30 June 2004

I woke up crying yesterday morning from a nightmare. I rarely have nightmares anymore, unless there's Chinese food involved, but this was a bad one.

I dreamed I was talking to my baby. I was looking at him/her. And s/he was crumpled up in this terrified, broken little position, with his/her legs splayed at weird angles. There were little brown and yellow bruises all over his/her little body. And this tiny little face was looking up at me, asking me, "what did I do wrong?" I was crying in the dream.

Behind the baby, in a doorway, stood Jake. He was talking about how much weight he'd lost. And then something about putting gas in the tank. Not a second glance at the baby's little battered body, and those little helpless eyes... It was all about the fucking gas in the tank.

I woke up sobbing and beating the shit out of my pillow.

I think that, despite how happy I've been the past few weeks, a part of me hates Jake more than I know how to express. A part of me wishes he were dead. A part of me wishes he weren't so fucked up in the head so that he could actually understand what the hell he did to me. A part of me wishes I could just tie him up and take a baseball bat to him for a couple of hours until my arms were too tired.

The last time I saw Jake, he was happier than I've seen him before. He was talking about his new girlfriend, and how they go to parties. She plays the guitar and dresses "gothy." He spends lots of time gathering younger friends around him and scolding them to do things. Jake really does sound rather commanding when he wants to, and so these friends do whatever he tells them to do. He said he'll be rich and famous any time now.

I would like to shrink Jake by eight and a half inches and about 130 pounds. I would like to wrap my hands around his throat and squeeze as hard as I can. I would like to make up nasty nicknames for the people he loves most, and scream them in his face. I would like to tell the entire free world about his "infidelities," so that he hasn't got a soul he can talk to without the humiliation of everybody knowing he's a "cheat." I would like to ransack his belongings and read his journals dating back to 1992 -- all of the most humiliating things, the worst parts of himself, documented on paper. I would like to tell him he murdered my first baby, Jane, because he was such a horrible father. I would like to make sure HE had painfully sensitive breasts, and then punch him in the chest hard enough to leave a bruise. I would like to hold him down and growl in his face until he wondered if I was going to beat him senseless, or what. I would like to bend a fencing sword around his throat until his face turned purple. I would like to scream that he's just as crazy as his mother.

These are the things Jake did to me during the last few weeks I lived with him. I wish he would know what it feels like. I wish he knew what it felt like to be beaten up and then thrown out with nothing but the clothes on his back and two bags full of research. I wish he knew what it felt like to be called a baby-killer. I wish he knew what it felt like to me when his mother repeatedly insisted that I get a paternity test because she knew I was unfaithful.

* * * * * * * * * * *

There was a time when I truly loved Jake. I loved him so much, I asked if he wanted to get married. I told him I loved him more than just about anything, except my book. Which, I suppose, was true enough. I cooked for him and slept next to him in bed. I didn't kiss the boy at the Cooper Point Journal, even though I wanted to, because I didn't want to hurt Jake. I didn't kiss the boy at Slightly West Literary Magazine, even though I wanted to, because I didn't want to hurt Jake. I didn't even kiss Neil, even though I would have murdered somebody for the privilege, until after Jake and I had broken up, because I didn't want to hurt Jake. I started making Jake a recipe book (beginning with "hot water" on the first page), so that he could learn to feed himself and earn his kitchen privileges back. (You lose those automatically when you set Ramen noodles on fire.) I listened to Jake when he was being bitchy and antagonistic and trying to pick fights disguised as "debates." Because I honestly cared. I really loved him.

One night, Jake and I went to Denny's to meet some of his friends. Jake had talked one of these friends into buying him an expensive camera for his "video production" business. They were having a "business meeting," meaning that Jake was blowing a bunch of shit out his ass about how hard he was working on his "projects." The friend appeared to be buying it. Meanwhile, another boy, seated near me, was teching me to play the spoons. I practiced on the table, but it didn't work very well. I practiced on my hand, but that didn't work either. So I practiced on Jake's arm, and had worked out a really bad-ass drum-and-spoons duet to this one Coltrane tune, when Jake gave me one of his meanest glares and told me to stop.

I contend that, if you can't play spoons on somebody's arm in a restaurant as crappy as Denny's, you're with the wrong person and you need to get out. Business meeting or no business meeting -- having fun with your loved ones is more important. It should be, anyway. But I forgave Jake for telling me to knock it off with the spoons. I was really prepared to live that kind of a life. I was prepared to beg him to play with me when the urge struck. I was prepared to teach him how to play on uneven bars on playgrounds. I was prepared to always strike the first blow in dandelion wars. I was prepared to be told to "stop it." I was prepared to teach him how to have snowball fights. I was prepared to teach him to go sledding. I was so sure that someday he'd GET IT. I was sure that one day he'd go swimming with me, and quit griping that "nobody wants to see a fat man in the pool." I was sure that someday I'd get him to drive up to that bridge in Auburn and jump off it with me. I was sure that he'd stop worrying about the stupid crap he DID worry about, and worry about slightly more important things. I did get him to do most of those things, although he gave up on sledding very quickly, and never had the slightest interest in making friends with people with freaky hair. I loved him anyway.

He said that I never loved him. He said that I'd been lying to him from the beginning. But he was wrong.

* * * * * * * * * * *

When I told Jake I was leaving, he told me that he would kill the baby. "What?" he asked. "You think I'm not transcendental enough to do that?" This was a question I would not answer. He wasn't going to punch me in the stomach; he was going to "transcend" all of that business and kill the baby with the strength of his will.

He said this out loud.

Actually, he yelled it.

I hope to gahd that babies' ears don't work when they're that young. Imagine sucking your thumb in a nice cozy womb. Imagine fondling your newly-grown toes. Imagine slurping vitamins through your naval and working on growing some nice strong bones. And imagine you hear someone threaten to kill you. Imagine all the work that goes into becoming a person: the growing and the developing and the stretching out... Imagine that you've just barely got a working brain, and this man is telling your mother that he wants you to die. Imagine him saying he's going to "transcendentally" murder you.

I said to Jake: "You do anything to hurt my baby, I'll kill you."

He took a step closer. I pushed him. I think maybe I hit him. It wouldn't have mattered if I did. Punching Jake is like punching the cast-iron walls of the Perry Building in downtown Binghamton. So I gave him a bright pink necklace with my nails. I don't really have nails to speak of, so I'm not sure how I managed to cause something that looked so painful. But I swear I would have killed him if he'd hurt my baby. I'm not a violent person. Before all of this bullshit with Jake, I had only struck people twice. And one of them had literally asked me to hit him. But you don't fuck with my kid. You just don't. The thing is, Helena's a sweet little thing most of the time, but I'm a mom, dammit. This Methodist woman told me once that she thinks God is a mother. The loving God of the New Testament is the nurturing mother. The fierce, vengeful God of the Old Testament is the mother who fucking kills you if you fuck with her kid. I agree with that.

I don't understand how anyone could hate me so much that they hated my baby.

I understand why he hated me... I might have hated me too, if I were him. I was leaving him. I was in love with somebody else. I would have hated me too. But to threaten the baby? To strangle me until I couldn't even breathe? To punch me and throw me a couple of feet across the room -- even if I did land on the bed?

* * * * * * * * * * *

Part of me still does sort of love Jake. Generally, when I've found a place in my heart for somebody, it's nearly impossible for me to evict them. I miss Jake's sick sense of humor, the most politically-incorrect, foul-mouthed crap I would ever laugh at. I miss his innocence, the way he could seem so much older than me, but so much more clueless about the world. I miss the moments when he would genuinely try to please me with a cup of cold, sugarless tea. (HOW do you put a cup of water into the microwave and have it come out COLD after two minutes? I have NO freaking clue...) I miss the strange adventures and the driving around in odd, abandonned areas of the state. I miss fucking up his hair and making him yelp at me for giving him an Afro.

* * * * * * * * * * *

The rest of me hates him.

It's just not possible to be forgiven for the things he said and did.

I'm terrified that my baby knows... I'm scared that that dream was a message: "hey mom, I know what that guy said about me... I know he wanted to kill me... I know he hit you... Is it still okay to grow and be born and all that?"

But I don't know how to say: I love you and I will always, always keep you safe... I never know if s/he can hear me...

* * * * * * * * * * *

I haven't said any of this stuff before because I haven't been ready to.

They've been telling me, all these social worker-type people, that I'm going to go through this "grieving process" and whatnot. I've been laughing at that idea. For the most part, despite my situation, which is still pretty lousy, I've been remarkably happy. And I don't miss dating Jake. I don't miss living with him. I miss the friendly things and the funny things, but not all the time. As it is, I have numerous friends now, with whom to share even friendlier and funnier things. I was happy when I left Jake. Scared, but happy.

But until now, I have not been able to get angry enough to tell the truth about him to anybody except the three or four people in the world who are closest to me. Anger, they tell me, is part of "grieving." I don't really think that's the case with me; I think that anger is part of anger. And I've never dealt well with anger.

I am telling you this now because words are my weapons. Because I'm not strong enough to hit, and too clumsy to hit with any accuracy anyway. Because my strength is primarily in my brains and in my words and in my friendships.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Got to go now...
~Helena*