aside to keep it. The cards, including any outdated Christmas letters, went into a garbage bag.
Dan decided to come home for lunch that day and found me fully engrossed in this task. He came up the stairs and, his surprise evident, surveyed the scene, mouth kind of open, eyes taking it all in. Finally he said, “Claire, what are you doing?”
It seemed pretty obvious to me what I was doing, and it annoyed me that he asked.
“I’m throwing these out,” I said, trying not to sound flippant.
“Why?” he said, incredulous.
“Because I don’t want them anymore,” I answered, tossing a few cards from five years before into the trash bag.
He again studied my project—assessing it, evaluating me.
“But you’ve had these for years,” he said, his voice softening a little.
“I know,” I replied, in a gentler tone as well. “But I don’t want them anymore.”
He was silent for a moment, and as I reached for the bundle of 1981 Christmas cards, he knelt beside me and touched my shoulder.
“Honey,” he said, in a different tone of voice altogether. “I really don’t think this is a good time to throw stuff out that you’ve kept for years.”
“But they’re just old Christmas cards,” I said, and then I giggled, which was a huge mistake because I saw a wave of worry rush over Dan’s face.
But I couldn’t help it. He had said that very same thing to me about a year earlier when he wanted to throw the cards out. He had even said it the same way. I thought it was funny that he and I were having the same conversation in reversed roles.
My ill-timed giggle really threw him, though. I could see in his eyes that he was replaying in his mind the information Patty had given us about how assault victims deal with the trauma afterward. She had told both of us that mood swings and irrational behaviors were common. We could also expect me to have episodes of anxiety, even rage. Patty had told Dan to let me vent my own way as long as I didn’t hurt myself or anyone else. She also said some destructive behavior was common too. She thought it would be a great idea if we got a punching bag, just in case. We hadn’t even considered it. I could see Dan was now wishing we had. He was wishing he had come home to find me gloved and busily thrashing a therapist-approved punching bag instead of throwing out my precious, outdated Christmas cards.
“Dan, it’s not what you think,” I said reassuringly. “I’m not flipping out on you. I’ve been thinking about doing this for a long time.”
That was a lie. I had just thought of it that morning. I didn’t know why I said that. I guess it was to reassure Dan that I wasn’t having one of Patty’s predicted irrational moments. And maybe I was trying to convince myself of that too.
Dan let me continue with my campaign to rid the house of old Christmas cards, but contrary to what he told me, the garbage bag I had filled was not put out with the rest of the trash later that week. He hid it in the garage. I found it several weeks later.
He thought he was protecting me from a spontaneous decision that he assumed I would later regret, but finding that bag hurt me.
That emotional wound was nothing compared to finding a box of Katie’s and Spence’s earliest crayon drawings stashed in the back of Dan’s closet on the evening of the Christmas-card purge. That box had been in my hall closet. He had hidden it. From me.
Him thinking I was capable of tossing out Katie’s and Spencer’s masterpieces like they were old, forgotten Christmas cards was a blow took me several days to get over. Patty should have told me Dan would have some post-trauma of his own; that he also might exhibit irrational behavior. I was beginning to realize that the more I kept hidden from Dan, the less he would worry about me. He couldn’t handle knowing everything, and I couldn’t handle his worry.
Two days later I got a call from Mark Nordahl, the detective assigned to my case. He asked if Dan
Dan decided to come home for lunch that day and found me fully engrossed in this task. He came up the stairs and, his surprise evident, surveyed the scene, mouth kind of open, eyes taking it all in. Finally he said, “Claire, what are you doing?”
It seemed pretty obvious to me what I was doing, and it annoyed me that he asked.
“I’m throwing these out,” I said, trying not to sound flippant.
“Why?” he said, incredulous.
“Because I don’t want them anymore,” I answered, tossing a few cards from five years before into the trash bag.
He again studied my project—assessing it, evaluating me.
“But you’ve had these for years,” he said, his voice softening a little.
“I know,” I replied, in a gentler tone as well. “But I don’t want them anymore.”
He was silent for a moment, and as I reached for the bundle of 1981 Christmas cards, he knelt beside me and touched my shoulder.
“Honey,” he said, in a different tone of voice altogether. “I really don’t think this is a good time to throw stuff out that you’ve kept for years.”
“But they’re just old Christmas cards,” I said, and then I giggled, which was a huge mistake because I saw a wave of worry rush over Dan’s face.
But I couldn’t help it. He had said that very same thing to me about a year earlier when he wanted to throw the cards out. He had even said it the same way. I thought it was funny that he and I were having the same conversation in reversed roles.
My ill-timed giggle really threw him, though. I could see in his eyes that he was replaying in his mind the information Patty had given us about how assault victims deal with the trauma afterward. She had told both of us that mood swings and irrational behaviors were common. We could also expect me to have episodes of anxiety, even rage. Patty had told Dan to let me vent my own way as long as I didn’t hurt myself or anyone else. She also said some destructive behavior was common too. She thought it would be a great idea if we got a punching bag, just in case. We hadn’t even considered it. I could see Dan was now wishing we had. He was wishing he had come home to find me gloved and busily thrashing a therapist-approved punching bag instead of throwing out my precious, outdated Christmas cards.
“Dan, it’s not what you think,” I said reassuringly. “I’m not flipping out on you. I’ve been thinking about doing this for a long time.”
That was a lie. I had just thought of it that morning. I didn’t know why I said that. I guess it was to reassure Dan that I wasn’t having one of Patty’s predicted irrational moments. And maybe I was trying to convince myself of that too.
Dan let me continue with my campaign to rid the house of old Christmas cards, but contrary to what he told me, the garbage bag I had filled was not put out with the rest of the trash later that week. He hid it in the garage. I found it several weeks later.
He thought he was protecting me from a spontaneous decision that he assumed I would later regret, but finding that bag hurt me.
That emotional wound was nothing compared to finding a box of Katie’s and Spence’s earliest crayon drawings stashed in the back of Dan’s closet on the evening of the Christmas-card purge. That box had been in my hall closet. He had hidden it. From me.
Him thinking I was capable of tossing out Katie’s and Spencer’s masterpieces like they were old, forgotten Christmas cards was a blow took me several days to get over. Patty should have told me Dan would have some post-trauma of his own; that he also might exhibit irrational behavior. I was beginning to realize that the more I kept hidden from Dan, the less he would worry about me. He couldn’t handle knowing everything, and I couldn’t handle his worry.
Two days later I got a call from Mark Nordahl, the detective assigned to my case. He asked if Dan
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