My Name is Lola and I Beat my Husband

I punched Dan in my sleep the other night. Like, a real punch. I know how to punch. I’ve never actually used this skill for anything other than dead-arms but I can duck and jab in a pinch. When I was a kid, my dad taught me how to extend just so from my bicep to snap a real punch. It’s not as exaggerated and sweeping as it looks in movies, a real punch. It is quick and hard. And a real punch is what I gave Dan. With my right hand. On which sits an awfully spiky ring---my mom’s engagement ring which has three protruding tines that could cut a bitch. And it hurt him. And it hurt me. The ring, not the punch. A proper punch should not inflict pain on the puncher though, as I said, I’ve never thrown a battle punch and imagine that connecting with a face---no matter how precise you land it in order to break the punchee’s nose (also proper technique)---would hurt your damn hand.

The worst part is that I was dreaming about punching Dan as opposed to some hulking dream bully---so it didn’t feel entirely innocent. In fact, as I punched him---I awoke mid-punch---I apologized, knowing exactly what I had done because I was dreaming about doing it. (Actually, in my dream I had thrown a few frustrating hits that got me nowhere, which is what I think led me to reach across my own body to connect with his arm as he slept peacefully to my left.) Normally there’s some lag time between whatever slumber crime I am committing and my realization that I am doing so. Dan has had to wake me before. I yell a lot. I get in big fights with whomever I am too scared to confront in real life (where I am so articulate and quick-tongued that So And So better watch it!). Sometimes I am defending and covering myself. Sometimes I cry. Rarely do I punch. Though, while I can’t remember the details, I know have done it before.

I’m not proud of it (but Dan and I have always been mildly amused by my antics.)

Now, it’s possible that I went to bed mad despite that stupid adage which warns against doing so. Gasp! Going to bed mad! What’s next, heavy sighing? Resentfully stomping around the house, making as much noise as possible while hanging up Dan's coat, putting away his shoes and picking his pants up off the bedroom floor because apparently HITTING THE FUCKING HAMPER TWO FEET AWAY IS FAR TOO LABORIOUS! So, yes, it’s possible I went to bed mad about some mundanity that pissed me off just enough to require my sleeping it off versus arguing. In fact, I know I did. I don’t think this is a recipe for disaster. I’ve fallen asleep mid-fight before as has Dan (can you imagine how much that pissed me off!) and that doesn’t seem like a better alternative to having a little anger in your heart upon falling asleep.

Was I mad enough on this particular night to hit him? No. Was I frustrated enough to shake him? Yes. But I wouldn’t and didn’t. Although Slumber Lola apparently couldn’t help herself. For the record, I apologized profusely post-hit, then again in the morning and again when he got home from work the next day. I would not have felt half as guilty were the dream punches not directed at him in the first place. But as he was the intended victim, and the crime was actually committed, it feels as though my subconscious and conscious worlds had a little too much overlap for comfort.

I’m kind of wondering if I’m an abusive spouse. Sometimes Dan will hurt me. Now, he doesn’t mean to do it. For years I’ve called him Lennie from Of Mice and Men because all he wants to do is “tend the rabbits” yet he is sometimes unaware that he is bigger than I am and thus ends up snapping my neck. Or just accidentally pulling my hair or shoving me a bit harder than he means to when he is trying to give a playful hipcheck as we are walking down the street together. But it’s my reaction to this that so concerns me. I hit him back. In the arm. I can’t help it. It’s not exactly reflex though, which is something Dan is always quick to point out. It’s not like he hits me and---BOOM!---my arm extends like some Rock ‘em Sock ‘em robot. No, I get mad first. I get injured, which quickly turns to a flame of anger ignited by this wrongdoing (accidental as it may be), and then I injure him in return. It’s a tinily premeditated act of revenge. It occurs in a matter of seconds this chain reaction of pain-anger-violence, but it happens. And Dan always laughs at me, not because he is amused by the punch (he agrees that I know what I’m doing), but for the hesitation which precedes this violence. That quick moment he observes of my boiling.

“I can’t help it!” I tell him. “It’s instinct!”

“It’s not instinct!” he argues back, laughing. “There’s a pause! There’s a pause! You get mad and then you do it.”

And I know he’s right. He’s totally right. The recognition that I’ve been harmed comes over me (and let’s be clear, I have been wounded), and then a wave of anger at the injustice and then, well, revenge.

Do you see why I’m scared to have kids? What if I beat them in my dreams too?

And then there’s Dan. I’d come home and he’d be all---

"I’d pet ‘em, and pretty soon they bit my fingers and I pinched their heads a little and then they was dead—because they was so little.”

Two diaphragms tonight. Two.