I was 21 years old, sitting in my university’s Counseling Center, seeking help for my exceedingly stressful marriage to my increasingly controlling husband. I was at my wit’s end. Nothing was changing. It was never getting any better.
A week before I turned up at the Counseling Center, Ethan and I had agreed not to swear at each other anymore when we fought. Three days after that we were installing the front door of the house we were building. I was standing outside, on the deck, and Ethan was inside, in the kitchen, yelling instructions around the doorframe. We had to shim it into place so the door would be perfectly level and even. I was trying to hold the heavy door very still when it slipped, pinching my fingers. I yanked my hand back.
“Fuck!”
“Hey!” he yelled.
“I’m sorry, I can’t hold it like this.”
Eyes welling, I looked at my fingers and shook my hand out. Three knuckles were skinned, already purple, and the one in the middle was pulsing blood. It hurt to bend them. My eyes welled up and I squeezed my three fingers with my other hand, willing the pain away as tears rolled down my cheeks.
“Is there somewhere you’d rather be?” Ethan asked tersely. “You know I could probably do this better without your help.”
Trick question, but I caught on right away—there was no right answer. Regardless of what I said he was going to yell at me. I tiptoed forward. “No, I want to be helpful. I’m trying, I’m sorry, it just slipped.”
I had to stifle the sob rising in my throat. My fingers hurt, but his lack of concern hurt more.
He continued to pester me. I tried to placate him, but he just got madder any time my tone sounded anything but acquiescent. I knew I couldn’t win.
The argument culminated with him bellowing, “You know what, Minda? Fuck you! FUCK! YOU!”
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