3:00 AM, or so. Loud voices on the staircase. An argument of some sort. A man and woman. Louder, then stomping up the stairs. A door slams. Stomping in the apartment overhead. Even louder voices. The argument moves back out onto the staircase and I hear, “put your hands on me like you did her.” Repeated three or four times. No response. There were male voices eventually, the conversation was unclear. More loud voices, female; screaming, yelling. Stomping overhead. This went on until almost nine this morning.
I couldn’t stop the memories, the questions. I was triggered. What follows is the first part of what came forward as I listened to this domestic situation unfold in the apartment above where my husband lives.
His name was Cedric. He was beautiful. We met on a dance floor. He outweighed me by 100 pounds and was built solid, just like I like ’em. I have no idea how he afforded rent, food, or anything else. I was in lust and didn’t care. He was beautiful.
He told me to clean the kitchen. The kitchen in the house he shared with two or three other roommates. I hadn’t been in it, let alone used anything that came out of it. I refused. He pushed me, a little. Next clear memory, I am in the bedroom gathering my things into my overnight bag. He pins me to the bed, wrestles my arm up behind my back, his knee pressing between my shoulder blades. He threatens to break my arm if I don’t answer his question correctly. “Who’s in control?” My response, “In control of what?” It frustrated him and he let go. I got up and went into the bathroom to finish gathering my things.
Next clear memory, he pops into the bathroom wielding a knife. His next threatening question, “What would you do if I stabbed you right now?” My response, “probably bleed to death because I don’t think you’d call an ambulance.” He got tired of the game, thankfully.
Next clear memory, he’s dropping me off at my place. My silent vow to never be in his presence again firmly embedded in my mind. A month or so later, he threatens a friend of mine into bringing me to him. I had cut off all contact. She picked me up one weeknight under the guise of taking me with her to work so she could do my hair later. He showed up at her job demanding I go home with him. There are strong words, more threats. My so called friend urges me to go with him so he doesn’t get any angrier. I protect myself and I DO NOT go with him. His parting words, meant to hurt me in some way perhaps, “The problem with you is you won’t let anyone love you!”
So this is love?