Lament

In case you were wondering, nothing has changed.

 

No rivers in the desert. No manna from heaven. No peaceful places for a meal and a sleep. No ravens, even. Nothing.

 

James is still working from home, which means he pops out of his office constantly to fry bacon, fry ground beef, eat food and leave the wrappers lying around, scold me for making food with sugar, scold the kids for being messy, scold the kids for being loud, ask me what on earth I’m doing all day, scold me for breathing, complain about the dog, ask why the hell he’s supporting me in my sloth, demand that I quit vacuuming because it’s too loud while pointing out the fish bowl that needs cleaning, the lunch bag he found in the garage with pizza still in it, and the mud on the floor that shouldn’t be tracked in and needs to be cleaned up.

 

“Why hasn’t that been done yet? This house is going to hell in a handbasket? What on earth were you doing all morning? Why are the kids outside and not doing school? Are they learning anything at all or just driving all over town to music lessons and swim team practice?”

 

I’ve learned by now that sticking up for myself only causes a big fight, which is exactly what he wants. And I’m so wrecked internally at this point that I just shut down. My eyes glaze over, I stare straight ahead, and I purse my lips. I do not dignify his attacks with a response.

 

For the record, that makes him very angry. Very.

 

Today, I was making cookies (Violet’s request) while they played outside before round two of school. He started in about the fish tank and the lunch bag (I threw it away, btw…the whole bag…I have a lot more to throw away, too...including the marriage). I had been vacuuming for an hour before I started cooking, but he didn’t notice the floor. Only the noise.

 

His rage intensified as I stared into the mixer. “I don’t know why the hell I’m busting my butt to provide for all of you. I get ABSOLUTELY NOTHING out of it. No gratitude. No respect. Just your horrible, disrespectful attitude. You won’t talk to me. You won’t have sex with me, and when you do, you won’t act like you enjoy it. You won’t even cook for me anymore. If I’m going to have to cook for myself and find someone else to listen to me, then you need to get out. You want to be part of the single moms club? Go ahead. But I’m getting my own checking account. The money is going to stop coming, sweetheart. What are you going to do then? And I’m keeping the house because it’s MINE. Paid for with MY MONEY while you sat on your ass. Your huge ass. You won’t event tell my where you’re going. You just leave and drive around for eight hours a day, doing god knows what, having a good time. You just used me to get you pregnant. You got what you wanted, didn’t you, whore? You’re gonna go be a revolving door for boyfriends now? A welfare mom? Good luck to you. Just get out now.”

 

It went on for twenty minutes. I can’t remember it all, which is normal. At a certain point, I black out. 

 

I walked out to the deck and the kids knew right away something was wrong. And they knew right away it was dad. But I’m not supposed to let them see me hurt, so I walked outside the fence toward the woods behind our house. I couldn’t stop crying, and I called the police non-emergency line. I stammered something to the effect of, “My husband won’t stop harassing me, and I don’t know what to do..” and she cut me off. “I need to transfer you,” she said. The phone rang and rang, the kids on the other side of the fence wondered aloud where mommy was and what she was doing, James came outside and started asking the kids questions about where I’d gone (because apparently “get out” doesn’t actually mean get out). And the call cut off. The police won’t even talk to me.

 

Eventually we came back inside and finished school, with me choking up over and over again while I read about Alabama, and the kids asking again and again why I was so upset. I want desperately to cry – hard – but I can’t. It will scare them. It will scare other people. I. Can’t.

 

In addition to my failed call to the police, I’ve talked to three lawyers now. The third one never bothered to call back to set up a consultation. I found a house I could afford, but the loan officer never returned my call either. Safe on Seven, the local resource for domestic violence, was very apologetic and assured me that the treatment was so, so wrong…but warned me that I was unlikely to get a restraining order for emotional and verbal violence. The refusal to let me sleep could be harassment, she asserted, but the risk is that he’ll know I filed for a restraining order and it won’t be granted and then I’ll have to live with something worse. It can always get worse.

 

The rental home market is impossibly expensive. Buying a home is impossible because I’m a freelancer with irregular income. Even working has become impossible in the life where I’m not allowed to stay up late at night or get up early in the morning or sleep on the couch because the man might not be able to harass me for sex. Working is “staring at facebook” and working for the church is “being taken advantage of.” I’m both expected to produce an impossibly large salary and expected to do it without ever leaving the house or turning on my computer. I’m supposed to be emaciated, but I’m not allowed to exercise. I’m supposed to be a Biblical, submissive wife who goes to bed with her husband and stays there until he wakes up (but not a moment later) who also miraculously works a full-time job while homeschooling the children, maintaining a spotless house, and preparing three meals a day – on time – that meet the specifications of my husband’s current eating disorder. 

 

And all I want to do is die.

 

I have exhausted every resource I know to go to. I cannot wrap my mind around living in a shelter. We are bleeding and damaged…we need safety and protection. I cannot fathom crashing in someone else’s home…I am too damaged to share any kind of intimacy with anyone. I turn over options in my mind over and over again, but there are none. Mention you’re married to a narcissist and even the shark lawyers don’t want to get involved. The best loan officers can’t work miracles. It takes me days to find the emotional energy and privacy to make even one of these phone calls, and no one calls me back.

 

The way I see it, I have two choices: I can stay here until I die, or I can speed up the process. 

 

My children have suffered more than they even know. They will suffer more, but I can’t prevent it. The courts will see to that. But maybe I won’t have to watch it. The other night, I watched him stroke Violet's butt, then squeeze it. It makes me think that the predatory sexual inclinations didn't stop with the woman he got fired for. Obviously he doesn't understand consent. I can personally attest to that. But the courts will make me send her to him - unsupervised - over an over again.

 

Everyone feels bad, but no one can do anything. Not. A. Thing.

 

And don’t get me started on God.

 

I could make it if He would at least meet me in relationship. If my prayers didn’t bounce off the ceiling. If he’d just throw me a scrap. I’ve begged and begged for Him to open my eyes to the ways He is working. I have repented of my unbelief. I have acknowledged that my life might be nothing but pain, and that would be OK if I could just have Him. 

 

Nothing.

 

I believe in God. I believe he is good. But not to me. 

 

Maybe His intention for me is that my death will bring awareness to the other women and children living in this hell. Maybe that’s my purpose. 

 

Redemption – earthside, at least - does not seem to be part of my story. I’ve waited 15 years. I’ve tried to get out. Maybe not hard enough, but where, pray tell, am I supposed to find that energy?

 

I have read my Bible cover to cover. I have earnestly sought Him. I can’t even crack the thing anymore. Why bother? It made me hope. Hope will destroy you faster and more efficiently than despair. 

 

I went to counseling for THREE years. My counselor moved to a private practice that doesn’t take Medicaid. Friends have offered to find recs for other counselors, but I’ve done that before. The waiting list for financial aide is three years. I can’t spend money. I can’t leave the kids here while I go, even if their father is present. But I can’t take them with me. Thanks to Covid, they can’t go to anyone’s house…and if they did, I’d be in trouble with their father.

 

I've prayed.  And begged. And listened. And prayed some more. In two years, I heard one thing. One. 

 

I know we don’t get to judge God or His ways, but I’m saying I’d be satisfied with enough of His presence and assurance to feel loved. 

 

Nothing.

 

I have to assume that I’m the problem. 

 

No daddy would let his daughter be treated this way, right?

 

I have actually begged God to take me. Put me out of my misery. If I’m the problem, why make me hang around? 

 

Nothing. 

 

I tried.

 

I tried for fifteen years. 

 

There’s nothing left of me. Nothing left to try.

Not "Safe" at Home

Just a friendly reminder that not everyone is “safe” at home.

For many women and children, this quarantine is not a chance to sit and home and watch Netflix. It’s being locked in a prison with their abuser. In the best of times, women who live with verbal and emotional abusers develop a “safety” network: extracurricular activities where they can be away from the abuser for awhile, relationships with friends that balance and bring normality to their existence, and even safe houses – places where they can go when things escalate at home.

I had an impressive system in place myself, although I didn’t realize it. That system depended on my husband being at work...and on our ability to go elsewhere when he was home.

Suddenly, he’s working from home. And we can’t go anywhere. I have no idea what to do when he goes blank, when he screams, when he threatens. I can’t pack up and go to a friend’s house now. I can’t go to the gym for an hour of peace. I can’t take the kids to the park when he’s angry because they’re too loud. I am trapped…looking the abuse full in the face. One friend was helpful enough to point out that God is using this to sanctify me.

Right.

I get criticized from the moment I wake up until I go to bed. If I wash the dishes he left out after preparing his last meal, and they happen to be in the dishwasher when he wants to prepare the next one, I’m fucking unbelievable. If the ants come back after I sprayed them and they were gone for a week, I’m the most inept person on the planet. If I won’t take a spur-of-the-moment trip to the beach with him because, I dunno, the beaches are closed…I’m always ruining his fun. If I work, I’m neglecting my children. If I’m with the children, I’m lazy. I cannot sit down and watch a show on TV because he would not approve. And if I read a book, I’m just wasting time. There’s no possible way to win.

Every time our government extends the time frame, or conjectures that it could be months, something in me dies. It’s the first time I’ve considered suicide this strongly. If this is my life…maybe forever…dying from coronavirus seems like a vastly better option.

It’s so selfish…I know…to take an out when my children would have to keep living with it.

It’s always the fault of the woman being abused…the abuser isn’t to blame. Certainly not the family court system that won’t let her leave without leaving her children behind. Definitely not.

I’m just saying…I’m not sure I can make it until May.

Promises (Kept)

In some ways, maybe my heart is better prepared for this crisis than most. I’m used to knowing that the salary could be gone tomorrow. I’m used to watching the person in charge wreak havoc on my life without giving me a voice in the decisions. I’m used to a steady stream of bad news, to living in close proximity with a mercurial person spewing emotions in every direction. I’ve been given years (15, really) to learn how to have hope in God and nothing else.

It’s not that I’m not scared or angry, and I’m definitely mourning the life I had just a week ago. But I also have the perspective that I’ve gained since December 16, 2017: I know that God comes through in remarkable, unexpected ways. I know that He provides our needs, and even some of our wants, faithfully. I know that He is not hemmed in by flawed, or even corrupt, authority figures. I know that He continues to exist in crappy situations, even if He doesn’t remove us from them. I know that His promises can be trusted, and the best thing we can do is turn to Him in every moment of fear, despair, and sadness. This is where he develops our roots so we can stand strong in whatever happens next.

As I have emotionally distanced myself from him, James has lashed out with increasing severity. He knows I’m slipping away, so he leans into his crazy diet and brags about his muscles. Now, he’s watched a booming work industry trickle to very little, and I can tell he’s panicked about losing his job. He can’t do his reserve work because of the travel ban. He is increasingly backed into a corner, and it isn’t pretty. It’s hard to stay calm with his hovering negativity.

But, I’ve had an unemployed husband before. Many times. I know now that God steps in, always. I will no longer pick up his burden of protector and provider. When men bow out, God steps in. I’m trusting now that God is using this to either remove him from our lives or to break him, and either way, I’m trying to hold the trappings of our lives loosely enough that I can watch God work.

I’m also dwelling on several promises I believe I received from God: one, spoken by a friend several years ago, in which God showed her that He saw my hard work, and that He was providing a means for the kids and I to live and love in freedom. She was not privy to the details of my marriage; how could she have known how trapped we are?

The other was a rainbow at the beach on a rainless day. There’s a name for this phenomenon, although I’ve forgotten it now. But it lasted for nearly half an hour, and as I watched it – and thought about God’s promise to Noah that never again would he flood the whole earth – I thought God said that never again will my family have periods without income and unemployment. I’ve faced that particular Goliath from my childhood over and over again in my marriage, and I hope I’ve finally learned not to trust in a job.

I could look at circumstances and despair – and I certainly have. I feel more trapped than ever.

But I also know that God is HERE. This is part of the plan He’s been calling me toward all along. “My beloved spoke and said to me, ‘Arise, my darling, my beautiful one, come with me. See! The winter is past; the rains are over and gone. Flowers appear on the earth; the season of singing has come, the cooing of doves is heard in our land. The fig tree forms its early fruit; the blossoming vines spread their fragrance. Arise, come, my darling; my beautiful one, come with me.”

Closed Doors

At 10pm, I decided to quit working and take a bath. As I soaked, with my mindless fiction and my glass of wine, I listened to James stalk in and out of rooms. Loud, grunty pull-ups on the bar in the doorway to his office (the one he picked out and then screamed at me for buying), then a slammed door, then another slammed door, then, of course, he stalked into the bathroom because heaven forbid he let me be alone in there for five minutes. He slammed the door behind him, of course, because for a person who responds to other people’s noise with visceral rage, he sure does make a lot of it.

He left the bathroom (another slammed door) and moments later, I heard Eli’s voice outside the door.

“Mommy?  Mommy? Where are you, Mommy? Mommy, I can’t sleep.”

“I’m right here in the tub, buddy,” I responded. Then I heard his father.

“What the hell are you doing out here?” he asked. And then he slammed the bedroom door, presumably in Eli’s face. “What the hell is his problem?” he asked me through the door.

“Comfort him,” I responded. “Something has him scared or anxious. Remind him that he’s safe and cared for.” But there was no response. The bedroom door stayed closed.

I climbed out of the tub and pulled on my pajamas. James had apparently gone to bed immediately after the final door slam, so I felt my way around the laundry hamper and slipped out the door.

I found Eli back in his bed. I rubbed his back, and he murmured a few things about having to go to the bathroom again and again. I realize this can be many things, but for Eli, it’s anxiety. He came looking for the one person he trusts with those feelings, and his dad shut the door in his face. My rage on his behalf is palpable.

This man…their father…doesn’t even know the difference between a child who’s stalling bedtime and a child with very real fears. He cares about the fact that work is slow because of the quarantine, that the gym is closed because of quarantine, that he has to work at home because of quarantine…even though he was complaining about working at work just a week ago. He does not care, even a little bit, about his son’s heart.

I’m emotionally done.

I feel like I’ve spent the last two-plus years sorting through deep hurt and big emotions. I’ve tried to open myself to hope – that even though I can’t possibly solve any of this, maybe God can. I’ve found tremendous coping mechanisms and I’ve used extracurriculars to give myself a little break each day. With those things gone and James in the house all the time, I honestly don’t know how I can go on. I can’t even look forward to Reserve weekends for rest and peace.

I know this is where I find God, but I guess I was holding out hope for some kind of a breakthrough. Not just in my heart, but in my circumstance. What if there’s never going to be a breakthrough? What if this is the life God has for me? What if the goal is to thrive where I am and simply accept this torture? Christians have certainly been asked to suffer worse.

I vacillate between wondering if there’s unconfessed sin that I’m somehow missing, or if this is simply all there is for me. It sucks either way, but acceptance seems easier than hope. Maybe the purpose of this all is to keep my hope focused on heaven, because anything else would leave me astray. Maybe I can’t be trusted with a joyful life…I might love it too much.

Tonight, I’m trapped in my house because of social isolation. And I’m trapped in my marriage because I was stupid when I was 26. As the doors of local business slam shut to keep us out, the doors of this home slam shut to keep me in.

But my children played no part in this. I want Eli to know God as a father who opens the door, who comforts, who protects, who provides. Will he and his siblings struggle to know who God is because of their father? Will they approach God expecting slammed doors? It seems likely.

I dream of a bed in a white room, where I can sleep without disturbance. I want time to rest and heal. I want time for my children to rest and heal. I want to learn to be touched by my children without recoiling. I want to learn to think and act without fear of retribution. I want to go through a day where I’m not accused of being fucking unbelievable (in a bad way) because the eggs weren’t right, or because the bug spray in the garage was empty, or because I dared to prepare dinner at the usual time, when he expects to be alone in the kitchen.

Is that too much to ask?

It's Time to Write

Today would have been a full one. Co-op from 8:30 to 3:30, then a mad dash to swim team, and finally home to shower and eat at 6:30. Instead, we slept in. Co-op happened on YouTube and Zoom. I took phone calls and finished menial tasks. We got bad news that everything co-op related is done for the rest of the year. If I was prone to cry, I would have cried.

Around 5, the sun broke through, and we ventured out for a walk. Against all common sense, I let the kids play on the deserted neighborhood playground. Then a few more kids showed up, and again I suspended common sense and let mine stay. We walked further up the street, stopping to talk with neighbors drinking green beer in their driveway. We kept a few feet between us, but certainly not six. I figured out who has toilet paper stockpiled, so I feel much better about that. The kids played with dogs. The adults exhaled. It felt like normal life.

And then, after dinner, Caleb found me at my desk.

“How long is it going to be this way, mom?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Probably a few weeks. Maybe more, but I hope not. Are you sad?”

He nodded.

He misses his friends. He misses swim team. He misses church. He misses Awana. He misses playdates. He misses his life.

“You’ll be a lot more grateful for it when this is over, huh?”

“Yes. A lot.”

I guess that’s an upside. We’ll all be grateful. Ironically, at a time when God was giving me visions of a life of freedom, of community, of relationships…I find myself on total lockdown. The things my husband has denied me…the things I’ve fought for for years now…gone entirely. And now that he’s working from home, the one thing I so desperately want to avoid – time with him – is never-ending. Reserve weekends are cancelled for the next two months. He will be here. All. The. Time. Making us anxious in one way or another.

I have some big questions for God. It’s hard for me to understand why He allowed hope to rise up in my spirit, only to hand me a setback like this. He heard me beg for respite…for time to heal…and instead he handed me more forced time with the bully. It is hard to wrap my mind around. Periodically, I want to throw myself on the floor and have a good old-fashioned tantrum.

I’ve leaned in and asked why. I’ve been directed back to Song of Songs: winter is past. I’ve felt His nudging to accept this Sabbath…to use the extra time to lean into school and projects and rest. Just now, I felt Him say the next season will be busy…so I need to let Him pour into my soul now.

And also, I felt Him say, “It’s time to write.”

Many times in the past year, I’ve stumbled across 1 Chronicles 16:24: “Publish His glorious deeds among the nations. Tell everyone about the amazing things he does.” Well, if I knew how to publish much of anything, I would.

But I don’t. And I’ve told Him that. I’ve also suffered from a crippling case of writer’s block. All the ideas swirling in my head literally shut my brain down. I was lucky to get a few phrases into my notebook. Impossible situations…depression…anxiety…they make it hard to do much of anything except manage them.

And now I have a whole big chunk of time without wake-up calls and taxi runs. (And toilet paper, apparently.) And as I sank into a hot bath the other night, a voice in my head told me it was time.

I still don’t know how to publish anything. But it’s time to write.

That’s all I know. My heart is breaking. I want freedom more than ever before. And it’s time to write.

Then and Now

On a beautiful, cloudless day in September of 2001, life as I knew it collapsed with two towers in New York. I was nearly 23, living in a brand-new apartment with a brand-new roommate, and student teaching for my final semester of school. (Yes, if you’re doing the math, I was doing the 4.5 year college plan. College was not my finest hour.)

One minute, life was beautiful and uncomplicated. Then my cooperating teacher pulled me aside, told me something terrible had happened, and sent me to the counseling office to watch live while she took charge of the eighth graders. It was a gift to me that I didn’t have to see that unfold with an audience of young eyes; I certainly wouldn’t have handled it well.

The following days very much resembled the ones we’re living in now. Crazy rumors led to runs on commodities that we feared would be in short supply. Instead of toilet paper, we lined up for miles to get gas. Gas stations sold out and shut down. We rushed to the grocery for non-perishable food. (In case you’re wondering, my provisions included cases of Dr. Pepper, M&M’s, Lucky Charms, and ramen noodles. Nothing else, really.) We were afraid to go to large, public places for fear that the terrorist next door (they were everywhere, we know) would target them. A rumor flew around that a large-scale attack was planned for malls nationwide. Schools felt vulnerable and many people kept their kids home. We were, quite literally, afraid to breathe, as if the air might be laced with explosives.

My roommate was housesitting for friends, which left me alone in our apartment, sprawled on the couch watching around-the-clock coverage of all the things we thought we knew. (As you can probably imagine, time revealed that much of that early reporting was completely inaccurate, but I didn’t have the perspective to realize it.) I didn’t even have cable, but I did have Dr. Pepper, which I consumed in abundance. The isolation was probably the worst thing that could have happened to me; lacking any good personal habits for dealing with anxiety, I watched, ate, and tried to find anything that would make me feel better.

It turned out that two things were quite helpful in doing just that. The first was shopping. As the fog lifted and things re-opened, the country began to realize that life probably would, actually, continue. The malls, desperate to lure in wary shoppers, offered deep discounts. Apparently, I am willing to risk death by suicide bomber if there’s a chance to score Express jeans for half price. A new wardrobe improved my mood remarkably, so I shopped often, in spite of the fact that I wasn’t getting paid for my student teaching gig. That’s why God invented credit cards, no?

The other opportunity that soothed that fear in my heart was happy hour at the TGI Friday’s right down the street with my new colleagues. Only it wasn’t really an hour – it was more like seven. For someone who’d rarely ever had a drink, that was a lot of alcohol. And all that alcohol masked the fact that my newfound community – which I desperately craved – wasn’t really what I was looking for. They were good people, but not on the path I wanted to be on. Still, it felt good to be with someone – anyone – in those early weeks, so I found a boyfriend in the happy hour crew and let the alcohol fix my misgivings.

Eventually I got rid of the boyfriend, and eventually I paid off the debt. Life went on, and offered me more personal 9/11’s. Each time, I flailed and writhed and grasped for anything to make me feel better. Each time – as it always does – life eventually moved on.

But the last one – just two years ago – finally changed me. That time, when my world bottomed out, I leaned in to God. Instead of binge-watching Friends, I walked the darkened halls of my house, opening my hurting heart to God. (And if you think you can’t be honest with God, I’d suggest reading the book of Psalms. All of it.) I read the actual Bible. Friends – real friends – came alongside me and spoke truth. I found a counselor who was willing to ask the right questions, to look below the surface, to help me see things in myself I didn’t want to see. I begged God to fix things, and instead He opened my eyes. I was begging for a bandaid when I was bleeding out from a full-blown puncture wound. I didn’t know who He was or how He felt about me. The people I was trusting weren’t worthy of my trust. I was trying to earn what was freely given, and letting shame bully me into ignoring the truth.

God began to show me how to come to Him first, how to rest in what He is doing instead of fixing things myself. He began to show me that I can trust him, regardless of what people on earth decide to do. He began to rewrite my response to things that cause me anxiety.

And then last week happened. And this week. Every day, life as we knew it seems more and more impossible. If I let myself linger on social media, the bad news hits in regular waves. Just like 2001, the future we imagined seems gone forever. And just like 2001, my body is riding waves of anxiety. My appetite is gone. I’m tempted to stare at my phone all day. Sometimes my body just shakes. All day long, I just want to sleep. And then at night, sleep eludes me.

I’ve been given the same opportunity I was given almost 20 years ago, but this time I know this is where God is. In the scary and uncertain, He will do things I couldn’t imagine just last week. He will mold more than just our external situation; He will change my heart in these moments.

I still hate it – all this change and uncertainty and, most of all, the isolation. But I also know this is where we find him. If we’re brave, this is where strongholds finally break and victories finally happen. This is where we change. And this time, I’m here for it.

What I Wish You Knew

In my counseling session today, my counselor was asking really tough questions and I honestly felt like she was saying I need to leave, but I don't have enough faith. I don't think that was her intention...she was really pushing me to see the truth, but it left me rattled and a bit frustrated.
Unless you've been in an abusive marriage, particularly as a mostly stay-at-home mom with young children, I suppose it's hard to understand how my brain has to work. But there are some things I wish everyone around me could know and understand.
1. I feel tremendous shame both related to my marriage and my husband's behavior. My mom once asked me why I went to such lengths to hide his behavior from others. Well, for starters, it can't help but reflect back on me because I'm married to him. At some point, dumb and deluded and also under tremendous pressure to "be married", I made that choice. I wish there was a stronger word than regret; if there was, I'd use it. Also, when people witness toxic behavior like my husband's, they tend to withdraw from both the husband and the wife, leaving the wife and kids even more isolated. And finally, when the man is a primary wage earner, outside perception of him can lead to not being able to pay the mortgage...and even more instability. So it's a tenuous balance of surviving life, but also surviving the marriage.
2. I still on some level believe this is all my fault, and it could all be fixed if I was "better." A better what? Wife, mom, wage earner, housekeeper...you name it, I've been shamed for it. Even with many voices speaking otherwise into my life, the sum of my days comes down to doing things that I think will make him happy. The alternative is vicious rage and anger, and no one wants to provoke that. This is tremendously common in emotional abuse; even when the victim has detached from responsibility on an intellectual level, her emotions are still captive.
3. I'm both relieved that other people know, and also anxious. I'm still glad when people at church speak to him and include him, even if they know the whole story. Part of me still hopes that the right people can speak truth into him. I do notice when my friends put their personal feelings aside and include him because, for now, he's still linked with me.
4. My kids both love and hate him. If he vanished from our lives completely, I would feel nothing but relief. But the kids would mourn. They would also be relieved. But either way, my kids lose...and that SUCKS.
5. Everything I do is hard. Making counseling appointments means arranging childcare and also anticipating when he won't be there to interfere. Committing to meetings during hours when he's home means fighting a battle...maybe for days. I almost never go out with friends because he heaps so much guilt on me, and I worry about my kids being alone with him. So if I show up without a hostess gift, I'm sorry. Showing up is all I can do some days. And some days, I can't even do that. Sometimes I stay home because it's too exhausting to worry and fight.
6. I have zero confidence in myself or my decision-making ability. I have been criticized for talking too loud and too quietly. My jokes have been mocked. My intention has been questioned. I am no longer parenting...I am trying to raise kids without making their father mad. When I make a decision that goes against what I know he wants - and I have to do that often - I literally have panic attacks for days. God has been faithful to sustain and protect me when I've stepped out and obeyed him, but I've still been subjected to the angry tirades.
7. The logistics of leaving are astronomical. Where will I live? How will I afford it? How will I afford the move and what will he do if he knows about it beforehand? Will I be able to live in a safe place? Will my family have any privacy? Will a judge believe me when I tell why I left? Will a custody trial protect my kids? What damage will my husband do during the one-year separation period? To my credit? To my reputation? To my life? How do I begin separating finances in a way that protects me? How do I hide money away? What will we do for insurance? Will I always be afraid that he'll come back and find us? In the absence of any clear next steps, I typically retreat back to pretending this will be OK and I can totally survive this until my kids are old enough to refuse to live with him.
8. I have been treated so badly for so long that I have trouble recognizing the difference between healthy and unhealthy behavior. Literally, someone had to tell me that what I was experiencing wasn't normal and I SHOULD be angry before the blinders began to come off.
9. I am angry and kind of bitter. I don't want to be. I'm trying hard to forgive and hand that responsibility off to God, but over time, the rage has definitely built up. So sometimes I find myself being short-tempered and irritable because I'm anxious about what he's going to do...and that shakes my confidence further. Maybe I am an awful person and this is what I deserve.
10. I feel like a burden. Don't assume that no news is good news. In the last week, I've considered sending SOS texts to several people, but held back because I'm sure they're tired of hearing about it and wondering why I don't just DO something. I would if I knew of something I could do.
11. Finding options is basically a full-time job. Calling shelters, talking to lawyers...even counseling takes a heap of time. I have other responsibilities, so I don't know how to speed this up. I don't know where to start.
12. It's super hard to wait on God's guidance...and even more so when everyone else feels like the answer is obvious. Please be patient with me. Rushing into things got me into this mess, and I don't want to make that mistake again.
13. I am tremendously grateful for each and every person who has received my truth without judgement, prayed for me, supported me, and spoken truth over me. So many women in abusive marriages are treated worse by the community around them than they are by their husbands. My people have been...wonderful. There's just only so much other people can do.