When The Hand That Feeds You Bites Back

For the past four years or so, I’ve shared my living space with an individual. Not a very nice individual, mind you, although she had her moments. This individual has some serious issues, but I was sure that with some support and kind words that I could help her get back on her feet again. What a fool I’ve been.

She hasn’t worked in about 2 years, has no car or driver’s license, and has depended on me for everything. Even though the road was mostly bumpy, it appeared she was making progress toward getting her life together. This past Wednesday, however, I permanently withdrew my support.

You see, earlier that day, I’d committed the unforgivable crime of not returning her call. She responded by getting drunk and making my evening a nightmare I’ll not soon forget.

It started, as always, with the nagging. I decided to go to bed early, hoping maybe she’d get wrapped up in some TV show and temporarily forget about it. No such luck. Just as I was drifting off to sleep, the bedroom door opened, complete with blinding light and noise from the TV. I got up and closed it. Five minutes later, she opened it again. I closed it, and the cycle repeated itself three or four more times before I put my hands on her shoulders and said plainly, “Leave the damned door closed!” She called 911 and had me arrested for domestic violence.

Several people with whom I’ve spoken say they didn’t learn a thing during their jail stay. Not so with me. You see, I’d never been in jail before. Never been exposed to so many cretins with night sticks and handcuffs feeling oh so superior to me because I was in jail, while they weren’t. I almost felt sorry for them as they spouted off their orders to me, their eyes full of empty contempt, hating me just for being there, yet it caused them to feel so obviously important. I couldn’t imagine any of these people smiling, and found the concept of redneck zombies who were barely able to form a coherent sentence having control over me grossly insulting, nay nauseating. Getting out of there became my number one mission in life.

A number of things occurred to me as I paced my cell. Why had I let this go on so long? How could I have been so stupid? At the same time I felt a little excited, because I knew beyond any doubt that this was the end. Without this experience, who knows how long this staleness would have persisted? How many doors would have remained closed?

When you’re arrested for domestic violence, you can’t have any contact with your accuser until after the court date, which, in my case is February 12. I’ve been staying with my employers since leaving jail. Immediately upon my release, however, I cancelled all my utilities. I’ll be damned if I’ll pay one more dime to support her in any way. I found out today that she’s moving out, and that tomorrow the apartment will again be mine.

Somehow, in her twisted little mind, I’m sure she believes this is all my fault. If only I’d have returned her call. If only I’d stop looking for the love of my life, and just accept her for who she is.

She called a few minutes ago saying she doesn’t know where she’s going. I honestly don’t care at this point. Rumor has it, she might have a new beau already. That would be such a blessing for me. And for her, albeit a temporary one. Until the darkness once again creeps into her being, and the sad, angry, horrifying cycle begins anew. I’ll not be a part of this one, however.

The word “Goodbye,” has never felt so cleansing, so fresh . . . so free.