The cracking of egg shells

Shhhh, Shhh, Shhh, Shhh.

This would be how my three children and I started off every morning for four years, from the time I woke them up until we shut the car doors, ready to go to school and work.

Shutting the car doors and hearing the kids chat freely and turning some music on was the best thing about each morning.

We were out, out of the house that caused so much pain. We were free to feel, think, talk and smile. Perhaps even free to be able to take each breath without worrying that we were going to wake an angry scary monster.

I wanted to look respectable for work one morning. I was fed up with that tired worn out mother look that always swept over me. I went for a shower before the children got up. I wanted to wash my hair, dry it off and make something pretty out of it.

I didn’t think that through very well, did I.

As soon as the dryer started, the bedroom door flung open across the hallway. An angry sleepy monster appeared. He stomped his way across the hallway, shoved past me into the toilet and slammed the door.

That’s when I knew, I had made a huge mistake.

He came back out of the toilet, pushed me out of the way to wash his hands while grunting heavily. He stomped across back across the hallway and cursed at me with words that are beyond what any person should be called and slammed the door in my face. Yes, I woke him up, how dare I?

I continued to get ready for work, not finishing drying my hair off as I was too scared he would appear out of the room in a worse state then before. I was scared to think about even coming back home later that day.

I got home at 1pm. The bedroom door was still shut. Yes this was normal, he was still in bed after his drinking session the night before. It was normal for him to do that every night, since he wasn’t working. About half an hour later he got up. Stomped up the hallway, no he could not do anything quietly. Cursed at me again telling me how dare I wake him up like that and not to do it ever again. I was told I had to cook him something to eat. Told me I was a bitch and women should not have any rights. And it went on for the rest of the day.

This was how I was made to live for four long years. Scared that I would crack the eggshells that I had to tiptoe on every day. This day I did, simply by trying to look after myself. Sad isn’t it? ARSEHAT.

The consequences of nachos

Not even I thought about what consequences nachos, or the lack of could bring.

He had to have nachos every night at 10pm as he was always drunk enough at that time to need something to eat.

I forgot to buy more cheese. I then heard the stamping of feet and slamming of the tray and fridge door and mumbles under his breath about just how hopeless I am.

I started to panic inside when I realized that I forgot to buy more corn chips. Not even I knew that this deserved my shin bone to be kicked to the point of bruising and denting it.

I forgot to buy more of the sauce he used on his nachos. Verbal abuse to the point of no return I copped that night.

One night I forgot to wash up the soaking dish from the night before that he used to make his nachos in.

I will never forget the bruising that broke out across my sternum and the bruises across my back as I landed on the computer table.

He couldn’t understand why I called the police that night and why I had a panic attack that lasted for four long hours.

Wouldn’t you forget to buy all these things while you are working full time and raising three teenage children?

He didn’t work. But he didn’t go to the shop either. He refused to pay for anything that he needed. ARSEHAT.