Share your location with me.
Her concern is palpable through her message, as if something has set off her spidey senses.
Jo:
I want to know where you are.
It hits differently when it’s coming from a friend, not a partner. Especially when it’s because of a partner.
Me:
Why?
I ask, even though I already know the answer.
Jo:
I want to know you’re safe.
And if he hurts you again, I want to be able to point the police in the right direction.
Her words land like a slap. A slap that’s meant to wake me up.
Me:
Jesus, Jo.
Jo:
I’m serious.
You need to be careful.
You know how dangerous men like him can be.
I don’t answer. I can’t. My mind flashes to the times he’s come close—to the antler incident, to the moments where I thought,This is it. This is how it ends.
He wouldn’t really kill me, would he?
But he’s said he would. And the fact that I’m even asking the question is proof enough of how far I’ve fallen. How warped my sense of normalcy has become.
And he always denies that it’s his fault. Like he doesn’t understand that it’s possible to have healthy conflict and disagreements and figure it out, because that’s what adults do.
A wild tantrum in the body of a two-hundred pound, six-foot-two man mad about a show I’m watching is much different from a toddler mad he didn’t get an extra cookie. You’re supposed to grow out of that phase, but I guess some men never do.
And that’s dangerous.
And it’s dangerous when men hate women, period. Which I’m increasingly starting to see in him. It’s very concerning.
But in the moment, he always has a way of talking me down, of making me feel like I’m blowing things out of proportion.
That it’s all in my head.
That he loves me more than anyone else.
That the other people are against us, and so we need to be a team.
“Team Ginger Shark,” he’ll say, even inventing a special handshake just for us.