The Power of Coffee

I had eulogized my single life, mourned living alone and accepted morning coffee in its place. In all of the time we were together I never made my own coffee. That was his thing. From the very beginning when he gave me the coffee grinder, he took making coffee for us both in the morning as his thing. He owned it. He loved to add cinnamon, whipped cream, and other sugary items to surprise me with. Given our rocky relationship, whenever we would have a fight or breakup I would always get really sad about making my coffee. And that made me angry. I was the most independent girl I knew before I met him. I did so many things on my own and loved every second of it. But the way that he made coffee so special each morning - I ended up sentimentalizing inanimate objects and yes, even beverages. I didn't even want to use the glorious grinder during our breakups. I didn't even truly miss him. I missed "things," "places," and shared "objects."

I didn't recognize this fact for quite awhile.

After the first time he threw me to the ground I started to figure it out. I got a concussion that July '06 night when we fought over where he had been after I found the picture of him and Amanda. That was the first time that I got a taste of his temper turning physical. He looked like a robot, devoid of feeling. He kept pushing me out of rooms in the house, taking my stuff and throwing it downstairs and refusing to let me check for things left behind. He just kept knocking me down. I got so crazed when I thought about that picture I had found (with an incriminating date stamped on it) and all of the lies that I started flailing at him and scratched him up. He responded in kind. Threw me down and was "restraining" me with both hands pinning mine to the ground. When I tried to lift my head he pushed it back down - hard, hence the concussion. Not to mention the bruises all over my arms and legs.

I don't even know that I can convey how mortified and shocked I was. The cliche of it all smacked me in the face. All of my feelings felt so passe and predictable. I was WAY too smart and independent minded, stubborn even for this. I allowed him to treat me badly and make it up with sex and a morning cup of coffee, and subsequently the rose garden he planted on my balcony. It was humiliating but during that time I couldn't even imagine leaving him for good. I actually believed that I needed him, that I couldn't be happy without him. (Because concussions and black eyes are true bliss). Violence aside, assigning responsibility for my happiness to someone else was terribly misguided.

The humiliation was compounded when I was harassed by the cops when they arrived soon after I called 911. They separated us outside and assigned me to a piece of sidewalk while they spoke with him. As he was telling his story, I heard him painting a picture of some crazy banshee who just went nuts and attacked him! I lost my shit, left my part of the sidewalk and threw the picture at him (up until then he didn't know I had found it). Predictably the cops didn't take too kindly to this. The female officer pulled me back to the front of the house informed me that if anyone was going to get arrested that night it was going to be me. She asked for my license and asked me where I worked. I remember crying when I had to answer that question. I was embarrassed for myself that I had such a dignified position for such a high profile boss and employer. I got petrified thinking that our altercation would be made public in a blotter or such and it would be reported as "DHS aide to George XXXX." I finally admitted to where I worked and she looked at me with a softer face, glanced over to the front door and sternly demanded, "What are you thinking being with this guy??? You are so much better than this and you need to just stop it."

It took 11 more months, a great deal more pain and physical abuse but I finally did stop it. I stopped the madness.