About the Frying Pan

I don’t know what I was thinking when I packed the frying pan.

As I dashed around the apartment that December afternoon, I packed several random items along with sentimental ones: a cluster of hangers; a photo album; my bikini and wool dress coat; a framed print I liked; the blanket my grandmother had given me when I was three years old; a yellow umbrella; my favorite coffee mug; and the heavy frying pan. The choices were odd, especially as I was moving in with a friend who definitely had coffee cups and frying pans in her kitchen and hangers in her closet. Also, I would still be in the same city as my ex. If I felt safe to do so, I could return whenever I wished to pick up more things.

We were still legally married, his number was labeled “Husband” in my cell phone. How should I refer to him? The man I was separating from? What to call the anger-filled person I didn’t recognize? It seemed only alcohol soothed him, made him resemble the sweet man I had married. Eighteen months before, he had been the victim of a random, violent assault. The first weeks were drenched in relief that he had survived, that the knife had narrowly missed his heart, his spleen. His physical body fully recovered, but his psyche was another thing. The bandages were still on his chest when the nightmares started—the first time, he nearly choked me in his sleep, reliving the assault in his dream. We were both screaming, tears running down his cheeks when he woke.

The violence and verbal abuse started out as manifestations of his nightmares. After several months, he was fully conscious and had been awake for hours when he shouted a string of swears and threats at me. I begged him to see a counselor, tried to show him that he fit every description of post-traumatic stress. But he refused.

Throughout the next year he self-medicated with alcohol, and at first I had hope things would return to normal, that he would recover the man he had once been. I was still in love with the guy who used to massage my feet every evening and who binge-watched “So You Think You Can Dance” with me on Sunday afternoons. Softened with several glasses of whiskey, I saw glimpses when he clumsily caressed my shoulder, slurred sweet words in drunken speech. In time, the flickers shortened and became less frequent—the man who shared my bed became more and more a total stranger. I was constantly on edge—“walking on eggshells” being the proper term—and had an unrelenting headache that bore a hole behind my eyes for weeks. I finished an entire bottle of painkillers in a month, trying to reduce the pain across my forehead.

By November, the park across the street mirrored my own outlook: bleak and bare. From our bedroom window, I watched the last leaves release their hold on the skeleton frames and float to the blonde ground. My arm was dotted in purple bruises just below my shoulder from his angry grip. From when he pushed me into the wall. I knew that I had to leave; my life was potentially at risk. But the act of physically leaving, packing bags, and moving out was hard to accomplish. It carried so many questions: Was this permanent? What if he agreed to get help? Whom should I tell? And most importantly, where should I go?

I saw a certified counselor. His office was a convenient few blocks away from our apartment, but his advice was astoundingly terrible. I left the appointment with a hunched back, bent under fresh doubts. Was I exaggerating? Should I stay, support my husband, and chalk this up as the “for worse” part of our marriage vows? Did he need me now, more than ever, and here I was, considering abandoning him? The conversation had swirled around his trauma, the root of his anger, and what I could do to appease him. The hour-long discussion dismissed the assault against me, as if my spouse was the lead character and I was a disposable extra in this scene. I should really just play my part better.

My resolve to leave weakened and I remained for three more chaotic, fear-filled weeks—weeks marked with emotional and verbal abuse—before I internally cursed the incompetent counselor, mustered my remaining confidence, and called Sabrina.

The first real snow of the year had collected across the smooth lawn of the park below. By 10 a.m., the white blanket was still stubbornly fitted across lawns, hanging over bushes and trees. He departed for work without a word of “goodbye” to me; he simply stuffed lunch items in a reused grocery bag, tossed his brown Carhart jacket over his shoulders, and left. Though part of me wanted to have some sort of final word, I was still relieved to see him go in silence.

I made a cup of tea for solace, wrapped my hands around the steaming mug, but never even took a sip. Instead, I took a painkiller for the never-ending headache, then I made the phone call. There was no need to whisper, I was alone in the apartment, but I spoke in an urgent and low voice. I was direct, unfriendly, even: I requested to stay with her, sleep on her couch, if I could.

Sabrina didn’t ask why, she simply said she would make space. I could come in two hours, if that was okay?

I packed swiftly, strategically, as if I had mentally prepared for this departure. Undergarments, heavy socks, and plenty of scarves went in the big black suitcase first. Then my typical clothes, work outfits, and ridiculous dresses that I didn’t want to be ruined—like the pretty red dress I had worn at my friend’s wedding. I had a keen sense that my ex was going to do something to anything that remained—either throw it in the dumpster or attack it with a pair of scissors. I didn’t know what action precisely, but I felt his aggression in every corner of the apartment. I knew I was risking anything that I left behind.

I took the bulging suitcase and a box of kitchen things to my car. The items I had packed seemed far too many for a woman seeking shelter from domestic violence. Shouldn’t I carry the bare minimum? My desperation somehow appeared undermined by the fact that I packed my hair straightener and makeup. And yet, the single suitcase and few kitchen items also appeared meager. If I was about to restart my life off of only these contents they surely would not be enough.

I paused in the quiet parking lot with my hand on the driver’s door. Breathed in deep gulps of crisp winter air. It was a deceptively sunny December morning, the kind that suggests warmth but is frigid. This escape would have been easier had it been cloudy, dreary—if the weather fit with my mood. Instead, everything about the late morning screamed positivity and hope, even if it was cold. I closed the car door and went back into the apartment.

Pulled my pillow, the extra-firm one that I preferred, into my arms like an enormous stuffed animal. Took one final walk through the apartment with my arms wrapped around the pillow. First the kitchen, then past the comfortable red couches in the living room. I peered into the hall closet, Did I need those shoes?

From the back of the closet, I took my inflatable sleeping pad, the one I use for camping. In the bathroom, I fingered the bottle of perfume I had purchased last month: I loved the scent. No. Leave this. It was an unnecessary luxury and felt more frivolous to pack than the bridesmaid’s dress, although it took up significantly less space. I carried the sleeping items and left. Again.

This time, I locked the apartment securely and drove straight to Sabrina’s place. She was waiting at the front of her building, wrapped up in a sweater two sizes too big for her little frame. Right away, she showed me around her one-bedroom apartment: the closet space she had prepared for me, and the laundry room in the basement. We were supposed to do our laundry on Thursdays, as per the schedule. I could use her parking space. The second shelf of the fridge was all mine. Would I like a cup of tea?

Standing awkwardly beside the chairs in the kitchen, I blurted out about leaving my husband. It was easier for me to take initiative and just say it than put the onus on Sabrina to ask questions. We both leaned on the back of a chair, but neither of us sat down. Her eyes widened and she nodded several times, but she didn’t ask any intrusive questions. I knew she would keep our business private. That’s precisely why I had confided in Sabrina: she didn’t gossip, she didn’t pry.

If by some miracle my ex chose to get therapy and deal with his anger and trauma, then there would be less drama, fewer questions from all around. I could have some measure of privacy, seeking refuge with this sweet friend.

I offered to pay half the rent and share the heating bill. “Pay what you can. It’s not the most important thing right now,” she responded.

“Can I sleep on the floor in the living room?” I asked, blunt being my approach to everything, apparently.

Sabrina’s apartment had a small room with a sagging brown couch, a pretty purple hookah, and a flat-screen TV that made up the sitting area. In front of the TV was an open bit of floor, uncarpeted and just long enough for me to stretch out.

“But you work nights—you can sleep in my bed during the day, I won’t even be in the apartment . . . ?” She tilted her head and frowned.

“Actually, would prefer the living room, if that’s okay? I brought my inflatable sleeping pad.” Not that the presence of my camping mat really explained my motivation for wanting to sleep on the floor instead of the bed.

The truth was, I couldn’t imagine sleeping on a soft mattress. I wanted—I needed—to feel the solid floor through my thin green camping pad. I wanted my hip bones to feel something firm under me when I rolled in my sleep. And at all costs, I wanted to avoid the sensation of sinking into couch cushions or settling on a comfortable mattress. I wanted the discomfort, and I was desperate for this to feel temporary.

Sabrina didn’t understand, but she agreed to let me roll out my sleeping pad in front of her TV.

Alone, in my friend’s hot, bright bathroom, I sent the text message I had been composing in my head all morning. Perched on the closed toilet seat, I carefully typed:

You need help. You are abusing me. Physically and mentally hurting me. I won’t move back in until you get help. And I don’t mean more promises—I mean, actually seeing a therapist and dealing with your anger problem.

I will not come back until you get help.

There was so much more I wanted to say, a novel’s worth to pour out. Enough to finish my monthly allowance of texts. But not to him. Not to the angry alcoholic that would return to our empty apartment that evening. I wanted the man I knew to reemerge, the one whose hands had never hit me, whose mouth had never called me awful names.

I hit “send” and washed my hands. Maybe I was pretending to use the bathroom, feigning something like strength for Sabrina. But I also needed my fingertips to feel clean, the text message to be absolute.

We didn’t speak for weeks. My ex and I communicated sporadically by text messages, and I distracted myself during the holidays by taking as many extra shifts as my supervisor would allow. Sometimes Sabrina made me lunch, and I would come home from night shifts with fresh pastries or doughnuts. I still had headaches, but I treated them with a hot bath or a bar of expensive chocolate instead of pills. Every morning, I would unroll my sleeping pad and lie down on the floor. I didn’t hang my clothes in Sabrina’s closet (despite that I had brought enough hangers for that exact purpose); I washed them and returned them to my suitcase. Those actions made everything feel short-term, provided an uncertainty that I pretended was hope.

Sabrina told me that sometimes she could see the stress across my face as I slept. That it seemed I never released the worry or fully relaxed, even in my sleep. She warned me of rumors she was hearing about my ex, told me I could stay at her place as long as I wanted.

Where is the fucking frying pan? the message said.

My ex went on to accuse me of sabotaging his life and well-being by taking essential kitchen items and if I wanted to move out, why couldn’t I just buy my own new stuff?

He said I could come next week and get more of my stuff, if I wanted—but I had better return that damn frying pan! We could even make firm decisions about our bank account, the apartment lease, but he needed the frying pan, and he needed it yesterday.

My ex hadn’t taken practical actions in regard to my demand that he get professional help for his anger, but he was irate that I had taken our best frying pan.

I stared at the text for a solid minute, absorbing the deeper message that it sent. Allowed it to kill off every lie I repeated to myself about the possibility of him getting professional help. Everything was there, tightly compacted in a text solely focused on the stupid frying pan I had irrationally packed that fateful morning. The absent kitchen item that held his attention, that was the priority of our text-limited conversation.

And it was the answer. Certainly, not the response I wanted or held out hope for, but it was the reality I had to finally accept: he wanted the fucking frying pan and didn’t give a shit about me.

I looked out Sabrina’s kitchen window and sobbed. At least this day the weather matched: snow was soiled, gray. No illusions of sun—the clouded sky made everything appear bleak and cold.

The next week, while my ex was at work, I went back to the apartment.

The place was disgusting. He probably hadn’t cleaned anything since I left. There were crusted plates piled in the kitchen sink and two full garbage bags next to the trash can, which was full of take-out boxes.

As I surveyed the apartment, I was happily surprised: my things looked untouched. My clothes in the closet were exactly as I had left them, shoes had developed a bit of dust on them. To my relief, there were no slash marks on favorite items, not a single book had been thrown into the dumpster.

I went to the bathroom. There was an obvious ring around the toilet and I wrinkled my nose at the distinct smell of old urine. I didn’t need to be there for long, at least, I just wanted to get my perfume.

But the little glass bottle wasn’t on the medicine shelf behind the mirror, where I had left it. Nor on the small decorative shelf over the toilet, where my ex kept his cologne. I bent down to check under the sink, but saw only the usual cleaning supplies and toilet brush stored there. As I stood up, my eyes fell to the wastebasket and my stomach gave a lurch. Bile rose up in my throat: condom wrappers. I didn’t count them. Clearly more than two. Dropped flippantly in the trash.

My instincts were right after all: whatever I had left, my ex had intentionally and totally destroyed.

I squeezed my eyes shut and furiously refused to cry, not here, not in this disgusting apartment. Took the elevator to the main floor and passed by the apartment manager’s office. He smiled brightly as I explained that I had moved out and needed my name off the lease. My ex would be solely responsible for the space. I filled out a form and handed over the keys, all with the manager awkwardly—insensitively—grinning at me.

“Oh, please sign.” He pointed at the bottom line.

I gave my signature with a flourish and then began to write the date: December 31.

When I looked at the date, I felt something—something not terrible. The New Year didn’t contain fresh possibilities or cheer. I had no intention of drinking champagne at midnight or joining a party. But the dread that I knew so was well was deflating slowly, like a leaking air mattress. I didn’t need to be excited for January, it was enough that this year was finished. That this last day of December meant finality, a complete end. I didn’t need to focus on anything new or muster motivation for the coming year, I could just settle in the truth that this year was finally over.

Deliberately, I wrote the date two times, so it showed up boldly.

That day, I took Sabrina up on her offer. She went to work and I slept in her bed the entire afternoon. I allowed myself to completely relax on her comfortable mattress, beneath the cozy duvet. When I woke, just a few hours before January 1, I realized that for the first time in weeks, I didn’t have a headache.

-Ree Pashley

Ree Pashley is living proof that you can do a reboot on life. Ree has lived in the United States, Canada, and, after leaving and legally divorcing her ex, she moved to sunny Tanzania where she continues to live happily ever after. Ree has been published in the University of California Press and the Herald Times. Instagram: reepashley. Twitter: @PashleyRee.