Many years ago, before my personal path to self-healing, I would have been diagnosed as bipolar, manic, or at the very least, insane. I had no patience, and was filled with so much anger, that the smallest incident would set me off into a violent fit of rage which would sometimes lead me to throwing something. I would watch as it hit a wall, a table or just fall to the floor and splinter into a hundred pieces and I silently wondered if my soul was splintering too. I also wondered, if I ever did manage to fasten the broken pieces of my soul, would the entire world still see the tiny fractures beneath my fragile exterior.
I’m in no way trying to garner sympathy for my actions; I take full responsibility for them. I’m not proud of my behavior; however, I can’t deny that it occurred. I can only look back and feel relieved that I changed and learned something valuable from it. I was who I was and how I acted before I confronted my demons and slaughtered my dragons cannot be undone only looked upon now with eyes of experience.
One such episode when my husband and I were arguing, where it was escalating rather quickly, I threw a coffee mug across the kitchen and it hit the wall leaving a dent. Realizing I was out of control, I ran from the house and hopped into my vehicle and left to cool off. I drove to the dealership where I worked, which was closed since it was a Saturday night, and parked behind a dark building.
I sat behind that building, on my cell phone, crying to my best friend about how dickey I thought my husband was and how I wanted to kill him (figuratively of course). Unbeknownst to me, my husband had called my dad and told him to come and get your daughter, she’s out of control. My parents are wonderful; loving and supportive and they live an hour from my home, but have never used distance as an excuse to not be there for any emergency, even one where their daughter was a lunatic.
After I cooled off, I headed back home and ignored my husband as I decided to prove my independence. I lugged the big ass bucket of spackling from the garage to the kitchen and filled in the dent I made with the coffee mug. Satisfied with my work, I took the big ass bucket back to the garage and upon returning to the kitchen I saw my husband bent over the dent using the handle of a big ass butcher knife to smooth out my handi-work. Apparently HE was NOT satisfied.
In my current state, which was calm but still mighty pissed off, I did not think watching him with a knife was a capital idea and remember vividly thinking, This is just too tempting, so I left the kitchen and sat on the living room sofa.
A few seconds later my husband came stumbling out of the kitchen looking dazed and apparently grasping for a wall, because when his hand hit the wall next to the kitchen, he moved closer to it then slithered down it and collapsed to the floor practically unconscious.
Curious as to why he was walking like a zombie and now slumped on the floor, I went to him, knelt down and asked, “What’s the matter with you?” But he didn’t answer. I looked up and into the kitchen and it was then that I saw the concrete angel lying on the floor. I walked to it and picked it up and when I stood upright I was almost eye-level with the small shelf it had been setting on. It was then that it hit me, well, actually, it had hit HIM!
From what I could deduce with the evidence before me, when David had been hammering the spackling with the handle of the butcher knife, the angel had been knocked off the shelf and had fallen and hit him on the back of the head, probably giving him a concussion!
I walked back to where he was slumped against the wall, holding the angel in my hand when the front door opened and my parents walked in. My dad’s eyes took in the scene before him: David slumped on the floor almost unconscious and me standing over him with a concrete angel in my hand.
“What are you doing here?” I asked completely perplexed as to why my parents were standing in my hallway looking at me with faces void of color and eyes filled with complete horror. “Oh, I didn’t hit him with this…” I stammered.
I had to explain to my parents, in great detail, that I was not holding a weapon, but an angel, that weighed almost two and a half pounds, and I did NOT hit David with it, it had fallen on his head because the jerk was too lazy to get the proper tools from the garage and shook the shelf above his head knocking it off!
But my gosh! Imagine if my husband had died! The Prosecution would’ve had a field day with witnesses! They would’ve had to tell the truth and nothing but the truth—
My girlfriend would’ve testified that: Yes, Pam did say she wanted to kill him.
My father would’ve said: Yes, David did call to tell me to come get her, she was out of control.
And BOTH of my parents would’ve said: Yes, we did see her standing over the body holding the murder weapon.
I would’ve been hauled away for murder, however, I would have been INNOCENT!
To this day David jokes that I hit him with that damn angel.
Some days I wish I had.
The moral of the story—Let fallen angels lie.