Knife in Hand

First it’s National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Day and I’d like to send loving thoughts to my son Connor who we lost when he was only six days old.

Now, on to the day I turned the tables on my ex. We’d been dating about a year and were at a party with a bunch of friends. I didn’t know the person whose house it was we were at, but I knew most of the people there. We were drinking, a little too much on my part. The ex and I were in the kitchen and he was threatening me with violence over jealousy about me talking to one of our male friends.

I remember the kitchen was a disaster. It looked like the residents hadn’t washed dishes in a week or so. I was trying to tune out my ex because frankly I’d grown tired of being told I couldn’t talk to the opposite sex. Though deep down I also knew he had the potential to hurt me if I wasn’t cautious.

He grabbed my face and squeezed my cheeks so the inside was grinding against my teeth causing some cuts. He released me and raised his fist. In a moment of panic I saw a large butcher knife sitting next to him. I picked it up and pointed it at him. I looked him in the eyes and said, “If you dare touch me again I’ll stab you.”

Now had I really done it, the likelihood of me getting off for battered wife syndrome was small. Police and society didn’t believe in it yet.

Another friend of ours walked in when I had the knife in my hand. He was closer to the ex, but he graciously backed out and left. I was embarrassed to say the least when I went back into the living room, but hey, he didn’t see my ex hurting me. I guess I looked like the pyscho. I don’t care. Looking back I wish I stuck up for myself more.