November 24, 2023 - A Date that Changed Everything

Isabelle’s Substack

24 has always been my lucky number.

Yes - I was born on the 24th, but still, it’s always seemed like a well-rounded number to me. Whole.

When I met you, you shared that 24 was your lucky number too. We would discover on that same call that we both favored mint chip ice-cream.

You attacked me on November 24, 2023.

It’s been two whole years since that night.

I started mourning you on that night. Yes, you were still alive, but the YOU I knew who was in there somewhere, was no longer anywhere to be found.

On October 31st, less than a month before that night— you stopped taking your medications.

We were staying at a hotel in Montreal for the night, so we could take the boys trick or treating in an area known for their elaborate decorations and full sized candy bars. You had packed everything except your medications.

You didn’t tell me. You simply said “I’m not feeling great”.

So I did what I normally would do - be with the boys all day, to give you space to rest.

When we got home, you shared that you had forgotten your medications, and your plan to “white-knuckle” off of them. This made me extremely nervous. I didn’t know then as much as I know now, but I would have tried harder to have you taper slowly.

Your thinking was “well, I’ve already been off of them for two days, might as well keep going”.

Now, as someone who has started tapering off of 10 mg of SSRI’s (I am down to 5 mg and plan to stay here for at least a few months if not longer) the one day I skipped the pill entirely, I was strangely paranoid. Extremely overwhelmed by my thoughts, leaving me feeling very unsettled.

The days after that trip, you started to shake. As if you had stuck your finger in the electrical socket. They were consistent, and scary. “It’s normal” you would tell me.

The night of the attack, we were in a not so great place. Two weeks or so prior we got into a disagreement in the kitchen and I pulled you aside into the bathroom so the kids wouldn’t hear. “We need to move closer to my parents” I said. “And you need to start working outside of the house”. You agreed. You seemed genuinely on-board actually. I felt too isolated, and being in the house while I knew you were laying on the couch for most of the day was starting to really affect me.

You were never one to come up for dinner and spend much time with us, but it became non-existent. I’d hear your footsteps coming up from the basement, and I would feel a hint of relief thinking maybe you would hang out with us for awhile, share in the load of holding space for our boys. After fifteen or so minutes though, you’d say “I have a call” then disappear back down into the solitude of your office.

It was stressing you out that I wanted to move. You never really articulated why. You ignored every listing I sent you.

So on the night of the attack, I was waiting for you at home. I’d told you I had to leave at 4:30pm to take the boys to a friends’ pizza party. We waited, and waited. Then you showed up, backed into the garage like you always had, and walked into the house with a large bottle of tequila “I know” you said as you walked inside.

When I opened the car door to put the kids in their seats, I was shocked to find two of the same large tequila bottles, but these were empty. That, and they weren’t there the day before.

I took the bottles and placed them on the stairs outside of the garage leading into the house, and drove off.

My way of saying “I see these”.

I had knots in my stomach all night. We were texting, and you were expressing how angry you were. You were angry about so many things. You isolated yourself from us, but insisted you felt like a stranger in your own home. What a strange thing for me to grasp. To beg you for more time together, as a family, and then to not only be refused, but to be told that you feel like you can’t be yourself in your own home. We didn’t agree on how to discipline our boys. You wanted me to step down and let you do it your way - but I couldn’t. Not when it meant keeping our son in the bathroom in the basement with you holding the door shut while he yelled out for help.

You didn’t like that I saw how much you were drinking. You wanted to hide it - evident in the bottles I would find hidden in the garage and basement. I was seeing what was happening, and I didn’t want to continue living this way.

You thought, you could stay this way in the woods. Quiet, tucked away from anyones judgemental glances. You wanted complete control around how people experienced you, and you could only do it in really small doses.

I spent most of that night in the bathroom talking to you, while the kids were eating just outside the door. I’m sure my friends heard me and picked up on what was going on.

“You can stay the night if you ever felt like it!” she said innocently. I wish I’d taken her up on that offer, because when I pulled out of the garage that night, after seeing the bottles, I heard a quiet whisper “don’t go home tonight”. But I didn’t listen.

After I put the boys to sleep, I sat on the living room couch and tried to decompress. I was anxious. I wanted to see your face, hear your voice, so I could calm down. If you felt fine, then I would be fine.

I heard your footsteps, and I’d feel that little pang of what once was excitement, replaced now with apprehension, fear even. Your mood, ate up the whole house.

You were smiling. Phew, ok.

You leaned against the island in the kitchen, a large dining space (that we had emptied out and replaced with a play area for the boys) between us as I was on the couch. You were on your phone. You were always on your phone.

You started telling me about some of the guys you managed, a big band that I won’t name. How one in particular wasn’t doing very well. You kept repeating yourself. Then you said “that’s why I’ve been the way I have lately, that’s why”. It felt like you were trying to convince me of something, to get me on your side. “He’s going to die”. Then you started to cry. “He’s going to die”.

I felt my nerves rising— a heat in my chest, similar to what I feel right now typing this.

“He’s going to die, and more people are going to die”.

I didn’t understand what you meant.

“More people are going to die”.

Then you said one sentence. A sentence that alerted me of danger.

I won’t say exactly what it was, it’s too personal, but it had to do with my past relationships.

My stomach dropped.

We rarely talked about any of that in almost two years. You bringing it up that night set off all of my internal alarms.

Then there was a huge flash of light out front. It was now about 10:30 at night.

'“DON’T MOVE” you shouted, in a way I’ve never heard you shout causing me to freeze.

“You’re scaring me, what’s going on??” I felt frozen. Heart beating in my ears.

You thought the food delivery person was the police.

You had made threats to our neighbour while we were at the pizza party, and the police were on their way to arrest you. I didn’t know this until I was at the hospital later.

You were shaking in a strange, aggressive way, as you brought in the grocery bins. I ran outside and told the driver “my husband is intoxicated and I’m really scared, please please please please please help me”.

“uhhhh nooooooo” as the driver slowly shaked his head, refusing to get involved.

“DON’T LEAVE” I begged him, as I ran back in after realizing you were now alone in the house with our sleeping boys.

Many of you know what happened next.

Time slowed down. Every move I made was like I was being guided by a conductor of an orchestra. Only I was the conductor and the orchestra.

You fumbled your hands in the kitchen drawer where we kept our keys. I grabbed them and ran upstairs to the boys. “YEA. GO TO BED” you yelled at me.

I picked up my little one, who was two at the time, and held him in my arms. Then I reached over and grabbed my eldest who was 5 at the time, by the arm and pulled him across our king sized bed towards the door.

“Where are we going mommy?” you asked still half asleep.

“We just have to go my love.” I said.

While I ran downstairs with the boys you yelled “IF YOU LEAVE IT’S OVER”.

I grabbed my purse and walked out the front door, prompting the ring camera to turn on and record what happened next.

I turned the corner into the garage and put my youngest in the passenger seat from the drivers side. You grabbed our eldest by the arm, knowing that I wouldn’t go anywhere without him. I took his arm and pulled him, freeing him from you. That’s when you grabbed my hair and dragged me across the garage.

You pulled so hard, my head was on fire.

I was face down screaming “LET GO” repeatedly.

I could feel you hitting my back, I’d find bruises there later.

Even as you were holding me down, I didn’t feel it was real, and didn’t think it would get worse. That’s when I felt your hand around my neck and my instinct was to punch you in the groin. You let go of me, and I ran to put our eldest in the car.

As I was doing that, you grabbed me by the arm.

That’s when I fought. I don’t even remember what I did - I just remember using all the strength I had, using every limb to try to get you far enough away from me so I could slip into the drivers seat.

I did, and that moment is forever frozen in my mind. Time stopped. I wasn’t even nervous. My hands were steady as a rock, and not a single second wasted.

Sit. Close door. Lock. Keys. Drive.

You were banging on the window just as I locked the door.

My eldest would later tell me “Why was daddy telling you not to call the police?”.

I heard nothing.

I was speeding down my long driveway, where the food delivery guy was parked. I would later watch him on the ring footage driving away as I was screaming.

I honked repeatedly so that he would move out of the way and I could speed off.

“I got away. It’s over.” I told myself. Relief.

I felt so much relief. All that mattered was in that car - my two boys.

They were in the passenger seat together, unbuckled, barefoot, but we were all safe.

I waited until I got service and I called 911. Then I called my father. I was hysterical.

You were texting me erratically. Telling me that “my abuse was all caught on camera, that you had filmed it.” That the police were there to tend to your injuries. All lies.

The ambulance took us to the hospital, and I’ll never forget my eldest shaking as we drove. “Are you cold"?” the paramedic asked. “No. I’m just scared.” he said.

We were given a private room for us all to wait to see the doctor, and youth protection services. The police came to get my statement. That’s when I noticed all the rips in my t-shirt. I still have that t-shirt, tucked away in a luggage in my closet. Maybe to remind me that this wasn’t all a horrific nightmare.

Time went by, and we slipped into a new day— November 25.

It’s been two years and this is what I’ve come to: I don’t blame you. I blame mental illness. I hold compassion for the innocent little boy inside you who wasn’t nurtured for who they were. Sometimes I imagine mothering you as a child. Loving you for exactly who you were. Nurturing your early adoration for music. Helping you to carve out a path that you were always meant to live. It didn’t have to be so hard.

When I look at the boys, I see their gifts, and I will never try to steer them from themselves. This is what you deserved too.

I believe the good in you. The man that night, wasn’t you. I hardly recognize the photo the police took of you.

I’m allowed to hate that man, and love you at the same time.

You were so funny, and I really loved you. I will always love you, and hold the parts I knew to be true in my heart, til the very end.

Love,

Your wife