when did i?

“Ba-da-ba-ba-baaa…I’m lovin’ it”. I’m glad someone’s loving it. But at our house,  no one’s loving it. We are alone in the living room. The TV drowns out any opportunity to talk about the weather, the recent spike in flu, what to have for dinner, or any words at all. It is commercials for erectile dysfunction or allergy season or cell phone plans with unlimited data that carry on in the background of our lives. The TV successfully places yet another wedge in the great divide.

He sits in his chair. I sit on the sofa. Never the two shall touch or meet. Neither the furniture nor the people occupying the pieces. We are in the same room, but not in the same place. 

I had predicted such a fate when he purchased his easy chair. He wanted that leather chair, with the footrest and the headrest and the arm rests and if only it also had a cup holder for his beer it would have been a dream come true for him. The monstrosity came home and took up a quarter of our living room and the entirety of our love life. Delivery day was the day we stopped touching. 

We stopped sitting together. He never came back to the couch to watch a movie or to hold my hand or to snuggle. He had his chair. The chair that now slightly resembles him. Worn out, saggy, droops to the side a bit, but still works if you tug on the mechanism with both hands. I suppose we are both a little older and shabbier these days. It happens. 

So there we were. In our separate corners.  The actors are yelling, guns are blasting, cars are speeding. The speakers thump and pound at embarrassing levels of noise. I know. I’ve driven home and realized that the noise I am hearing is actually coming from within the house I have to enter. The neighbors must wonder what murderers and villains we must be. Or are they curious if we perhaps need to have our hearing checked? Are we showing our age by the volume of our TV?  Either way, the TV is blasting out yet another car chase when he catches sight of my left hand. 

“When did you stop wearing your ring?” he asks. 

So long ago that I had actually forgotten that I had stopped wearing it. I shrug and reply, “Not sure.”

“Are you planning on putting it back on?” he sneers.

“Are you planning on putting yours back on?” I say. And immediately regret these words. He of course is going to become high and mighty. He will say he didn’t have a choice but to take his ring off. He will say he would wear his but he can’t with his fingers the way they are. He claims he would still be wearing his if he could. 

I think back to the other options I have purchased: bracelets, necklaces, even suggested matching tattoo rings. He hasn’t been interested in those ideas. The bracelets are lost. The necklaces disappear. He probably leaves them at her house. Or she tosses them when she is here when I am away. I simply don’t care anymore. I can’t care anymore. He just wants control of me. He wants me to wear that ring so people think that I am owned by someone.  Did his ring ever stop him from letting him be free? He is his own person. Obviously. 

When did I decide to take off the wedding band? When he started going to her house? When he started spending more time with a bottle of beer than with me? When did his easy chair and laptop become his date night? When did his ring become just a ring and nothing more?

___

I just bought a new skirt for work. I’m feeling pretty good about myself and my new skirt. Until he sees it and asks me who I am trying to impress.  “Is that a new skirt you’re wearing? When did you get that? Where did you get that?” and then, the more and more intense questions he circles around to, “How much was the skirt?” “Don’t you have a skirt just like that?” “You should buy clothes that are more classic so they don’t go out of style.”   These questions eventually lead to, “What’s the matter with your old clothes? Why do you need a new skirt?”  So I take it off and shove it to the back of the closet vowing to return it the next mall trip. I don’t even like this skirt anymore. 

Later that night, after a few whiskeys, he asks me to put the new skirt on for him. He wants to see me in it. Wear it with the pink panties, he tells me. Then he wants me to hike it up a little bit. Next he wants to see me out of it. I feel like a cheap hooker. Now I really hate this skirt.

The next day I decided to throw away all of my skirts and dresses. I save one or two of the long, plain looking ones. Only because I really do like to wear dresses and maybe I can sneak a dress when he isn’t home or isn’t looking. Or I can wear it with pants or with leggings. Or under a tent in the dark of night when no one can see me.

_____

Running is my means of escape. But I can only run on a treadmill. Like a gerbil, I run and run but never get anywhere. I don’t run because I want to look good. I work out because I want to feel good. I know that life can be taken away with one phone call, “It’s cancer. You need to come back to the office straight away.” But maybe I won’t work out anymore. I don’t like running all that much anyway. And my sneakers are worn out. 

“Who did you see at the gym?” he asks. “What took you so long at the gym?”

I get the third degree each time I go to the gym, about what machines I used, how many minutes on each machine, how many people were there, the ages of the people there, what people were wearing, what was I wearing, and how many people did I know. I don’t pay any attention to these details. I just go to work out. I don’t really care who is there or what they are wearing. I’m not looking, but he doesn’t believe me. I am feeling defensive for something I have no idea what I need to defend. I don’t know what he thinks is going to happen or is happening, but he needs to just give me a break. It’s a gym. It’s a treadmill. End of story. I don’t notice who has a ring or doesn’t have a ring or the ages of the people there. No one is looking. At least I’m not. 

I. Don’t. Care. I’m not looking.

_____

“He likes you,” my friend whispers. “He thinks you’re cute!” 

We both giggle from our desks before she turns around to face the front of the classroom. He is giving us the stare down. “Meet me after class in the lab,” he says to me.

It suddenly isn’t so funny.

Especially once we are alone in the lab and his hands are on me. Especially when he flunks me in his class because I said no, no, no. Especially when I go from being a straight A student to a bare minimum, doing what I need to do just to pass a class. I just want to fly under the radar. I don’t speak to that friend anymore. In fact, I don’t speak in class anymore, ever.

______

I must have gotten too comfortable with myself. I let my confidence grow. I should have left that ring on my finger. I should have shown the world that I was part of a two, not a one. Two are stronger than one.

A custodian is looking to check the heat in my room. He does this three or four times a year. 

The panic attack hits as I walk down the hallway. Her voice, unbeckoned, whispers in my ear. “He was looking for you.” 

My heart starts to race and my vision starts to fade to black. I am unable to breathe.

“He came to your room.”

I need air. I need to find a place and sit down. 

“I think he likes you,” she sing-songs.

I am about to start screaming, or crying, or running, or sit down or break down. Am I already doing any of these things? 

I need to breathe.

Why can’t I breathe?

She was just teasing me.

She was joking.

i

am

okay

i

need

to

pullmyselftogether

RIGHT NOW.

Breathe dammit.

He isn’t here. Just breathe.

And now I think...there we go. An unwanted side effect of taking off the wedding band. Some people are not seeing this as my personal choice. They don’t know why I took my ring off. Hell, I don’t even know really why I took the damn thing off or when. But I sure as hell don’t want any attention because of it. Stay the fuck away. I don’t want anybody or need anybody. Get back and stay back. Get away. 

My ring didn’t protect me on that night. That ring didn’t stop the attack. That ring didn’t stop anything. The only ring that mattered to me at the time was the one on the phone the next morning when I called my husband to tell him what happened. A group of friends had gotten together to hang out at a friend’s house. I had decided to go instead of staying home. He was away for yet another business weekend. 

“Were you drunk?” he asked. 

My mind reeled. This was his first question?

Deny, deny, deny. If I say yes, is it my fault? To this day I will never admit that yes, I was drunk. But I did not ask to be pulled into a dark room. I did not ever want to be pressed against that mattress. I did not want to feel his weight on top of me. I did not want his breath on my face. I did not want to be there.  So, I said, “No, I wasn’t drunk. Not at all. It just happened.”  

We were newlywed at the time. Our rings were still shiny and new. But already the meaning had changed.

_____

Unwanted attention is unwanted attention. No matter the intention. 

“I think he likes you,” she said. “He asked about you. He waited outside your room.” 

These are all hauntingly familiar words. 

I try to joke my way out of them. I try to make her stop saying them. I try to push her ideas aside and make them not true. I want to ignore her. I wish so hard that she is wrong. 

And then he is outside my door. 

She says, “He’s back.”

I panic. I run. I can’t breathe. She must be wrong. She has to be just teasing. This is utter nonsense. 

But what if she isn’t teasing.

What if this ends the same as…

I can’t go there.

Breathe.

Just breathe.

He’s in my room.

He’s blocking my door. I can’t get out. He is blocking my exit. I can’t get out. 

Just breathe. Act normal and get him out.

Why did I stop wearing my ring? Why did I decide to wear one of my last remaining dresses today, of all days? That’s it. I am really done with dresses for sure. Done. 

Just last night, when setting down my water glass, my husband told me I had impressive leg muscles. Setting down my water glass. I was wearing shorts. I set down my water glass. What? He was checking out my legs, in my shorts, as I set down my water glass? I cannot possibly wear enough clothes to cover myself up anymore. But I will need to.

Especially now. Especially now if she is telling me that there is a man at work who likes me. I can’t function with that possibility. 

Does the decision to put the ring back on really boil down to this? Is the ring going to be about protection when I thought it was more a symbol of what we had lost? Is it really just that though? Just a symbol? Not really meaningful? Just a mere showpiece that someone wears to imply that they are committed to another person? And, if I decide to put it back on, how much explaining will my husband need and is it all worth that effort? No, absolutely it isn’t. But, if I decide to leave it off, what happens? Who is my protection? 

Why do I need protection? 

Breathe.

I don’t need protection. I. am. okay. Breathe. 

It’s a ring. It's just a ring. But…, no buts, and,  it’s my decision. It’s okay. I will be okay.