Saturday, April 4, 2009

The Night my World Crashed...

The Story of a Married Rape

I completely understand the growing fury Dear Husband (DH) must have felt that night. Bitch of a wife slutting around with her internet boyfriend and all. The treasure trove of “proof” that was uncovered through his endless covert probing fueled the rage that seemed always just under his simple surface.

I am said wife. Not a slut. Not a bitch (unless provoked, even then…) just completely, miserably, lost in this marriage of two polar opposites. I tell myself, he’s a good person and a great dad to our three children. I tell myself I can make it work…force myself to plod along until the kids are grown. I tell myself I need to suck it up or face having to work the double shift at the Waffle House with my latch key kids tagging freeway barriers and finding my secret stash of hooch (master closet, behind the dusty wedding gown).

Years of emptiness and co-existing capitulated into thoughts of “Is that all there is?” I found myself thinking of a mythical marriage where the two parties actually like one another and love to spend time with one another, go on dates, and hold hands just-because. Best friends with a bond of true love, laughter, trust, security, and commitment. I felt the concept of a soul mate was similar to a unicorn or winning power ball ticket… only seen on the big screen or read in fairy tales. My marriage was not this. We were pleasant to each other, yes, but definitely not soul mates. More like co-parents or roommates… one of whom sleeps on the very edge of the marriage-bed and sleeps fully clothed claiming she’s cold.

The night I arrived home early from school and emptied my arms of my purse, laptop case, and books, I did sense an all-too-familiar vibe in the air. Walking down the hall towards our bedroom stood DH.

I started to walk past him, and he said, in a tone, “What? You gonna walk past me?!” I tentatively replied, “Oh, I’m sorry”...and hugged him. He was sweaty and tense as he whispered with attempted sex appeal: “I wanna fuck my wife…” (which, in another world would probably thrill me, but NOT when whispered by HIM) . Rigidly he hugged me awkwardly, uncomfortably long. I noticed his skin was red, sweaty and his eyes looked “different”….horny? angry? I broke the embrace and declared I was going to take a bath (which is normal for me, because I like to be “fresh” prior to any potential “activity”).

My bath ritual is a daily sacred experience. It relaxes when I need relaxing, soothes aching muscles after a hard work out, and provides solace after a day of mothering or attending to the needs of the entire universe…and sometimes it was a quick gearing up for the dreaded and inevitable “wifely duty.” Rose-scented bubbles lapped at my skin and coconut rum tainted cola relaxed me even further.

I dried off, put on my fluffy pink robe and went to the master closet to get dressed. Something was different or amiss in the space. I didn’t notice it right away, but then it hit me: my baskets of underclothing and pajamas where oddly stacked and empty. On the closet floor was our bulging suitcase. “HUHHHH?” I thought dumbstruck.

I huffed back out to DH who was lying on the bed in his famous “pouting pose” (flat on back, arms folded up under his head, ankles crossed) and said, “What’s the DEAL?!” He weirdly said, “I think I made a mistake. I thought you messed with the internet connection and I’m soooo sorry” which was met with a blank stare and incredulous look from my stunned skull. “Huhhh?!” I frustratingly grunted. He repeated himself even more slowly, punctuating each word, as if dumming it down would somehow be easier for me to absorb the insanity. “First of all,” I sputtered, “I have no idea what you are talking about” ((pausing, completely baffled)) “And WHY would I do that when we both need the internet for school?!”

I quickly dressed in my most modest pajamas. He followed me to the suitcase and I started to unpack it…noticing all the past holiday and birthday cards that were neatly, sickly tucked amongst the clothes.

My intuition was screaming “danger…RUN!” as imaginary red flags smacked me from every angle. He stood in my way of the only exit of the master bathroom. I cooly changed the subject back to the internet. “Really, I had nothing to do with the internet being jacked up all day” (which is true- I didn’t!) and snuck past him out into the bedroom to the bed and nonchalantly peeled back the covers to climb in.

DH also returned to our bed and said some very peculiar and weird things. In a choked up voice he said, “I only wanted you to love me.” His lower lip quivered and he said, “I just wanted you to love and appreciate ME”. Sensing something, but not knowing quite what, I responded, “Honey, not a day goes by that I don’t tell you how proud I am of you that you’re going back to school or that I appreciate all you do” (which is true). His tone then changed to a deeper, husky, menacing growl: “I know what you’ve done and I want you to go repack that suitcase and get the hell out of my house…but first, I want you to take a look at the computer.” With both of his legs, he kicked me out of bed…hard. His eyes were blazing and the heat coming off of him, sickly, like a cartoon steaming mad Yosemite Sam. I instinctively obeyed.

I clicked the mouse causing the computer’s monitor to go from black to a re-done desk top with an image both horrifying and comforting. A photo (his cheating wife “proof”) with a superimposed text that read, and I quote, “I hope he will take care of you!! I also hope this was worth ruining our children!!!! Now, Get the FUCK out of my House You fucking BITCH!!!”

Stunned, I didn’t hear him sneak up behind me, sliding both his hands around the back of my neck, fingers tightening around my throat…”I’m going to FUCK you and then I’m going to KILL you,” he seethed through tightly gritted teeth. Fingers still tighter, he lifted me up by my neck, chin, throat…and flung me forward towards my sleeping daughter’s crib.

Oh God.

Baby, don’t wake up…

What happened next is a horrifying blur.

He grabbed my shoulders and I attempted to punch him even while restrained. I got in a lame, weak punch to his face. “DO IT AGAIN, BITCH!!!”

So I did.

Mid punch, he grabbed my shoulders and shook me like a ragdoll. “I’m going to FUCK YOU and then I’m going to KILL YOU!!!!” In a blink I was flat on the floor.

Norah stirred. Oh God. Oh God, baby please sleep!

My pajamas were ripped off of me like they were paper. Underpants in shreds.


He went to pull down his pajama pants and, I kicked him for all I was worth in his chest. Impressively, he was knocked back a bit…but it just made him madder. He moved in on me again, and I kicked him with both legs, again, as hard as I could, and grabbed his penis and balls in my right hand…clamped down and twisted. This enraged him further.


Suddenly, a primal scream was coming out of my raw throat. I screamed and screamed as loud as I could.

I screamed my oldest son’s name over and over as loud as I could.

I noticed a phone that had previously fallen miraculously under the bed. I pictured myself diving for it.


Terrified, my legs were driven unnaturally over my head and DH’s massive fist plunged deeply, dryly, horribly into my vagina. It was a pain unlike any other I had ever experienced. Excruciating.

He thrust his fist deeply over and over drawing out rich, red blood. His fingernails scraped and dug deeply. I screamed . Loudly. This caused him to thrust his bloody fist into my face in effort to shut me up.

Miraculously, Norah’s crying caused him to stop. “Did mommy wake you up, sweetie?” the sick, demented fuck said to my daughter in a soothing voice. He tenderly lifted her out of her crib and took her out of the room.

Oh God, he doesn’t want her to see him kill me!

I knew I had to act fast. I dove for the phone that was surely left by Jesus Himself, and frantically punched 9-1-1. Pleeeease pick up!!!!

The voice on the other end was soothing. As I screeched out my address, and hyperventilated and wailed, this angel of a woman helped me focus.

DH was heard both in the background and on the other line saying things like: “She’s LYING” and “She’s FINE”. Don’t believe him. Pleeeeease don’t believe him!

My 10 year old son tentatively came upstairs and was abruptly send “back to bed” by his father (ironically, the last words spoken to my precious son by his father).

My 19 year old son finally had heard the commotion after being outside in his car texting his girlfriend…and I could hear the testosterone fueled yelling match coming closer to me, still on the line with my 9-1-1 angel.

Warm blood pooled between my legs and my sweat covered, uncontrollably shaking naked body sat curled up and rocking. My hair matted with sweat, tears, snot hung grossly in my face.

My grown son, meekly, tenderly covered my nakedness as the Police, Fire Department and Ambulance teamed in. Flash pictures blurred. Soothing professional male voices were heard …but the words sounded like they were being said in a tunnel to my ears.

A change of clothes was gathered to take to the hospital and somehow I managed to walk to the ambulance. I was placed numbly on a sheeted stretcher and buckled twice.

My best friend met me at the hospital and lovingly held my hand through the eight hours of injury documentation, measuring wounds and bruises, photographing evidence. Normally, I pose and smile easily when a camera is near. This night I focused off onto the corner of a light box, sadly.

My story was told to the police and I worried my statement wouldn’t be perfectly accurate. That some minute detail would ruin my case if taken out of order. With my head spinning I carefully, painfully relived it both in written form and verbally twice.

As each hour ticked on, new pains manifested and new bruises formed. Funny how shock protects us by not letting us feel the pain…in the earlier ambulance ride, I had felt “fine”.

All through the hospital stay, my assigned Victims Advocate and Sexual Assault Nurse Examiner treated me wonderfully. That topped with my best friend actually laughing with me, made the experience bearable.

I was given stacks of resources by the professionals as well as endless advice and tidbits of information by friends and family looking out for me.

That’s the thing. My kids have been damaged by their dad’s actions and choices. My pain is worse than all four of my c-sections combined. I’m facing total financial catastrophe…but the outpouring of love and support by all of my friends and family and, frankly, total strangers, is tearfully and joyfully cherished and valued. I feel literally blanketed in warmth and hope.

He’s not going to break me. I will hold my head up high and get through this. The future of my little family keeps me focused. I will heal starting with this story.



  2. Wow The baster should be shot. I got to say I'm sorry from all men. If you need any thing call me text email me.