Entry 38: Signs

The first two years with S. had been peaceful overall. We'd only had one disagreement since being together after he damaged my laminate floor, putting a piece of metal furniture together. I ran my finger over the large gouge and inspected the surrounding scratches. "Why didn't you think to protect the floor? I don't know how I'm going to fix this." I'd not yelled, but my words were filled with disappointment at what felt like lack of care. It had been the first time I'd criticized him and he'd begun shouting at me so loudly, that I was pretty sure the neighbours could hear. I'd been shocked by his reaction, but told myself it had just been a one-off, which up to this point it had been.

However, as we got closer to the wedding another incident occurred. My best friend had come over for dinner and drinks, and S. had just showed her his new tattoo, a tribute to his mother. She'd started asking him questions about it, but his answers had been vague and confusing, which only generated more of them. Suddenly he stood up and said, "F#ck you both, stop picking on me!" and marched into the bedroom, slamming the door.

We both looked at each other, shocked and confused. "Is he always like this?" she asked, her eyes wide and her face full of worry.

"No," I answered. "He likely had too much to drink," which wasn't true, as he'd only had a couple of beers. I went to say more when S. started yelling from the bedroom. "I know you're talking about me. I can hear you, you know!"

My best friend quickly put on her coat, giving me a concerned look. "I'm going to go, are you going to be okay if I leave?"

I actually wasn't sure, but I put on a brave face and nodded as she slowly shut the door behind her. When I opened the door to the bedroom, S. was curled up under the covers, laying in a fetal position. "How dare you treat my best friend this way, when she was just being nice and showing interest in you!" I snapped. "You were hardly being picked on, we were just having a normal conversation."

The more I tried reasoning with him, the more he flipped the narrative, blaming me for his bad behaviour, to the point that my head was now spinning. "I don't think we should get married, and I think you should leave," I said.

This just escalated the situation more, as his yelling erupted again, with it clear he wasn't going to leave. So, I gathered up my things, deciding I'd leave myself and get my best friend to pick me up. Suddenly, I felt him grab my shoulder, and in a panic I grabbed whatever was close, which was a coaster from the coffee table and tossed it at him, causing him to back up.

I got out of the apartment as fast as I could, dialing my best friend's number when I got to the lobby. "Please pick up," I whispered, as tears rolled down my face, but it went to voicemail. I tried a few more times, but it was the same thing.

It was now late and my car was parked in an area that tended to attract homeless, sometimes the dangerous kind. So, even though I wanted to leave, I felt too paralyzed to. Instead, I sat on the couch in the lobby and decompressed, before heading back upstairs. I wanted us to talk like adults, to fix, to apologize and forgive. But S. was still wrapped up in the covers, and it was clear I wasn't going to get through to him tonight. "You came back," is all he said, as I slipped into the bed next to him.

"Yes," is all I said. As I closed my eyes, I prayed that when I woke up, this would all be a bad dream. Because if it wasn't, I had some decisions to make, and the thought of that made my heart sink.