Frustrated and exhausted, I pull out my phone and message Alice:
Alice:
Babe.
You’re going to end up dead.
Me:
He ran off.
Alice:
Who cares? He’s a grown man.
Me:
I care.
Alice:
I know. But he can go cool off and come back.
Me:
I care a lot about everything and everyone and look what happens.
He went for hours.
Alice:
He’s done it before and will do it again.
Me:
And put Taco Bell on my ceiling.
He did, somehow, smear the contents of a bean burrito and Taco Supreme high up on the walls.
Alice:
Okay, that’s new.
A social worker visits my bed, her face kind but concerned.
“I’m here because you mentioned being in an abusive relationship,” she says gently.
“Oh yeah, I am,” I reply matter-of-factly.
Because at this point, what’s the point in pretending otherwise? I’m a battered woman. Although, according to Timmy, it’s always been my fault and the injuries he inflicted weren’t ‘real’ ones.
Her face grows more serious as I recount some of the incidents—the threats, the attacks, the bizarre behaviors like the chainsaws and antlers. She listens carefully, handing me a card with local resources.
She leaves, and I become agitated as Timmy sends me a barrage of texts:
Timmy:
You’re so irresponsible.