We were sitting in the living room of our new house, we had bought it just a few months earlier, and he said, “That day I wanted to reach behind, grab shit, and throw at you.”
“What?” I asked, “What are you talking about?”
He replied, “That day in the bathroom, I was so angry with you I just wanted to throw shit in your face.”
It was October, one month after I married ex-husband number 2, appropriately called #2 for several reasons, he shattered his elbow. He was riding his bike, used the front brake instead of the rear, flew over the bike, and landed on his elbow.
It was ugly. The injury was ugly, the treatment was ugly, six months of him not working was ugly, lots of meds were ugly, his personality was VERY ugly.
My dad and stepmom (C) had plans to visit us for Thanksgiving. They thought they shouldn’t come, because our situation wasn’t great, we went to many doctor and physical therapy appointments. I begged them, I was so miserable, I needed them to come. I didn’t have many things I wanted to do with them that week – a gourmet grocery store, hanging art, and going to a girls high school basketball game. I had promised several of my students I would go.
#2 wanted to be babied. He spent a lot of time in bed, he thought his “condition” compromised his ability to function as a regular adult. One evening, after dinner, he was in bed. Dad, C and I hung art, and we were watching a documentary about Aron Ralston, the hiker who was trapped in rocks and cut off his own arm.
Around 8:30 we heard a faint voice, muted the t.v., and heard it was #2 calling for me, in a soft wounded voice. Now, keep in mind this was a 900 square foot apartment, he wasn’t far away. I went in our room, he was in the fetal position, crying. I asked if his elbow hurt. No. Was his stomach hurting. No. So, what’s wrong? He was lonely and wanted me to stay in bed with him. He was also angry because we hung art without him, and I was spending time with my parental units, not him. I explained I see him every day, every night, I don’t know when I will see them again. He tried to persuade me to stay with him, given his condition warranted he stay in bed. I refused.
The next morning, Dad, C and I were at the kitchen table visiting. We heard pounding in the other room. We looked at each other, puzzled. We heard it again. It sounded like stomping feet. I went looking for #2, he was in the bathroom, on the toilet, stomping his feet. I knocked on the door, he was crying and wouldn’t reply, so I went in. He was constipated. He was sitting on the toilet, straining, sobbing. Apparently he had never been constipated before. Really? I didn’t know a single person who hadn’t been constipated. But, he hadn’t. But he was taking pain pills which may lead to constipation. I told him I would go out and get some prune juice, he shouldn’t strain. He screamed at me. I don’t even remember what he said, but he was screaming. Saying horrible things. He was so angry that I wasn’t spending every bit of my attention on him. I was just shocked! Was he not 33? Was I his mother? Was I supposed to nurse him? What the fuck?
It was about 10 months later when he told me he wanted to throw shit in my face. I told him I would have walked out and never come back.
I wish he would have.