Lastly, I slip the sparkling dress over my head, careful not to touch my made-up face. I reach for the wig, securing it firmly in place to finish my l...ok. I enjoy quite a bit or mirror-time when my ensemble is complete. Seeing myself. Feeling the elegance adorning my body. All of it fuels my energy for my performance. Right before I make my way to the stage, my high heels go on ... and they fucking hurt my feet. I'm ready for another performance and adrenaline rushes through my veins. Each. Atta girl. Our fights. They were nothing, now. A week ago he’d been screaming at me, throwing shit, punching holes in our bedroom door. He’d called me a do-gooding cunt and nearly belted me and then stormed out. And I swore we were done. Eight years on, and my husband had changed. He’d become selfish and violent and crude, the kind of man I counseled women about at the Crisis Center, the kind of man that women needed to fear and escape. And I swore I’d never take him back. But he came back.. More

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