The Safety Plan

Today The Husband had an appointment with his psychologist at the Marc Center and he asked me to go with him. I was nervous and excited at the prospect of getting things out in the open. Actually, I think the words I used when explaining it to coworkers was, "I can't wait to call him out on his bullshit." Then I'm pretty sure I called him a douche.

Yeah. I'm pretty fed up with his lying.

The appointment did not go as I'd planned.

The first thing she asked was, "Is there any domestic violence at this point?"

I thought for a minute. Then said, "Does hitting his car with my car count if there was no vehicular damage? What about slamming my arm in the bedroom door? Or purposely locking my keys in the car and leaving me without a ride to work?"

Since all of those things are considered domestic violence, (who knew?) she refused to meet with us together. Something about opening a can of worms and then sending us home to fight about it not being a good idea.

She told me that she would set us up with a marital counselor who would meet with him for one half of the appointment and meet with me for the second half. And then when she deemed it safe, she would eventually meet with us both. But only when she felt sure that the arguments wouldn't end with my body stuffed in a freezer.

Then she told me to leave.

Without any sort of help for me at all.

And I started panicking. My eyes welled up with tears and I felt like I was going to vomit. How could she hear how bad things were and then just say that she'll call me in a few weeks? Where the hell is the professional responsibility? I can't wait any longer. I need a fucking life preserver. For reals.

She must have seen my panic because she changed her mind and asked the husband to leave the room instead. Then she asked me if I had a Safe Plan.

What kind of fucking relationship needs a Safe Plan?

Mine. That's whose.

Fuck.

Apparently I should know which shelters I can go to with my girls. Where they're located and what hours they accept lodgers or whatever you call women who are fleeing their husbands. I should have a secret nest egg that he can't access. I should have the Crisis Hotline number memorized.

Which begs the questions: What the fuck is the Crisis Hotline number? What the hell is it and why the hell didn't anyone tell me about it when I was trying to get him admitted back in November? Bullshit.

So now I'm sitting here, trying to figure out what my Safe Plan is and contemplating how I can possibly love someone that I need a Safe Plan for just in case he loses his mind and tries to do unspeakable things to my corpse.

I'm disgusted. I'm dismayed that I'm here. I always insist that I'm not an idiot. But I'm starting to think that I am. I'm starting to think that I must be to even be sitting here writing this in the first place.

I wish this was fiction.

And I want my fucking picket fence.