Mystical Intervention in Life or Death

Mystical Intervention in Life or Death***

LZ was a charismatic, successful person when I met him in 1978. I marveled at how he could remain energetic and go without sleep for several days. After we moved in together, I began to see the flip side to all that euphoria – his rage attacks. He could morph from a great guy to a rabid monster over an employee’s typing error or running out of milk.

I was baffled. In those days, there was very little known about what drove his extreme mood swings. But over time, I became the unwitting target. When he began using recreational drugs, paranoia added to his fury. There was no predicting what would trigger him. First came the verbal abuse, accusing me of lurid offenses and threatening me and anyone I loved. After he knocked me out and nearly broke my jaw, I sought temporary refuge at a friend’s apartment.

“I can’t keep hiding from him, Karen. Even though I travel for a living, I can’t live out of a suitcase forever. And this puts you in danger if he comes looking for me here. “

“Leave him! This is getting too dangerous.”

“I need to find my own apartment.”

“Why should you move? Get a restraining order and kick him out!”

“It costs $100 for a restraining order.”

“At least tell your brothers and let them beat the crap out of him.”

“What good would that do? He has a gun, and I don’t want to be the cause of anyone else getting hurt. I’m trying to stay out of his way until I can figure out how to leave. I think the drugs are making him worse.”

“That makes him all the more dangerous.”

Feeling frantic while trying to maintain a calm demeanor, I secretly rented an apartment, set up a new phone and utilities, and moved my clothes out of his house while he was gone.

But LZ found me. He said he started a Rehab program and it was OK for me to return home. We’d be seeing counselors. Lots of promises and good intentions.

But despite the promises and the counseling, we slid back into the cycle of violence, joyful loving jarred by escalating attacks followed by wretched remorse. He came home one morning after an all-nighter jacked up on cocaine and hallucinating. I was searching for a lost pair of sunglasses. He went into a rage and strangled me to unconsciousness. When I came to, he pointed his gun at my head and played Russian Roulette. I was saved by the sound of a police siren, thanks to the neighbors who had called.

For that second time, I moved out in sheer panic. Packed my clothes and rented a room from a family with two Great Danes at the outskirts of town, thinking he would never find me.

But he did. Cornered me in the airport parking lot, sobbing his regrets and waving the paperwork for his new Rehab program. I am ashamed to tell you that after meeting with the new counselor, securing his gun with a family member, and against the advice of the Great Danes family, I relented.

I know how idiotic that sounds. When you love someone, you want to believe that’s enough, right? I was walking a tightrope between blind hope in his Rehab and gut-wrenching fear of his next rage attack.

Out of some raw instinct, I began taking karate classes and practicing in earnest. My skills improved until one day my instructor told me, “You can be a ferocious fighter. Stop holding back.”

One night, I returned from a twelve-hour day of full flights. I was bone weary, hungry, still in my flight uniform, and cutting up chicken with a steak knife as it heated in the frying pan. I heard LZ storm in the back door, slamming it as he cursed.

His silhouetted face and large form engulfed the doorway. He lunged towards me, glowering, rolling up his sleeves.

“Where have you been? You were supposed to be home yesterday!”

I stammered, “I . . . It was a 3-day trip. I told you, remember?”

“How dare you? Are you calling me stupid? Got a boyfriend on the side? I’ll teach you to lie to me.”

My thoughts raced as I fought against hopelessness. His rage was pure insanity. I was certain he would defeat me no matter how I tried to get free.

And I was so tired; beaten down by the verbal abuse telling me how ugly, how despicable, what a loser I was.

Part of me craved the sweet release of just giving up.

At that moment, a high-pitched whine began shrilling in my ears. As LZ moved closer, I turned to face him. The steak knife in my hand dripped grease onto the floor.

Suddenly, I had a mental image of slashing the knife across his jugular. Watching the lifeblood spill out of him and imagining his body shriveling inward on itself. The whine in my ears became louder as I rose up on my toes, poised to lunge.

Just then, a tiny, barely perceptible flicker appeared in my peripheral vision and my mental image blurred, shifting as though in and out of another dimension. LZ seemed frozen in mid-stride. The tick-tock of my antique clock slowed to a rhythmic boom, like the stomp of an approaching giant.

I risked a quick glance at the flicker which had enlarged into a shimmering orb that glistened in the air like a child’s soap bubble. It hovered near my elbow. I couldn’t detect a face anywhere in the opalescence, but in my mind, I heard a clear, compelling voice.

“Stop! Wait! Think!”

In my murderous calm, I appreciated the simplicity of it.

So I stopped.

I waited.

And I thought.

I thought about the knife slicing his neck and ending this whole nightmare. I thought about what I would do next. Call the coroner? Certainly I would be arrested. Women who killed abusive men in self-defense were still imprisoned. How would I like being in jail? What would it do to my family? Wouldn’t I be handing him the final victory – letting him remake MY life? Besmirching my soul for the likes of him? He’s not worth it!

From out of nowhere, I heard my karate instructor’s voice, ““You can be a ferocious fighter. Stop holding back.”

The shimmering bubble still held me in its grip, in this moment. I AM A FEROCIOUS FIGHTER, powered up from my belly, with, MY LIFE IS MY OWN!

I released the knife. It clattered to the floor.

I assumed my karate fighting stance.

LZ faltered, surprised.

I glared at him and threatened with all the hatred I was feeling, “If you ever touch me again, I will put your balls into your throat.”

We faced off, attacker and attacked, the roles slowly reversing. With a millimeter’s shift in balance, he began to back down. To my astonishment, he unclenched his fists, lowered his arms to his sides, shook his head, and gave a nervous laugh.

“Damn, girl!” Then he pivoted on his heel, strode to the door, and slammed it hard as he left.

Soon after, I left LZ for the third and last time.

***This event inspired a chapter in my fiction book, “Voices from the Well.” In both versions, I have changed the names to protect others’ privacy.