us. He never wanted anything to do with my family, which was very upsetting.
My son’s bed needed to be disassembled with a drill, something neither of us cared to own, but he couldn’t wait. When the screwdriver didn’t work, he proceeded to slam the bed down the steps. He was so angry for no apparent reason. I was leaving. It was what he wanted. I didn’t want to see the bed in pieces though, so I tried to help. What a disaster. It wasn’t working, and the next thing I knew, there was a screwdriver flying at me. It hit me square in the abdomen. It hurt, but I was thankful it didn’t pierce my skin! Later, while changing my clothes, I noticed a giant bruise right where it hit. I never told a soul, but I did show it to him. He begged me to forgive him, and how could I not?
Family eventually showed up, and we got the bed and the rest of the furniture loaded into the truck. I came back later for the mounds of clothes in the bedroom. Being the good-hearted person I am, I even came back and helped him move what remained a month later. He didn’t have anyone else to help him, and I was always very sympathetic to his self-induced isolation.
Going through the closets in the master bedroom, I found a plastic grocery bag in the far corner. What I found is still a bit disturbing, although I’m not completely sure why. Maybe because I had never seen it before, and it was hidden in the closet; I asked him why he had a flannel shirt and a hockey mask. He responded nonchalantly about his intentions to scare my son, but he had decided it was a bad idea. I still don’t believe his story. He would have told me about it if this deeply disturbing idea had been true.
Some things are meant to stay buried, but I will always wonder what it was really for.
Image courtesy of http://tinyurl.com/mlsnnte