The Turning Point

 Dad sounds drunk.

The text arrived from my middle son on a Friday afternoon in late August when I was in my room recovering from the madness of after school pickup with a quick game of June's Journey.  Shortly after I read it, he came into the room.

"Did you see my text?"

"Yes.  What do you mean?  What's he doing?"

"He's down in his office and he's just acting really weird."

This wasn't anything new.  For at least the last three months, my husband had been exhibiting troubling behavior.

In June, in a matter of days, several disturbing incidents occured.  

On a Friday early evening, I received an email from the director of the theater camp our youngest son was attending.  "Hi!  A wanted me to reach out, because he doesn't have any dinner.  I told him you were probably on your way with it, but he insisted I write you."

Irritated, I texted my husband.  "You didn't send A with his dinner?  I told you he needed it, and you said you would pack one for him."  No reply.  I jumped in my car, accompanied by my bad mood, and ran to Dairy Queen to grab dinner and deliver it to our son.

When I got home, my husband was smiling vaguely, puttering around the kitchen.  I was spitting mad.  

"You were supposed to send A with dinner!"

"Oh, I know."

"You DIDN'T send him with dinner, though."

"I was going to."

"When, exactly?"

"In a little while.  I'll do it now."

"Dinner is already over.  I picked something up for him and dropped it off.  He barely had time to eat before the performance."

"Okay.  What did you get him?"

I couldn't answer.  I was so angry.  I stormed upstairs to get ready, and upon seeing him leisurely watching television when I returned, I left for the play by myself.

Fifteen minutes into the 45-minute performance, he showed up.  He was carrying a bag of food from Subway.  He handed it to our son after the show.

"Why did you get that?  You know I already brought him dinner."

"I just thought he would like it."

My son, sensing the tension, quickly said that he would put it in the fridge to enjoy tomorrow.  Blessed be the peacemakers.

After the play, I went to do a couple of pet sitting visits, and then headed home where I found our son looking panicked in front of a giant plate of spaghetti.

"What is that?"

"I don't know!  Dad just made it for me.  I'm not hungry.  I don't know what to do."

"Just throw it away.  You don't have to eat it."

My husband was nowhere to be found.  He often disappeared into his office, a building we had built in the backyard four years prior.  My mother-in-law called it "the man cave".  C called it "the shed".  I had only entered it a handful of times since its construction.  Something about it gave me a bad vibe, but I couldn't put my finger on what.  It was a beautiful building.  If it was mine, I would fill it with light and soft couches and candles and music.  But it wasn't mine.  C worked 100% remotely, and needed a quiet space for his meetings.  It was a cacophony of electronics and instruments and books and knick-knacks collected over the years.  It was unorganized and cluttered and uncomfortable.  But it was a space where C could surround himself with all of his strange, brainy hobbies.  I talked him into letting me relocate a small love seat into the office.  He reluctantly agreed.

The morning after the three dinner debacle, I heard C come in from his office and ask A, "Did Mom make you breakfast?"

"Yes," my son replied.

Less than three minutes later, my husband said, "What do you want me to make you for breakfast?"

"I already ate!  I told you!"  My son frequently got annoyed with my husband these days.  I didn't blame him.  I did, too.

Two minutes later--"Do you want me to make you breakfast?"

My son exploded.  "I ALREADY ATE!  I TOLD YOU ALREADY!"

I came downstairs, intervening as I did more and more often.  "A, it's okay. Calm down.  Dad just forgot.  He must be thinking about work."

I asked C, "Do you realize you asked him three times?"

"Not really."

My mother-in-law and my mother had told me over the last few years of incidents like this to be patient with him.  They told me that his anxiety about work was the culprit.  That he could have full conversations with me, but not really be listening to a word I said.  He would just make it seem like he was.  I just had to be kinder.  I had to be more supportive.  But mostly I felt exhausted and irritated.  Running my business.  Raising three kids.  Maintaining a household.  I didn't have the extra time to have conversations twice.  

That night, we went to the final performance of A's play.  We took separate cars again, this time because I knew I would have to rush out to pet sit afterwards.  C brought our three sons, and our middle son's friend.  After the play, I said my goodbyes, and headed out, telling C I would be home in about two hours.  He took our oldest son to spend the night with his friend, and dropped our middle son and his friend off to spend the night at the friend's house.  He brought A home. 

When I arrived later, I asked him if he would watch a Chappell Roan video I was loving.  "Casual".  I turned it on, grinning, watching his face to see his reaction, but he was focused on rough housing with the cat.  Again, I felt my irritation rise.  When it ended, he popped up and said, "Okay, I'm going to get A."

"What?"

"He had a play tonight.  I'm going to pick him up."

"We went to the play."

"What?  No we didn't."

"C, what are you talking about?  We all went.  You brought him home already.  He's in the bedroom playing videogames."

"What?  No way."  He walked to the bedroom and opened the door.  "Oh, hey you!  What are you doing here?"

I felt like I was going to throw up.  I was terrified.  I held back tears.

"C, why don't you go to bed.  You are forgetting things.  I'm worried about you."

He started to get angry with me.  

"I don't need to go to bed.  I'm fine!  I'll go pick up P from work."

"He's not at work.  You took him to his friend's house for a sleepover, remember?"

"Oh, yeah.  I hate driving over there."

"Please go to bed."

He glared at me, but went to the guest room, where he had been sleeping since February when, after multiple incidents across more than a year of hitting me, choking me, or kicking me in his sleep, I drew the line.  I told him he needed to get a sleep study.  That he could come back to our marital bed once we figured out what was going on.  Sleeping alone in our bed, I finally started to feel safe, and slept peacefully.  

I checked on him multiple times that night.  Each time, he glared at me.  Each time, he asked if P had called for a ride home from work yet.  I told him that P was safely home, and quietly called our son to explain what was going on, fearful that C would call him in the middle of the night.

I brought him water.  I hid the car keys.  I took my youngest son, and a butcher knife, to bed, and we locked the door, both crying, both terrified.  We quietly called my in-laws, telling them what was going on.  They told us to pray.  We fell asleep holding hands, and praying together.

It was just the start of a very long, frightening journey for our family.