Was this the lowest in my Life?

I stood outside the van, looking into the smokey colored passenger window.  I could see a piece of aluminum foil in his left hand and a home-made cut straw in the other.  I could see the white smoke floating into the air like a cloud covering his face.  I stood outside the door with my hands holding the window pane, my hands stretched and pushing in as if I could break the window with my mere strength.  Tears rolled down my cheeks as I cried incessantly begging him to stop.  I yelled, "You mother fucker, don't you care about anyone but yourself?  Don't you care that your children need you?  I'm here looking at you use that fucken shit and you sit there sucking up that shit like if I were not standing here in front of you."  "Stop, stop, stop, let me in, stop what you are doing, for God's sake let me in the fucken door!"  I thought of breaking the window but then I thought, if I break the window the neighbors will call the police and I will get arrested.  Then this monster will be left with my children or worse, both of us will go to jail and the children will end up with my family or with social services.  Either option sounded horrid to me.  I went into the trailer and closed the door as I slipped slowly onto the floor with no reason to live, no desire to be.  I fell to the ground crying as I leaned on the door banging softly and asking God why I had to be here, why I had to be me.  Then I realized it would not be long before he came in the door and then I would see the wrath of the devil before me.  I got up, not really wanting to keep this farce going but I could not  open the doors of my home to anyone.  I could not lose my children, I could not face the world as they realized what a lie I had been living for so many years.  I stood for a moment and wondered what my next step should be.  I went to my room, grabbed a chair and locked myself in the room with my little one, now two-years-old.  His pudgy little face was looking at me as if understanding that his mother feared for not only her life but his as well.  I waited quietly, almost afraid to breathe.  Nothing came, no door opening, no yelling, no banging on the door.  I must have waited for hours before I finally fell asleep, my child having slept now for some time.  We woke up a few hours later and I dared to peek out the door.  Then I slowly creeped into the kitchen to find no one.  There were no noises in the house.  I stood there quietly trying to see if I heard anything outside; I looked out the window and I could not see my husband.  I went outside and found that he was nowhere to be seen.  I knew that he had left.  He had the strength of his high, the strength of that poison that so often controlled his body and mind.  He had chosen to leave and I was relieved.  At least for now we were safe from the monster that took over his body, the contorted monster that so often said things that made no sense, called me a demon, a daughter of Satan, a puta (whore).  I could hear the resonance of the threats, one being more clear in my mind than others.  "You fucken whore, I'm gonna kill you.  I'm gonna use this knife and I am going to slit your throat."  One might ask why I didn't call the police.  One might also ask how long it takes for the police to arrive at a home.  I knew that before someone came to help he would be there holding a knife to my throat leaving me life-less.  At least that was what was in my mind.  I didn't understand then that the only power my husband had over me was that which I allowed him to have.  All those vulgarities, the stealing, the lying, the pawning our lives away could have all stopped if I didn't want to keep up an appearance, if I was not embarrassed to be the victim, that woman that could not hold her home together.  I could not call for help because that would mean defeat and I was bound and determined to beat this illness.  I was sure that if I willed it to be, that I could make my husband change from a monster to a responsible human being.  I wanted my children to have a father, I wanted to have a husband and most importantly I desired to have a normal life.  What I mean by normal, now I really don't know.  Even now that he is gone, I don't feel that I have a normal life.  The distortion of my mind, the memories of the horrid near-death experiences don't leave me.  The knife at my throat, the fist in my face, the times when I was knocked down to the floor, the smearing of mayonnaise in my face, the beer dripping down my face as he called me names.  How can anyone be normal after that?  Even now when I look at my children I realize what I sacrificed, what they sacrificed and wondered if they were still in time to understand the normalcy of life, to dream, to hope and to fulfill their dreams.  My dreams had long since died along with the love for myself and for my husband.  I was disappointed in myself for allowing the death of my soul, I was disappointed for allowing the destruction of my home.  Now it was time to rebuild, to bring life and joy back into the life of my children.  The problem was I no longer knew what joy was like, I no longer knew how to repair those walls with so many holes, my soul that had grown hollow from the pain and the suffering.  My children sitting in the living room doing their homework, my mind traveled through time, to a place where this would have never been possible.  With that in mind I thought to myself, we have begun to heal.