Why I Stayed, 1997—2001

Each time we moved to a new apartment, and we did three times, I knew I shouldn't, that I should leave while I had the chance, but each time we moved to a new apartment we were desperate, had been kicked out or priced out and we only had one bed, no savings, just friends some of whom knew that you fractured your hand punching through a wall, inches from my head, and some of whom were aware that you threw things at me when I said things you didn't like, as if my words were things I threw at you first. It made sense to you. I can't remember the bad things I said—my self-serving memory enraged you, and why not: I always remembered the bad things you did. And, yes, I do remember everything you threw: a chair over our heads at a bar (Liz was there), a mirror like a frisbee aimed at my knees, a carton of fried rice that splat on the shade of our only nice lamp, oil stains patterned it with tiny bugs. Also, you threw me against a wall, but you always said it was because I made you so mad because you loved me so much and didn't want to lose me that you'd lose control instead and later beg me to stay, that if I left you it meant you would never be loved and I couldn't bear to have you think that about either one of us. I wasn't someone who'd let herself be hit; I'd never take that from a man. A man would be a criminal if he did what you did. But you had been hurt and all that pain and anger needed more time, and I made you so crazy, I was so stubborn and good at mean words, what else were you supposed to do? You liked to raise your fist pretending to hit me and then half-smile when I winced or cringed. It was important that you had never actually hit me, never punched me with a closed fist: you'd only grabbed me and choked me and flung me and made dents in the wall next to me, and narrowly missed me, but we knew you meant to miss, never truly meant to clobber me on the head with something heavy, something light, maybe, like a book I loved. When a woman you love hits you on the head with a book you love, is that love? I was so ashamed and afraid someone would find out about us, then I was afraid and ashamed people already knew but didn't know what to do. Did I really think this was a secret? Not from the cops we called during two bad fights or from Peggy who let you stay with her rent-free that month I kicked you out. You two had a blast. But I couldn't pay the rent on my own, so you moved back in, triumphant, Peggy still in love with you, and you gloated about how much money you'd saved. Surrounded by friends, whom could I tell? Why would I tell anyone who didn't already know us well enough to already know? If everyone knew, none of us said so. We talked, all of us, almost constantly, intimately, so how did we keep ourselves so quiet? You and I, together in this, were alone with this, alone among women who loved us. The two of us never more alone than when together.