Day 10 I lie in chavasana and know how tender I am, how vulnerable, how beaten up I feel by all her anger. Every nerve is raw, taut, humming, waiting for the next assault. I am afraid every moment. What will be next? The sliding glass door opens behind my head. I keep my eyes closed, but I cringe, waiting for the blow. “I’m afraid of you,” she says. She hurls the words at me, accusation not confession, and closes the sliding glass door with a thud. It is said to wound. She said it earlier, and the best I can gather is it is because I am so “strict.” She takes to calling me Hitler, says “Yes, ma’am” with such derision I yell at her to stop. So ugly. Today I lie here, my fear vibrating, and recognize the echo of childhood fear alive, too. I keep my eyes closed and breathe. May we both be safe and free from harm. May I know I am enough just as I am right now.
Someone I love, medication to stop smoking. I go there, try to keep her safe while she adjusts. Signed up for this, I say. Not this, though. No sense of having chosen the path for herself. Wave after wave of anger, accusations, threats. Thinks I am doing this to her, trying to control her, no good reason. I am battered by her venom. I yell back. Or I keep my voice steady, remind her again and again this is temporary. She chose this. I am only here to try to keep her safe. No driving until she adjusts to the drug. I read out loud the contract she signed before we began. She ignores me. The next day the contract disappears. We fight over the 8 ounces of water with each pill. Over only one Scotch and soda per day. Over everything. Even now, when she has chosen to stop taking the medication, it is impossible for her to believe me when I say the doctor told us it would take several days before it is out of her system. On the first day without the medication, Day 16, she finds her spare key and takes the car while I am working in the back yard. I walk around the neighborhood looking for her before I find the empty garage. I am in shock, appalled. She doesn’t leave a note. “I was angry,” she tells me later, as if that makes it okay. I get caught over and over in my stories about how I am being wronged. I refuse to accept what is. I tell myself it is the drug talking. But I don’t believe me, not all the way. Day 18 now, and I want to cry. I am too tired to cry. I am all used up, and sad. So sad.