Buchtel Haunting Me/Impatiently

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic


This is another one of the dark poems of Buchtel. I think that when most people hear the words "domestic abuse" they immediately think black eyes and bruises. I had my share of those but it was the
verbal and emotional abuse that did the most damage and left the deepest scars. It was divine trickery on the part of my abuser. I could never prove any of it. He justified it all to me in one
statement...."I didn't hit you with my fist so it is not abuse." Yes indeed it was exactly that.

Submitted: June 22, 2018

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Submitted: June 22, 2018

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FROM THE MANUSCRIPT BUCHTEL HAUNTING ME

THE POETRY OF BUCHTEL

IMPATIENTLY/21 AUGUST 2008 (year one)

 

I turn my head and silently fall apart

I swear I'll never let him see

The pain he's causing, the damages done

Every time he glares at me, impatiently.

This stray tear in my eye is just an old sweet melody

Of what was, what's not, and what haunts me

It's an old tune that plays in my head

As he huffs and puffs at me, impatiently.

My spirit is all but broken in hell's furious wake

His misplaced, but well aimed anger cuts me to the quick

The rebel soul seethes inside me

As he slams another demand into my hand, impatiently.

Sometimes with no words at all

I am impatiently told

That I'm not good enough

Broken down, jaded, and sold.

All these silent words 

Should mean nothing at all

But they strike harder and sting more than any slap

They cut wide and leave a deeper scar

All in a carefully concealed trap.

With no voice at all

My burning heart waits for time and me

To stop standing still, get real, and get free

For now though, I am impatiently, Invisible Me.

THE REAL STORY BEHIND IMPATIENTLY

This poem was actually written after a public humiliating trip to Wal-Mart with Jay (not his real name). For absolutely no known reason he became over the top angry with me. He kept pointing and wildly gesturing at something clear across the store from where we were standing. As it turns out he was getting all angry and crazy at me because I couldn't see this t-shirt he was wildly pointing out. Even after I got him to calm down and tell me what it was I couldn't see he continued to loudly berate me, cuss me, and call me horrible names. This was done in front of a busy store full of people. This behavior was nothing unusual for an outing with Jay. For whatever reason on this particular occasion it was extremely damaging. I turned my head away from him and cried silently right there in the store, further humiliating myself. At some point in Jay's tirade he saw my tears, he roughly grabbed my arm and hissed into my face about drying it up and not embrarrassing him anymore than I already had. It was at that point that my own anger kicked in. Make no mistake, there were times my anger at Jay scared even me. There were times that I lived in terror of him pushing me too hard and of me coming apart at my weakest seam and killing him. 

By year two I found out the hard way that if you swallow enough anger and enough tears, it will consume you from the inside out.

There was this odd energy that would happen with Jay that this poem touches on as well. There were a number of times that I would be standing right in front of Jay with my head down taking a verbal battering and doing everything I could to not fall apart. Then I'd feel his guilt sort of buzz on him, then it would be gone just as quickly as it came and he'd switch gears to get me this, get me that, do this, do that, shut up, get busy, busy, busy.

There were also times that Jay's body language would be an abuse unto itself. At times, all it took was one glare, one impatient huff, and I would snap into line swallowing my tears. 

So many times I heard this lie fall out of Jay's mouth, "I don't hit you with my fists so I am not abusive." He lied to himself and he lied to me. The cruelty of his words and intimidating body language were more abusive than any punch. I would have preferred to have been hit than to be cut in half by being verbally degraded. At least a hit would have left marks that he would've had to look at. The verbal abuse made me want to be Invisible Me.

A side note to the reader: You are actually reading this out of order because the poetry is in actuality the last chapter in the book, so you do not know that by year two the violence did turn physical. The last morning Jay spent in Buchtel with me he knocked me out cold by punching me in the head with a set of brass knuckles. I still wear the scar he left to this very day.

 


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