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My Worst Valentine's Day Ever is a true story that comes from my own personal experience. Although this is a frightful and terrifying story, it is an important experience to relate in exposing just one small part of a love gone awry. Hopefully, this will prevent, uplift, or give courage to someone who may need a wake-up call to get out of a bad situation before it is too late.
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MY WORST VALENTINE’S EVER!
The worst Valentine’s Gift I ever had, or hope to have, was a gift I would have never asked for, but a gift that has “kept giving” over the years in numerous ways no one would have ever predicted.
My ex-husband, (also because of this gift and others like it), came home one afternoon early from work to find me, his wife, waiting for him, anxious to please him. I was dressed very nicely, but sexy too, in a hot pink, silky dress, split up both sides, to reveal my long legs, aching to get out and dance. This was in the age of disco and everything was sparkly, sexy, and wild. I had been a professional singer, actress, and dancer before marrying him, and had quite a sense of showmanship and flair for excitement. My hair was sexily coiffeured, and my make-up, showcase perfect. I had prepared a nutritious, well-balanced, and tasty dinner ready and hot for him, complete with heart-shaped Valentine cake for desert, with pink frosting, and red heart decorations. This complete package to a man’s heart, along with a Valentine card, was my gift to him.
He, in turn, was sociopathically prepared, and well developed in his Valentine’s Day plan and gift for me. He had planned the timing perfectly so that I would be caught totally unprepared and off-guard, and what a surprise! He informed me that he was not hungry, because he had stopped and had a few celebration drinks with his buddies from work. After all, it was Wednesday night, and that meant “drinkin’ night”. Nevertheless, the real surprise came when he disclosed to me that his plans for the evening did not include me. However, he was going to celebrate the holiday, by going down to the “happening place”, a local bar and nightclub, where, luckily for him, it was “Ladies Night”!
I figured since it was “Ladies Night”, and I was his lady, his plans included taking me with him to dance the night away, especially on Valentine’s Day. WRONG!! He quickly corrected that train of thought, by telling me, that he would be enjoying this venture alone, (at least to start with). Well, this came as quite an unexpected and sudden surprise, so as he proceeded to get himself ready for the club, and his holiday celebration, I formulated my “Plan B”.
I knew when he got there, and thought about how he had hurt me, he would be overcome by shame, and guilt, and it would destroy his “good time” attitude. Therefore, I would save him from this awful scene, and his negative feelings, and I would follow him to the club, and surprise him. It might add that mystical sense of “strange” that could be the very tool to put the spark back into a dying ember. That way, we could be drawn closer together, and would have a wonderful evening out, which would be an old experience, relived, and renewed. How romantic! WRONG!!
When “we” arrived at the club, (in separate cars, and my presence unbeknown to him, of course), he proceeded to get out of his car, and walk over to a very tall, slender, blonde, model-like girl who was getting out of her car, making her way into the club. They stopped, talked briefly, and then, went into the club together.
Total numbness and shock permeated my whole being, while a small part of my brain, fought to rationalize the sudden impact my eyes and heart had blindly witnessed.
To make a long story short, (The Reader’s Digest version), I ventured into the club, still bathed in denial, hoping that my plan and love, could somehow be salvaged. I entered the dark club carefully, so as not to be spotted, at least until I could regain some composure, and acclimate myself to the unfamiliar surroundings and sparse lighting. The dark, and scary, surroundings were beginning to be take on a new life, new sparklings of colored lights, zooming, spinning mirror balls, punctuated by loud, fast, music and unrecognizable voices in conversation. It was crowded, and the women looked jealously suspicious, as the men anxiously leered at the newcomer. I uncomfortably squeezed through the crowd, choosing my steps carefully, while still trying to look as though I was familiar to this kind of scene. It had been a long time since I had been in an atmosphere like this; probably not since I had first met my husband, almost five years and two children ago. I found a tall, stand-up table, with a tall stool, empty, waiting for me to warm it while I tried to regain some composure, familiarize my surroundings, and formulate my next move.
Someone, standing so close to me that I seemed to choke on the same dead air as he was exhaling it, startled me. I smelled the liquor on his breath, mixed with cigarette smoke, and the cologne on his collar. As he smiled in my face, to be impressive to those watching, he whispered poison in my ear. It was my husband, telling me to just pretend I didn’t know him, and stay out of his way, because he was going to do the same to me. My heart re-broke, and my brain felt battered, as he sauntered off unscathed by my presence.
As I sat there, barely recovering, while I watched him dance so uninhibited with the innocent and unaware, I formulated my retaliation in my head. There were many men looking at me, flirting, and trying to catch my attention. I thought I would just try to play off my hurt, and show him I could have an innocent enough good time without him, if that was what he wanted. You know what they say about “the tears of a clown”. What would be the harm in dancing a few dances, since I was already dressed up, and wanted to forget my true heartbreak, and maybe make him a little jealous in the end. This would bring him back to my arms by the end of the night, and he would realize the risk in the mistake he had made trying to separate us. This would prove to be one of the biggest mistakes I had made since I had married him.
I accepted light conversation, and a dance or two from one very gentlemanly guy, who asked me to join him and his friends, two more couples, at their table. I thought this would be better than sitting alone, so I accepted. As I was conversing with one of the other girls at the table, my husband (who did not identify himself as such), approached “my date”, and began to warn him about having anything to do with me.
He then went back to the bar, bought another drink, and lit up a cigarette, all the while staring daggers at me. I tried to explain the embarrassing and confusing circumstances; that was my husband, but he had told me to pretend he wasn’t, and he didn’t care what I did. Then my companion went over to the bar and explained that we were just innocently dancing and talking, and he didn’t know that I was married. This reality did not sit well with my husband, so he put his cigarette out in the gentlemen’s drink glass. He then, rapidly walked over to our table, and loudly instructed me to “Get your ass home where it belongs, bitch, because you’re going to get an ass-whipping when I get there”. I quickly gathered up my things, and headed for the exit, my car, and home. I was totally and publicly humiliated, embarrassed, and broken, as I left the club, a different person than had arrived there earlier.
I made my way home, blindly groping through the tears, with the reality of the road, my direction, and my predicament. It took me longer than usual to get there in my confused and dazed state. When I drove into our familiar driveway, his car was there! How could that be? I had left him at the club, oblivious to my presence, or feelings. My mind began to dysfunctionally race wildly, knowing he had seen the error of his ways, thinking that I could forgive him, he would understand my actions and pain, and we could now salvage and begin anew, this shattered relationship. I still wreaked of denial.
As I entered the house, it was dark, very dark. Out of the pitch-blackness, with the sudden springing of a hungry, wild animal, he lunged at me. He pulled me by my long, blonde hair, like a cave man, conquering his woman. He physically dragged me, by my hair, (which later came out in a big clump in his hand) through our living room, kitchen, and down six stairs, into the den, away from the path of direct hearing of our two children. At this point, he begins to beat me into the floor, using his hands, fists, and feet, and all the hatred and anger of a raging maniac. He wanted to remind me who was in charge of making all the decisions, and that I had made a distinct error in making one to follow, and try to engage him in front of others, making him embarrass himself in front of strangers, by humiliating me.
This would be the last shot, literally! He now had a gun in his hand that he put to my ravaged head, telling me that it had two bullets in a chamber that held six. They were loaded randomly, and he spun the chamber to make sure their positions were random. He was going to stop me from ever interfering in his plans again; he would show me who had the last word, and who ruled his world. As parts of my hair lay beside me on the floor, my makeup and dress torn, disheveled, and soaked in tears and blood, I pleaded to deaf ears not to do this. I begged him not to let our children wake up to find their mother in a pool of blood and guts on their playroom floor. I told him if he must do this, to take me out in the woods, where they would not have to hear the shot, and see the mess he was going to make of their mother, and their young lives. I desperately tried to keep my voice low, and calm as possible, while trying to rationalize some reasoning and sanity into his mind. I did not want the children to wake up and become more involved than they already innocently were in this mess, and perhaps reap his vengeance. He could not listen above his raging, and threatened to kill me once and for all. He put the gun to my head and I heard a loud click.
I will never forget that sound or the feeling of that moment. Then, before I could regain any thought, a loud bang glaringly echoed in my ears, blocking out every other sound. The gun had been shot! Yet, in the deafening silence, I was still there. How could this miracle be? Then, I remembered there was one more bullet in the chamber. I knew these could literally be my last moments alive.
Suddenly, like a voice from heaven, our 14-month-old daughter cried out loudly in the distance, from her crib. She was a breast-fed baby, and right on schedule, her hungry cries finally permeated his demented thoughts. I begged him to let me go to feed her, and that he could do what he wanted, later, away from the house, away from our children. I didn’t want them to come downstairs from their warm, safe, beds in the morning to find the cold, dead, bloody body of their mother. Unconsciously, he released my hair, and my body, from the grasp of his hand, as well as the unspoken grasp of the gun to my head. He cold-heartedly told me to go and feed her, and then come back. We would finish then.
Quietly, meekly, I slunk to my daughter’s crib, taking her small, impatient, body in my arms, perhaps for the last time. I thanked God for the deafening cry of my hungry baby. It had saved my life, and interrupted the worst experience of my life. I cherished every moment she suckled my breast, wondering if it would be my last, desperately searching my mind for the words to convince him to give us all another chance, another night, another chance at life. Prayers…thoughts…feelings…mixed endlessly, spiraling throughout my head, stabbing my heart, repeatedly. I loved my children immensely, and wondered what would become of them now. I desperately prayed that God would intervene, and do something only He could do, to change what was happening.
As I had taken every moment possible to suckle my baby, savoring every moment, as it could be my last, it was luckily, enough time for him to gain some cognitive reality, and pass out. I took the gun, hid it, and settled in to the opposite end of the house, sleeplessly, protecting my children, until morning.
My Valentine present that year was the worst and the best ever, in essence, equaling the irony and the awakening of the evening, now past. The worst, for the experience, and the realization of where I had been brought in my life. The best, for the extra seconds of delay, just enough time to stop a madman, just enough time to gather my intestinal fortitude and wit together, to live another day, another year, and another life. Just enough sanity to experience and share with others, the reality of dysfunction, the pain of learning how to love yourself and be loved, and the facts that there is survival, there is life, and there is love after pain, after suffering, after therapy.
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