She cowered in the corner of the room and I felt it all, so still in that moment, everything frozen. The look on my face, a snarl, a mask of anger. And my fist was upraised, ready to crash down on her. My latest girlfriend. They hadn't been lasting long.
"Craig, stop it!" she cried, and I heard the terror in her voice. I just got so angry, all the little things piling up. All the little stressors. And it was what I saw, what I grew up with. This violence was the way to deal with it. It had been so long ago. 10 years since I had lived with my dad, 17 years since I had lived with both of my parents and saw this manner of relating, of dealing with stress. But it was internalized in me. It had to be. When the anger and the stress built up I saw no other way of dealing with it. Or, I didn't think about it. This just happened.
But the tears on her face, the look in her eyes, this brought me back to myself and I backed up, put my raised fist down, the angry mask melting away.
"I'm, I'm sorry, okay?" Now my voice was soft and I held my hand out to her, to help her up. She let me help her and the terror had turned to cautious puzzlement. She was shaking. I hadn't meant to scare her. I hoped I didn't hit her. I might have. Like I hit Joey that time, sometimes I did it without meaning to. And maybe this was how I was like my father, because I loved this girl. And I had loved the girlfriends before her and I had hit them. It made them leave. Some sooner than others but they all left. I hung my head. This girl would leave, too.
"Okay? I'm sorry. Please," I don't know exactly what I was asking for. Her forgiveness, maybe? Pleading with her to understand. Her face was a mask, too. Impassive now. She wouldn't let me in. She didn't trust me, and she was right not to. I was hurtful. I was violent. I couldn't control it. That was clear now. I don't know why I ever thought that I could.
"Okay," she said, and she rubbed her arms, hugged herself. She was so fragile. She was tall but not as tall as me and she was really skinny. I saw bruises on her and I must have put them there. Was this really what happened? Had I become my father?
Drinking wasn't the best solution but we both wanted to. It would make both of us feel better, so I got us some rum and coke. She wrapped up with the afghan and sat curled in the corner of the couch. It reminded me of how I acted after my dad would hit me. How hurt I felt, how kind of sick and numb and wrapped up in cotton. Now I was making someone else feel this way. I felt sick. Sick of myself, sick at the core of my being. I swallowed the rum and coke and just wanted to feel better.
"Michelle, I'm sorry," I said, and there was no expression in her face. She wasn't looking at me.
"It's okay, Craig," she said dully, and this reminded me of myself, too. When my dad would apologize up and down and I just didn't want to hear it, didn't believe it. But I'd tell him there were no hard feelings in that same dull voice. Beaten. But at least then I didn't have to feel guilty. Feeling guilty is worse. When I was the one being hit it was easier, because I could feel the righteous anger that felt good to feel. Now there was no one to be angry at but myself.
But I could still be angry at my father for this gift he gave me that keeps on giving. Being beaten as a child certainly has had its rewards. It caused me to be suicidal, it may have played a role in triggering the bipolar at such a young age, it fucked up all of my relationships. From Joey to Ashley and everyone in between, they were all fucked. And now I got to be the abusive one. I get to see the shoe on the other foot, I get to live inside his skin. Is this what it was like, dad? Is this how you felt? I'm just so glad I get to see.
Now I was afraid to touch her. Michelle. My beautiful girlfriend who I loved. I did. But I was afraid to touch her, she was so closed off from me. She was in a shell, protecting herself. And words couldn't make it better. I knew they couldn't. Not money, not gifts, nothing. It was damage that couldn't be undone, only lived with. I knew that.