Tired

I’m just really tired.

Not physically tired, although that’s a given. I’m mentally tired. It’s hard constantly trying to reign in racing thoughts, intentionally choosing to believe in something you can’t see, and resisting the urge to tangle with a toxic person. God is teaching me to turn my thoughts to Him when James is unstable, but it’s still exhausting to live in a home where you never know what you’re going to get. The kids are on edge and it comes out in aggressive behavior.

The other day, the counselor talked to me about a drawing Caleb did of his house. I was central in the drawing, which tells her that I’m a central part of his home. But I clearly wasn’t happy. And that tells her that, well, I’m not happy often enough that it defines the way he thinks of me.

It’s true, of course. And it leveled me.

My memories of my own childhood after my dad’s job loss are very similar. My mom wasn’t happy. In fact, she was in full-blown depression, which expressed itself in fits of rage and long periods in bed. I was scared about my dad’s job loss and scared by her behavior. I understand as an adult just how bad things were for her, but I’ve also always resented that no one was around to be a parent and shepherd my heart. I had to face that fear and terror on my own, just as I have as an adult.

And yet, here I am becoming the same angry person. I’m angry because the house is messy and I have to prove to James that I’m worth being a stay-at-home mom. I’m mad because the kids are fighting me on schoolwork, and I have to prove that homeschooling produces geniuses. I’m mad because I’m supposed to bring in more money than I am in order to justify my cost. Deep down inside, everything I’m mad about comes down to fear: fear that I’m not worthy or worth it. Fear that I’m screwing everything up. Fear that I’ve already ruined it all.

When you have to prove your value, life is one big panic attack. When you’re always trying to avoid the unavoidable tirade, you can’t ever relax. And when you can’t ever relax and just be yourself, life is unbearable.

But I don’t want my kids to remember me this way. I’m trying so hard to show them a different way to respond to stress, and a different way to respond to toxic people.

I’m just so tired. I don’t know how to keep going.

Running

My last half-marathon was in April. I’d trained with my running partner, paying special attention to the extensive hills in the course. I’d told my husband about the race for several weeks, so he knew he would need to be at home with the kids.

Then, just days before the race, he signed up for his own race…on the same day. I scrambled, but located a sitter. I went to the expo and picked up my gear. I was excited.

The night before, he came home from work in a rage. He was mad at the world, and especially at me. “What right do you think you have to pay money to run in a race? You’re a stay-at-home mom, but you blow money like you earn it. You’re not even fast. What makes you think you deserve this? You’re just an entitled little only-child bitch who thinks she can have whatever she wants.”

The kids ate in silence. To some degree, they see these outbursts so often that they don’t seem affected. The impact comes out in other ways, though. They aren’t unscathed.

And neither was I.

I tried to defend myself, to point out the hypocrisy and blatant untruth of his words, but in the end I just loaded the kids in the car and we drove around while I tried to calm myself.

Something in me had broken. I realize now that he weaponized shame, his favorite barb. He shames me by pretending I don’t earn enough to get the things I need. He shames me by comparing me to my mother and to the endless legion of other women who are wrong by virtue of being female. He shames me with invented stories so realistic that even though I didn’t do those things, I feel guilty anyway. And this time, he shamed me for running. For getting up early, wearing old running gear, and putting on the miles long before anyone got up. For wanting the camaraderie of running with a partner. For enjoying the fun of a race and the joy of a medal.

The next morning, I woke up to a text from the babysitter saying that she had a stomach virus. I was out childcare, and I had to use the childcare onsite. When I got there, I was distinctly anxious. It wasn’t secure and it didn’t feel safe. The shame shouted louder: how dare I think that I should run a race? Now my children were endangered, because of my recklessness.

The shame took root in my lungs, that were already heaving from several days with a bad cough. By the end of the first mile, I knew I was in trouble. We walked over and over again, and even the walking left me exhausted. Normally I can settle into a rhythm after a rough few miles, but it never came. I thought maybe I should take a shuttle back, but I didn’t. I pushed through, ran the last 50 feet with my children (who had been picked up by friends from church so they could watch), and got my medal. But I was defeated. It wasn’t my lungs that broke me. It was my spirit.

I’d been defeated before the race even started. Now that I’ve read up on the way shame causes disintegration in the brain, I understand a little better.

I couldn’t get back into running after that. I did an obstacle course race with friends in June. Again, the husband was opposed, and when I sprained my ankle badly, his comment was that clearly I shouldn’t be signing up for races.

When my ankle healed, nagging hip pain reared its head, and eventually I just quit. I debated seeing a PT for several months, and finally, today, I went.

They still don’t know what’s causing the hip pain, but the PT told me to go out and run in an attempt to trigger the injury and get a better description. Tonight, after I put Violet in bed, I pulled on my compression socks and went out for a jog.

It was good running weather. The air was cool. For the first time in over six months, I ran the whole Wedge hill without stopping. Actually, I ran the whole thing without stopping. I talked to God while I ran, asking him to replace James’ voice with His voice. Asking Him if He wanted me running, and what I should do to keep doing it. I thanked God for a body that moves. I kept going.

Running never feels “good” to me, but this did. My hip is sore, but we can’t fix it if we don’t know the source. I’m trying to reclaim something that was stolen from me that April night. When I came home and my husband commented, “Wow, that was fast,” I only cared a little.

He doesn’t care about me. Why do I give his voice so much credit?
I'm taking back more than running.
I've started reading again, even though he perceives it as lazy and selfish of me.
I sent out Christmas cards this year, for the first time in five years.
The kids and I helped a friend out with Christmas.
I am making Christmas cookies with the kids, even though the food nazi believes all sugar is sinful.
I am going to early morning Body Pump classes because my body feels good when I do.
Once a week, I have a glass or two of wine.
I drink coffee in the morning.
I am letting the kids watch all the Star Wars movies in order, and if their dad won't take them (because Star Wars is on his crap list now), then I'll take them to the new one.
I am going to go all in for Christmas, even though he hates every part of it.
He does not get to suck the joy out of everything any longer.
Every act of joy and care is a tiny rebellion against a reign of terror. I'm not bowing down to my husband anymore. I serve a God who gives joy. He gives good gifts.
I'm praying one of those good gifts is a permanent way out for the kids and I. We've learned so much in the past two years; now it's time to heal.

Where I Stand

A quick update:

After a few good weeks at work where James was hitting numbers and having success, they changed the call metrics and it’s gotten hard again. I have no idea if they did it on purpose because he’s difficult or if this is just how they operate. What I do know is that we’re back to several hours of ranting about how the world is out to get him. Every night. We literally hold our collective breath when the garage door opens, and duck behind walls while we try to gauge what is coming through the door.

He’s also turned absolutely surly. I finally got my wedding ring back on after months of eczema, but he quit wearing his. He can’t be in the room with me for five minutes without a nasty, mean-spiriting, usually false barb. I feel like I’m alone on a field with arrows coming from every direction…and no shield.

I finally snapped the other night and pointed out that he has had the same problems with every job he’s ever had. I asked if there was, possibly, a job that he would NOT complain about, because I don’t think it exists. His problems are an aversion to hard work and authority, and profound selfishness. He wants to lie around on the couch and watch You Tube and play the kids’ video games. In his underwear. Because this is what he does on the rare occasion that he’s home with the kids, this is what he assumes I must do all day. And because he can’t see anything that doesn’t agree with his worldview, he hates me for the hypothetical life he believes I must be living.

Today he told Violet she was the only thing that makes him happy…after nearly making her cry because he mocked her joke. (Her jokes are terrible…but she’s FIVE.) Now, no one is responsible for another person’s happiness, and a five-year-old certainly doesn’t need to pick up that burden for an adult. Then he said Caleb makes him happy sometimes, and Eli makes him happy occasionally. Did I mention that Eli tells the counselor his dad hates him? That could be why.

I am not the fantasy woman that he has created in his mind, so I will never make him happy, although that didn’t keep me from trying for a long time. I think he realizes that he’s made a critical error and pretty much lost me, so he’s going to reject me with as much force as possible.

I’m surprised by how much it still hurts.

The thing is, if he’d just be honest and make an effort, I’d give him another chance. But he probably never will. The situation is impossible, and I’ll put it out here so that when God works a miracle, I can remember just how miraculous it is:

My husband is chronically un- or underemployed. He cannot hold a job for any amount of time. He’s planning to quit this one in two weeks.

He has a significant mental illness that is clearly spiraling. I don’t feel safe leaving the kids with him. I know his behavior is taking a terrible toll just by being present.

He won’t leave.

He won’t help with the kids or the house, but I know he’ll fight me tooth and nail for custody because that’s how he can hurt me.

I can’t fathom leaving them overnight with a man who has never, ever gotten up with a kid at night. He flat out refuses, often with a lot of cussing.

I’ve been told by two lawyers that the family court system feels a really bad parent is better than no parent, and they’ll award split custody regardless of evidence of emotional and verbal abuse. Even with counselor testimonies.

At this point, I’m convinced he’s capable of anything, and I’m terrified that I’ll get my kids back from a parent visit in a body bag. I’ve decided if that’s going to happen, I’m going to be in a body bag, too. So I have to stay.

He continues to spiral into a hell of his own choosing. He wants people to validate his own tremendous selfishness. No one will. So he gets angrier and angrier.

We live in constant anxiety. My left eyelid twitches almost all the time. My skin itches. I’m gaining belly fat in spite of eating less and working out. I suspect this is all stress-related.  My hairline is getting thin. Stress causes hair loss, too.

God has given me good, well-paying work to do, but we can’t live off it. I am constantly torn between paying work and being with the kids, which is the most important thing I can do.

And yet, the kids are learning. They’re asking big questions about God and relationships. They’re making progress in everything they do. If I look back over the past two years, I’ve grown tremendously in my faith. God has retrained some old instincts and I’m slowly learning to respond by running to God first…instead of freaking out. God has provided financially in spite of my husband’s work ethic. I am learning who God says I am and my heart is being changed.

But I also don’t know if I’ll live through another month of this. I’ve been broken again and again and it hurts too much to even dream. Hope is an extravagance I can’t spare, but it just won’t go away.

So there it is. I don’t know what the answer is. I keep asking God if there’s something I’m missing. If I’m guilty of putting his power in a box. If I’m somehow sinning and blocking what He wants to do in my life.

I don’t know. And I just want to go to sleep.

Grieving

So I just popped onto Facebook, in the spirit of procrastinating.

I’m good at that.

I discovered a post from another colleague from my master’s degree program, a colleague who has already published a darn good fiction book. He was promoting the release of a book by a different author. I glanced at her name, the details he provided, and quickly suspected it was another student from that same program. A quick search on Amazon confirmed: North side of Chicago, the beautiful girl with the amazing proposal story and equally amazing ring, the one who came from money, who bought her own condo on a teacher’s salary when I was struggling to pay rent, the one with the custom-made purse from a boutique in Chicago that I was, admittedly, jealous of for YEARS. Yes, that one.

Jealousy sucks, friends.

It might be more than jealousy in my case. Yes, it’s hard for me to understand why she was earmarked to enjoy the same things I do, but who was also given the bank account to do it. Why she was devoted to have a good time and got to continue doing so, while I devoted years to service and got to be someone’s slave. Why do I have these desires, if they’ll never be realized?

That just sounds frivolous and materialistic, but there’s another layer in my heart. Why did she get earmarked for good love, for a community that cares for her, and I apparently get decades of abuse? Why does she get to realize her dream, while I’m here trapped by a family court system without a heart or a brain and years of wasted potential?

I was right there with her…my writing was lauded and encouraged in the program. Why do I get to be the failure?

And then, I peel back another layer of the onion. At the core, I’m really mourning the loss of my youth. Of the good years of my life, of the potential…of joy. Truly admitting what is happening in my marriage means accepting tremendous loss. Tremendous waste. Almost 15 year now…in the dumpster.

Where would I be if my spouse encouraged me instead of mocking me? Where would I be if I had a partner in parenting? Where would I be if someone spoke God’s love into my life, instead of hurt?

Was there a way to learn what I know about God without the pain of the last fourteen years? Maybe not.

But if so, why was I earmarked to be unloved, unseen, and unremarkable? Why was my potential wasted and hers was fulfilled?

Of course, midway down this incredibly unproductive road, something stops me. When you live with a narcissist, even self-pity is difficult. It’s the cornerstone of the narc’s very existence, and one of my great fears is adopting the traits I despise in him.

But still, at the end of the day, I’m grieving. I’m grieving the experience of having real, good love. If I ever manage to extricate myself from this, I realize the likelihood of dying single is quite high. I have to be OK with that.

I’m grieving the girl I was, and the youth I wasted on a man who couldn’t even appreciate what he was given.

I’m grieving the chance the grow old with someone who looks over and still sees the girl I once was, wrinkles and grey hair and all.

I’m grieving the family I wanted to build, and the life I hoped for. I’m grieving the freedom I handed over for a diamond ring.

I’m grieving the childhood I hoped my children would have, and their chances of growing up healthy and whole. I’m grieving the life I might have had, if I’d made better choices.

It’s a lot of loss for one person to process, and I’m not there yet.

In this month of Thanksgiving, I should write a companion blog post about how God has been faithful in spite of the crap. About how I’ve had breakthroughs in the past two years that I never thought possible. About the growth that’s occurred. About how I’ve changed.

But right now, I just want to grieve. Is that OK?

To My Father-In-Law

My FIL called me the other day, hurting from an altercation with his son. I'm tired of lies and excuses, and I told him all about the hell we are living. It's almost constant now, with James refusing to even speak to me unless the kids are around. Who knows what I did now. He's taken his wedding ring off...maybe he's pursing someone new.
Guess what? She can HAVE him.

Anyway, I had a lot of jumbled thoughts during that conversation with my FIL, and I finally put them together in written form. I doubt it will be taken well because I honestly don't believe him when he says he's changed. (Believe patterns, not words, after all.)

But still...he needs to hear it from someone. Maybe I'm the one to say it?

What do you think? Should I send it?

Dear G,

You asked me the other day if there was anything you could do. And I didn’t know how to articulate my thoughts then, but after some thought, here they are.

I told you at the time that the counselors deemed James’ behavior to likely be borderline personality disorder and probably narcissistic personality disorder. I hoped at the time that you would do some research on those conditions, but based on your comment that revealed you didn’t even remember the names, it’s clear you haven’t. So, I’m going to tell you a little bit.

Yes, there’s a strong biological component to narcissism on paper. But whether it’s actually biological is debatable. One thing that men, in particular, who suffer from these Cluster B disorders have in common is that very often they lack a man to help them make that leap from thinking like a boy to thinking like a man. Basically, in their teens, when they need someone to model and coach character, that person either isn’t there or doesn’t know how to do it. Based on what I’ve heard about James’ teen years, that certainly seems to be true. He absolutely can’t understand why he should do something for someone else without getting something in return. “What’s in it for me?” is his usual question. He can’t understand that someone with character should not waffle on the truth. Abortion can be wrong for the masses and then right when he doesn’t want the third baby his wife is carrying. He judges people for having slovenly houses and leaves his trash and laundry everywhere for me to pick up. He thinks like a middle school boy because no one commanded his respect and showed him how it should be done…and why.

Instead, every time he screws up a job and money gets tight, he orders me back to work. He spends whatever he pleases on himself and denies me clothes that fit. Instead of loving his wife and kids like Christ loves the church (Ephesians 6), he orders me to submit to his torture. He doesn’t know any differently. He’s a boy, and his objective is to get what he wants. If he doesn’t, he loses his mind and screams and yells and curses and breaks things and tells lies.

When I spoke to you the other day, you did not hesitate to throw C and Papaw under the bus. I’m under no delusions about Papaw, believe me. But I’ve also had 15 years now to observe you and C, and I don’t believe words. I believe behavior. I see hasty, emotional decisions. I see her working her fingers to the bone while you play. I see a failure to do what needs to be done to care for your wife and family while you’re alive and after you’re gone. I see a lot of blame – that’s not the first time you’ve blamed Charles for the way your children turned out. But Charles wouldn’t have been a factor in your lives had you been a good provider and a good money manager. You have to own that yourself. She may very well struggle tremendously with depression, but having lived with your son, I’m going to say that’s not all her fault.

The scripture is clear and counselors back it up. The man has to be under God’s headship, and when he is, everything falls into place. When a marriage and family lands in crisis, it is almost always because the man isn’t submitting to God. The result is tremendous fallout. My counselor has again and again told me James behaves like a child who grew up in foster care. She was shocked to hear that he grew up in an intact family. But the more she hears about James’ childhood, the more she understands. Incidentally, Amy’s counselor told her basically the same thing: she has the spirit of an orphan. Again, having observed this family for 15 years, I’m not surprised. There’s a lot I don’t say. The brokenness is appalling, but not nearly as much as the refusal to own responsibility.

James never learned to say, “I’m sorry” and really mean it. “I’m sorry” always comes with a million reasons he was justified and a demand to offer forgiveness (ie. What he wants). That’s not an apology. An apology owns the wrong and asks, “How can I make it better?” James doesn’t know how to apologize because you never modeled it for him. You. Not Cindy. Not Charles. You. I know this because I’ve watched for patterns, not words. The patterns tell me all I need to know.

If you want to make a difference, and if you want any chance of saving your son and his family, you’ll start with a no-strings-attached apology. For failing to provide. For having fun when you should have manned up and cared for your family. For failing to discipline G Jr. and protect James. For failing to master your temper. For failure to consider the result of your words…for failing to praise the unique qualities of each child instead of making them all starved for genuine love.

Your apology can’t have any reasons attached. Or demands. You cannot feel sorry for yourself and the fractured relationship you have with your son. You don’t get pity for that…you created it. The victims here are my kids, whose lives are being destroyed because of a monster you created.

I realize maybe you didn’t fully create it. By all accounts, it seems to have started with your father, and maybe before that. But you have to own your own decisions. I have to own mine (and believe me, I’ve spent a lot of time praying through the disobedience and lack of trust in God that landed me here, because I have to learn from my mistakes, too). James has to own his, but it’s unlikely that he will unless you model it.

So if you want to make it right, start by asking God what you need to sincerely apologize for. And start by apologizing to James and asking what you can do to make things right. And then start doing them. Faithfully. Without considering what you want or what’s best for you or demanding respect as his father.

Maybe if you do that, James will find the courage to do the same.

Again, some deep reading on narcissistic personality disorder and borderline personality disorder will probably help. Counseling from a professional would also be beneficial. Most of these things are rooted in deep fears of rejection and abandonment…so deep that the person doesn’t believe they exist. In one of the counseling sessions before we quit, James opened up and revealed a lot of the depth of his anguish. You can either decide to defend your honor or be vulnerable to God and start the healing. It’s up to you.

You told me on the phone that you’ve changed. The way you receive this will tell me whether that’s true. It’s written in love, because your whole family is deeply wounded. If it sounds brash, it’s probably because I watch my kids suffer every day from the results of your decisions. They deserve better. And so do your kids. And frankly, so do you…because I’m sure it runs in the family

Nonetheless, this is where it runs out. If you won’t do it and James won’t do it, I’ll make sure my children have a fighting chance at a different life. This is not what God called us to, I know that for sure.

Trying New Things

One of my husband’s favorite tactics is to pull me away whenever I begin to put down roots. It was the impetus for leaving one church in Kentucky and for begging me to leave another. It was the reason I moved to Kentucky when we were dating, and the reason he moved our whole family to Winston. Each time I start to feel like I might belong, he wants to leave.

God has blessed me profoundly in each of those moves, but He’s also revealed this as my husband’s strategy. Because of this realization, I’ve staunchly refused to leave Winston, in spite of the wreckage he’s made of his career. I would leave if God impressed upon me that I should…but He has not. Instead, he’s opened my eyes to the way James destabilizes my life in order to make me feel like I have to rely on him. God has also shown me how much I doubt my own ability to hear His voice…and how important it is for me to listen to Him alone.

Today was yet another fight about leaving…this time about leaving our church. Again. He senses an opportunity to snatch me away, to make me feel like my friendships are shaky, to weaken my resolve. Today, he announced that it was time to try another church, and I told him I would not.

His response? “You just don’t like change. Every time I want to do something new, you kick and scream and drag your feet. You have no sense of adventure. When was the last time you did anything new?”

And that got me thinking. What have I done in the last two years, since his poor decisions shattered our lives? Shattered us?

Well, on the surface, I’ve started doing Barre and Body Pump classes at the Y. Workout classes are way outside my comfort zone. I took on a new role as a tutor in our homeschool middle school program – complete with Latin and Logic, which absolutely blow my mind. (Both of them.) I took on a role as the curriculum coordinator in our church children’s ministry. I started going to regular counseling appointments to address pervasive struggles that have marred my life for years. I’ve stepped into new roles in my work life, with different clients and different jobs. I found a new running partner, and learned to run early in the morning on scary country roads.

Most of those things took a lot of gumption, and frankly, I didn’t want to do some of them. But they are only symptoms of deeper, systemic change.

I learned to not freak out about how much money I bring in each month. I started trusting God as my protector and provider, and affirmed that each time panic crept in. I started really, actually forgiving – by mentally handing the burden of unforgiveness back to God each time I noticed myself mentally avenging the wrong. I started sitting in the uncomfortable teachings in the Bible and letting God show me His truth. I took a long, painful look backward to admit and confess my sin of taking a blessing instead of trusting God to provide in His time. I obeyed the little nudges from God to do scary things, like making a really big monetary gift to fulfill a commitment, and stepping out in faith the tell the truth about our marriage. I began trying to accept my value in Christ, instead of constantly trying to prove my worth. When James ended yet another job, I didn’t freak out or change my habits; I also didn’t try to counsel, advise, or fix. I kept my eyes fixed on God as my protector and provider.

I started reading through the whole Bible, with big passages every day. I started keeping a record of the prayers I pray, and carving out quiet time in the morning to listen to God. I starting honestly examining what God – not the church – has to say about divorce in a situation like this. I started thinking about a future that doesn’t involve constant fear, about a marriage that isn’t cruel and destructive. I read about Abigail and Nabal, and learned that God cares about women who love him, not just men who don’t.

Frankly, I’ve done a lot of new things…in fact, I’d be willing to argue that I’m a whole new person. The harm he caused us has been an impetus for good. God is funny like that.

The Quiet Voice

The boys played their first baseball game last week, and it quickly became apparent that it was their first time in a sport where the coach provides live instructions during the game. In swimming, there’s a private chat before a race, a private chat afterwards, and some cheering during the race. But in baseball, the coach actively tells the players what to do on a play by play basis. And that’s how Eli found himself playing third base with a player from the opposing team running in his direction, and a coach yelling at him to tag the base, then throw to first. Unfortunately, another parent was screaming, “Don’t go back to third!” And several more were screaming, “Just throw to first!” And the mother of the kid running toward third, who was probably closer to Eli than anyone else, was screaming, “Go BACK! Go BACK!”

And Eli? He froze. And then he did a funny little dance where he took a step back and forth in both directions several times before he finally heard the coach’s voice and threw his best throw to first.

It’s a YMCA coach-pitch baseball game. They don’t even keep score. It was no big deal. But as I watched his confusion, it occurred to me that things would have been vastly different if he’d clearly known his coach’s voice.

His problem wasn’t just the conflicting voices being thrown in his direction. He was struggling because he’s only known his coach for one week. That’s definitely not enough time to pick out his coach’s command from a chorus of competing noises.

It takes time to learn a voice. To be able to pick that voice out of the crowd. To know which voice is trustworthy. For me, the voice I need to listen for is God’s voice. But instead, I’ve spent 40 years listening to others: my parents, my childhood church, bosses and co-workers, and most of all, my husband. Some of those voices are fun to listen to because they say good things. But others have taught me everything I need to know about shame. They’ve controlled me. They’ve stood in the way of hearing the truth about God, and they’ve replaced it with a twisted interpretation.

One of the loudest voices is the one that sleeps next to me, and that voice isn’t kind. It tells me I have to earn love, that I need to do more, more, and still more. That my worth is tied to the amount of work that I do, the amount of money I bring in, the size of my waist. Over the years, those lies have only increased, and while I know on some level that I’m being fed lies, that voice is relentless.  It wakes me up and keeps me up when I try to sleep. It’s present constantly, either in person or over text. Every once in awhile, that voice feeds me something pleasant, but the lies always come back.

But in the last year and a half, as God has used mentors and my counselor to turn my eyes back to God’s Word, I’ve begun to hear His voice more clearly than ever before. It’s a daily battle, and I can’t tell you that my husband’s words don’t leave me shaking and hurting…because they still do. But there’s another voice I’m learning to hear in the midst of all the noise.

It’s a voice that promises to protect and provide for me. It tells me that there’s value in me, value that God put there, that I don’t have to earn. It tells me that I can rest. I can hope. It tells me not to hide the hurt anymore, and invites me to open my hands and give that hurt to my heavenly Father.

It’s a moment by moment choice to remember which voice I should hear. Sometimes I forget, but the daily barrage of negativity ensures that I have plenty of time to learn a new rhythm of listening. It's beginning to become a reflex instead of an intentional choice. It's a new way of thinking…one that I’ve needed to learn for years.

I’m profoundly grateful for this growth that I’ve cried out to God for. But at the same time, I’m exhausted and not sure where to go from here. Some days I just want to go to sleep for a month and deal with it when I wake up. Other days, I want to throw more of myself into more work and end this marriage once and for all. Most days, I worry about the impact of his persistent abuse on my children. And I can’t figure out how to protect the kids. I’ve hit a wall, and all I can do is listen. For the voice I need to hear.

Lovely

I’ve been stalking TJ Maxx and Homegoods for over a year now in hopes of grabbing just one Rae Dunn mug. Yes, I know it’s trendy and I hate trends. (Most trends. Not shiplap. But other trends, like Taylor Swift.) But something about the black and white simplicity and the words – I love words – calls my name. Also, they can easily hold two cups of black coffee. Just saying.

I’ve never had any luck, though, and I refused to pay the resale markup. But a few weeks ago, I stopped in TJ Maxx to buy James a Hawaiian shirt and stumbled onto a whole heap of the stuff. Again, I know that means the trend is waning. But there they were…all these Rae Dunn mugs.

The kids tried to coach me. Eli wanted me to choose “Laugh” because, frankly, they think I need to laugh more. (Darn kids with their honest observations.) Caleb suggested “Be Bold” because boldness was the word we chose when we dedicated him, and he was hoping to get the mug for himself. I personally was hovering over “Dreamer”, which seems so true to my spirit of hopefulness.

And then, at the other end of the aisle, I spotted “Lovely”. And it spoke to me. Actually, I’m beginning to think, God spoke to me.

I’ve never considered myself lovely. Not even my 22-year-old, 120-pound self. Even then, I would have labeled myself “good enough”. When I turned 40 and took stock of a disastrous marriage, more failures than I can count, a struggle with weight I’ve never carried before, thinning, greying hair, and too many other sagging things to mention, it hurt. Bad.

I’ve never been particularly occupied with fancy clothes. I’ve never been one to frequent the salon. (In part because I married a man who can’t hold down a job but thinks my spending is the reason we struggle financially, but still.) I'm not super obsessed with the external, so I honestly couldn’t figure out why my physical condition caused me so much pain.

As I’ve watched friends in stable marriages, and the way their husbands treat them, I’ve begun to realize that good love lets your body age with grace and compassion. Not perfect love. Just good love. When someone loves you that way, the other things matter a whole lot less.

Of course, my husband doesn’t love me that way. He doesn’t love me at all. Tonight, in an hour-long rant about how awful it is that he has to work because work is hard, he said he was really questioning whether I was worth it. He backpedaled quickly, but I already knew. Dude, actions speak WAY louder and your words just caught up for a minute there.

I’ve realized that I really do just want someone to think I’m lovely. To really believe it.

And while that someone doesn’t exist on earth, I’m beginning to suspect God wants me to know he thinks I’m lovely. And maybe that can be enough.

Every time I drink my (double) cup of coffee from that mug, I feel like God nudges me and says, “This is how I see you.” I can’t quite grasp it yet, but I’ve spent a lot of time pondering how my life and thoughts would be different if I could really see myself how God sees me.

Lovely.

Get a Job, Get a Job

Dear James,

No, I won’t go out and get a full-time job. No, I won’t polish my resume. No, I won’t pick up your burden again.

I realize I’ve set a precedent. You lost nine jobs since we’ve been together, and each time I’ve stepped up and taken on additional work to maintain our standard of living. In addition to teaching, which you say isn’t a real job, I’ve coached soccer, swimming, and Power of the Pen. I’ve taught as an adjunct at two different colleges. I’ve worked as a co-op coordinator at a community college and taught summer school. I worked for three straight years as a contractor for an educational publishing company. I take work as I can get it for other publishers. I write and edit for a local blog. I tutor in our co-op. I manage curriculum for our church. I do it all without any childcare. Or any help around the house. You don’t even mow the lawn…I have to pay someone.

You literally have one responsibility: go to work. I don’t feel bad that you have two jobs, because somehow you still have more leisure time that I could ever dream of. I feel like I have to justify my very existence if I’m reading a book or doing a Bible study. You think naps are your God-given right.

I don’t expect you to acknowledge the terrible inequity that has existed in our marriage since day 1. I won’t even fight you about it because it isn’t worth my time. I just know that I won’t apologize for reading a book anymore. I won’t apologize if I only bring in $700/month instead of $1000 because our children needed more of me than work did. And I won’t accept your lies because you (sometimes) pull the bigger paycheck. Nothing…NOTHING makes someone deserving of the way you treat me.

You are supposed to be my protector. My provider. You are supposed to love me the way Jesus loves the church…to lay your life down for me.

Instead, I’ve done that for you. And in response, I’ve gotten called names and told I’m not enough.

I’m not enough, no. None of us are. But I’ve certainly given you more than you deserved. More than Jesus asked me to give you.

I moved here because you promised that I could trust you. It turns out, you lied. But I like it here, and I'm staying. And I’m not bailing you out this time. Or ever again.

I suppose I sound a little angry, and I’ve certainly struggled with anger. But at this point, I’m just DONE. With a capital “D”. I’m looking forward, dreaming of what I want for what’s left of my life. For my children’s lives. And I won’t be entangled by your fear-mongering anymore. You can’t shame me. Your voice isn’t the one I have to serve.

If you don’t like it, take it up with God. He created me. He enabled me to do far more than I ever thought I could. He has so much more for me to do. But He hasn’t told me to get a job.

Maybe you can change His mind?

This Is My Story

I’ve been writing a lot about things that happen behind our closed doors primarily because I felt God nudging me to tell the truth. The last year has been an enlightening one as I opened up to more and more people about the state of this marriage, and as God began to open my eyes to the truth. Some days, I still want to believe that I am – as my husband says – exaggerating. Or being dramatic. Or perhaps this is how everyone lives and I’m just ultra-sensitive. Often, I want to pull back on all this sharing and go back to pretending. I can’t, though. God has changed me.

I don’t want my story to be one of emotional, verbal and spiritual abuse. I want it to be the story of what God can do, how he met me in a deep, dark time and oh, so, slowly opened my eyes and began to reveal himself to me. Looking back to December 2017 and the original job loss (number 8, for the record…but the first in several years), I can honestly say I wasn’t ready to think and feel the things God has me thinking and feeling now. God has placed teachers and friends in my life. He’s given me small commands that seemed big and proven Himself faithful. He’s revealed Himself in scripture again and again, even though the heavens never opened up and angels never sang. The unfolding was so slow I missed it happening, but standing here today, it has surely happened. It's an unfolding I thought was impossible.

We’re a week out from another job loss. My husband has nothing lined up. He had an interview today that he was sure he’d nail and now he doesn’t think he did. He’s been home nearly all week (bless my patience), and yet hasn’t put out any other feelers. This is par for the course with him, and usually I’d be in full-blown panic mode, trying not to spend a cent while taking any and every gig that I could get to cover us.

This time, my heart has shifted from a posture of hoping desperately that my husband will provide to expecting that God will. I know my marriage is broken – that it really never was a marriage in the sense that God intended marriage to be. I don’t know if God plans to work miracles and heal it or work miracles and set us free. I do know that he sees what has happened. He hears what is said. He does not turn a blind eye to what the kids and I have endured. And God promises to both avenge and provide.

Faced with the likelihood of yet more disappointment from my husband, I’m choosing to put my faith in God. He is working, even if my husband isn’t.

I also know that time and time again, I’ve picked up my husband’s burden of provision when he refused to carry it…and I don’t have to do that anymore. I’m doing what God places in front of me, but I won’t be the man and the woman in this marriage anymore. If James steps out, God will step in.

I listened to the post-interview play-by-play tonight and didn’t work myself into a panic. I just let the words pass in one ear and out the other. What God wants, will be. I don’t even know what to ask for or what I want, so I can honestly say, I just want His will. In years past, I spent interviews anxiously playing out all scenarios in my mind. I coached and coaxed and begged. This time, I did nothing. I worked on things I had to work on. I played with the kids at the pool. I hope this is what it means to come to God with open hands. Open to let the unnecessary pass out and open to let the good pour in.

If I had to guess, I’d say my husband is feeling pretty rattled. This is not the Laura he is used to, and he can't figure out how to get me to step in and handle things.

This is not my burden, though. It is not my kids’ burden. We will NOT pick it up ever again. He can either work with God to carry it, or God will take it away.

Several times since that December job loss, I’ve stumbled across Psalm 90:15, where the writer begs God to “Make us glad for as many days as you have afflicted us, for as many years as we have seen trouble.” When it popped up again a few days ago, just after our 14-year anniversary, it became my new prayer. It’s been 14 years, God. Please restore my joy. Teach me how to feel it. Let me live 14 years of peace and joy instead of fear and worry. Whether that’s with my husband or as a single woman is entirely up to God. The other burden I’ve put down is the burden to figure out it. That…belongs to God.

I don’t want my story – my life - to be a story of abuse. I want my story to show what God can do in the darkest of places because he’s done it in mine. I want to show how he can change a mind and a heart without changing circumstances. I want to show that he sets us free in this world and the next, and that His plan is bigger than mine could ever be.

Sleep...or Lack Thereof

My husband didn’t go to work yesterday.

No idea why. His job doesn’t officially end until the end of the month. But for the last few months, he’s been doing around 4 hours in the office and spending the rest of the day resting at home, watching You Tube videos about conspiracy theories and food fads. But yesterday he didn’t go at all.

He was home when we left for swim team, home when we came back, home we went to the team movie outing…and blessedly, not home when we returned. I thought for a minute he went to work, but he actually went shopping. For leisure clothes, of course, which tells me a lot about his future plans.

My heart and stomach actually turn over when the garage door crests a foot and I can see the undercarriage of his car. I never know what I’m going to get, but it definitely means there won’t be peace.

When my husband is home, I can’t exhale. If I need to go to the bathroom, I have to explain why I’m not working. He wants things. Wants to know why I’m not doing more. Creates drama with the kids that I have to reign in so they can get their work done. Creates drama with me. Heaven forbid I decide to lie down and shut my eyes because I’m exhausted…he immediately wakes me up. I’m literally not allowed to rest.

I probably don’t have to tell you what he’s doing. It certainly isn’t laundry, dishes, parenting, or lawn work.

It just recently occurred to me that sleep has become a form of psychological torture for me. I currently have bursitis in my right hip from sleeping exclusively on that side. I’m not allowed to sleep on the other side because I’m not allowed to “breathe” on James. And I can’t sleep on my back because I might snore or gurgle or make some other undesireable noise.  That was my mistake last night. I have no idea what I did, but I woke up at 5am to James yelling at me, “Would you stop doing that? You’re a fucking horse.”

I fled to the couch, which is where I spend roughly half my nights. I get criticized for that, too. For avoiding the marriage bed. Can you blame me?

Yesterday, while my husband didn’t work, I logged several hours at swim team practice, parented, cajoled, put out fires, shuttled kids to activities, made three meals and two snacks, did several loads of laundry, made another impromptu trip to the pool in the evening (his decision), put kids in bed, and finally made myself popcorn and headed upstairs to work for a few more hours. My husband watched a movie and went to bed.

An hour later, I crept into the room, shut the bathroom door before turning on the light, brushed my teeth, turned the bathroom light off before opening the door, found my way to the bed in the dark, removed the pillow sham and turned back the quilt, plugged in my phone and crawled in bed. My husband informed me that I was “just going to have to start going to bed when he does or start sleeping somewhere else because he can’t be having his sleep bothered like this.”

Now, it’s rare that I go to bed before him or get up after him (he hasn’t set an alarm in months), but guess what he does when he comes to bed or gets up? Turns on the overhead light, comments about why the hell I’m in bed (4:15 running wake up call, maybe?), and berates me. Of course, then I’m angry and can’t sleep, so I wind up stewing on the couch for two hours before I finally calm down enough to sleep. If he gets up before me and leaves, he makes sure to leave the overhead light on just to spite. And also to mention how lazy I am, still in bed and all.

I got up before him for a decade, and actually set out my clothes the night before so I wouldn’t disturb him. When I run, I leave my clothes in the laundry room the night before and get dressed down there. I’ve thought about giving him a taste of his own medicine, but it won’t help. It’ll just give him more ammunition to use against me.

I tried to take a nap a few weeks ago, and he came into the room and set off a musical greeting card and then walked away. We’ve quarreled about his excessive sleeping and napping, so sometimes he walks in and says, “Oh…and I’m the one who naps all the time, huh?”  At this point, I’m struggling with severe depression, and I literally need to lie down and close my eyes just to cope. But I can’t do that. It’s taken me until now to realize the toll that the constant sleep interruptions have taken on me. When he leaves for Reserve weekends, the very first thing I do is put on a TV show for the kids and go lie down for 30 minutes. It’s amazing to lie down without feeling the need to defend yourself.

He got up this morning somewhere around 8. I’d already fed all three kids, showered, and gotten the crew ready for swim team. He happily hummed “This Is the Day” as he got ready to go for a leisurely run. He sees no dichotomy between the way he treats me that the way God says to treat people. I was nursing a sleep hangover from the fury the night before.

Just as it took me time to figure out how damaging the sleep torture was, it took me a long time to realized I didn’t deserve it. When you’re told repeatedly how homely you are (remember the fucking horse comment? Not the first time…) you start to think your only choice is accepting that type of behavior or never being married.

I do have to say...the one change over the past year is that I’ve learned to go immediately to God when it happens. “God, do you see this? Do you see how this hurts me? God, please take the burden of my anger. Please defend me, because defending myself gets my nowhere against his lies. How long, God? How long?” I literally envision myself taking off a backpack labeled "Revenge" and handing it to God. I have to trust that He does a better job of this than I do. I haven’t quite learned not to stew about it, but I’m getting better. When I choose to trust that God is acting on my behalf – even though I can’t see evidence of it – I can fall back to sleep faster. I might salvage some joy in the day after. I can find a few glimmers of hope. And I can call my husband's behavior what it is without welling up with hatred. There's growth there, for sure, but I can't help but wonder how much I have to grow before God says "enough" and acts on my behalf. Maybe he already is...

I'm Not Enough (And That's OK)

The meme shows up in my Instagram feed at least three times a day. “You are enough,” it tells the exhausted mom of littles, torn between the demands of her kids, her husband, and her job. “You are enough,” it tells the driven woman who just keeps banging at the glass ceiling that won’t seem to shatter. “You are enough,” it promises the discouraged, the failures.

It’s well-intentioned, designed to be encouraging. It offers the weary an opportunity to rest. It helps us understand that it’s OK to go to bed and try again in the morning.

But it’s wrong. Or maybe it’s just incomplete.

See, I’m not enough. I don’t want the responsibility of being enough. I’m a fallible human in a shell of a body that betrays me. I start with the best of intentions, and some days my anxiety wins. Some days, I watch my children embrace the broken world view that I’ve fought so hard not to pass down. I see my oldest worry whether his body is big enough…good enough…and I realize that he grasped my own insecurities, the ones I tried so hard to hide. I go for a run – the race I trained for months to run – and my body gets sick. I’m twenty minutes slower than I hoped, and I can barely will myself to the finish line. I go to bed without cleaning the dishes in the sink. I put off the work project because I’m so frightened of failing that I can’t find a way to get started. On the 22^nd hour of trying to soothe the colicky baby, I put him in his crib, lock myself in the bathroom, and join him in screaming.

I am well-intentioned and hard-working, but I am not – and never will be – enough. I am, as Paul puts it, a “jar of clay”, prone to cracking, breaking, and crumbling.

Fortunately, my story doesn’t end there. And neither does yours.

I am not enough. You are not enough. But God? God is absolutely enough.

He has a way of taking the shattered remains of my striving and binding them together into something more beautiful than I imagined. He takes my halting first steps and multiplies them into a marathon. He stretches my “not enough” into more than enough. He makes all things beautiful in His time. His power is made perfect in weakness.

It takes a great deal of faith to relinquish control of our outcome to an unseen God, but the freedom I find there is indescribable. When I accept that God uses – and welcomes – my weakness, I find the freedom to start the scary project because I don’t have to control the outcome. I can trust it to God. When I trust God to order my steps, I can make my best decisions with confidence. I can relinquish the pressure of raising perfect children, choosing instead to point my children toward Him and letting Him complete the process.

When I leave the “enough-ness” to God, I can finally take the scary first steps.

Forgiving

This post - originally written in December 2018 - was a pretty significant realization for me. The idea that my God will fight for me, and that he might have a different end goal than my own, was life-changing. I wish I'd understood forgiveness from this standpoint sooner.

It doesn't mean that I'm going to stick around a tolerate the behavior that's become the norm, but it has changed my perspective on justice and my relationship to a God who promises to fight my battles.
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I have three children, and I’m constantly amazed by how much they fight.

As an only child, I suppose I knew in theory that siblings fight, but I was quite unprepared for the theory to become practical. Not only are the battles/squabbles/world wars constant, but the cruelty my babies are capable of came as a complete shock.

When I formed my opinions of parenting – long before I had children myself – I assumed that the parent’s role in these squabbles was cut and dry. I imagined I would intervene, punish the guilty party, and comfort the innocent.

Those of you who are parents are laughing because you know it’s rarely that simple. Simply establishing who started it – whatever “it” is – can take the better part of the day. And punishment isn’t so simple. Often, the motivation for meanness is rooted in deeper hurts and fears. The child who smashed her brother’s lego creation, for example, feels left out and is afraid she’ll never be a part of her big brother’s world. As a mama who wants, first and foremost, for my children to know they are precious and beloved, I can’t just punish the crime. I need to change behavior in such a way that restores the offending party to the fold.

Of course, this type of parenting takes time and wisdom, and unfortunately, I’m only human. Often, while I’m comforting and restoring, the offended party takes matters into its own hands. For example, the builder of the now smashed legos might get tired of mommy talking and decide to establish justice by punching his sister in the gut. Now, as a parent, I have an even larger job. There are now two guilty parties: the one that was mean in the first place, and the one that didn’t trust me to finish the job correctly.

This past year, my own life was turned upside down. A betrayal, either by someone close to me or another person I don’t even know, destroyed everything I’d worked on for years. Worse, I don’t know -and probably never will – anything near the whole story. In the very real grief that followed, I found myself fantasizing revenge, but I could never figure out where that revenge should be directed. Was the person I don’t even know the liar? Or the person I know and want to believe, but who has shown me that honesty isn’t a priority. I would go out for mental health runs, and as I replayed possible revenge scenarios in my mind, it would literally feel like someone kicked me in the chest. Four or five mile runs became one or two. My fight for my own justice was literally draining the strength from my body.

One night, as I dug into a book outlining the impact of our thought lives on our bodies, a single truth jumped off the page. “Maybe your prayers aren’t being answered because the sin of unforgiveness is separating you from God.”

The sin of unforgiveness.

It feels unfair, almost. To be a victim first, and then condemned because you’re angry about it.

But the more I read about unforgiveness and how it sabotages our minds and bodies, the more I realized that forgiveness wasn’t what I thought it was. It wasn’t, for example, hunkering down to let people walk all over me. And it wasn’t pretending that what other people did wasn’t right.

Rather, forgiveness means handing over my right to fight for justice – literally handing off that burden that had been crushing me everywhere I went – and letting God pick it up. As I sat there – in the tub, no less – I could hear a voice say, “How’s the revenge thing working out for you? Have you managed to get any justice? Why don’t you let me fight for you instead?”

Forgiveness means acknowledging that we mess up, big time, and we want that grace and mercy. We want to be restored. God is asking me to hand over my right to fitting revenge so that He can seek restoration of all parties. I don’t know what that will look like, or if I’ll even see evidence of it this side of heaven, but I do not that the battle is not mine to fight. The burden was simply too heavy.

When I made that decision to hand my unforgiveness over to God, I felt literal, immediate peace. I did feel lighter. Of course, very quickly I found myself presented with another situation where I had to forgive…and another…and another. I’ve become quite the regular in my war room, handing over my hurts and my battles again and again.

I don’t have the big picture. I can’t say that God swooped down and struck down my enemies. Of course, His goal for them is restoration, too. His timing is not my own.

What I can tell you is that the peace of stepping into God’s obedience was worth it. I wasn’t getting anywhere on my own. It’s time to let him fight these battles for me.

On Force

Over the past few years, I've written quite a bit about my marriage. I never published most of it, in part because of the fury I knew it would draw from my husband. The first rule of marriage, which I learned about a month before I married him, is that you must keep secrets. Everyone has secrets.

Certainly I also feared the affect it would have on his employment status, and our ability to make ends meet each month. Slowly but surely, however, I'm learning that keeping his secrets doesn't guarantee an income...it only enables behavior that must be confronted and ended.

Since I've taken the step to share the truth with some trusted people in my circle, I've decided to post some of those old blog posts here, on my personal and mostly unread blog. There's something about having them "out there" that feels freeing. The two previous posts fall into that category; they sat as "drafts" for several years. The post that follows is the same. I was shocked to realize Violet was only two when I wrote this. It has been TWO YEARS, yet nothing has changed.

Nothing.

I suppose part of telling this story is reminding myself that it's true. There are times when our lives aren't terrible. Times when he is engaging and fun. Times when he emerges from the closed office door and reads a story or wrestles. Those times play tricks on my mind, but at the end of the day they fail to atone for the consistent cruelty that's always just around the corner.

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I was working my way through a yoga workout after a week of intense weight-lifting and soreness. I’m never flexible, and on Sunday morning, I was struggling with severe pain in my back. I also had to go to the bathroom, but there were only ten minutes left. I decided to push through.

I sat on the ground, leaning into a stretch, straining with both hands down toward my left foot. I’m sure it was laughable, but I felt the stretch in that sore – maybe injured – back. And my stomach gurgled.

My husband said something about me not being flexible, walked over, and pressed down on my back. The sore spot between my shoulder blades screamed. My stomach screamed. Just because your body can bend under pressure doesn’t mean it should. I asked him to let go.

He didn’t.

He pressed harder. I started to panic. I don’t know that anyone else has ever forcefully touched me…refusing to release when asked. I felt trapped. I raised my voice. “Get off me.”

Until this point, I felt like it was a fair mistake. He likely thought he was helping me become more limber. Maybe he thought he needed to push me further than I thought I could be pushed. Perhaps he was thinking like a coach, trying to get me to the next level.

I do think good people make mistakes with boundaries.

But when I yelled, he didn’t apologize. He did let go, thank goodness. But he screamed at me. Swore. “You are such a bitch. Such a miserable bitch.” There was more. I rarely remember exact words anymore because the soundtrack has been the same, with increasing intensity, for twelve years now. But something to the effect that I have ruined his life, and I am worthless and miserable…a ruiner of life for everyone.

Then he left the room.

My two-year-old daughter, who was “helping” me with my workout (read: sitting on my lap while I tried to do the moves around her), stared in shock, then burst into tears.

Because I didn’t know what else to say, I told her, “Don’t ever let anyone touch you without permission. Your body is yours. Anyone who can’t respect that doesn’t deserve to be in your life.” She cried harder.

Even at two, she knew it was wrong. Even at two.

What can I tell her when she’s older? That our family court system will surely assign split custody? That letting her and her brothers navigate their father’s moods unsupervised is unconscionable to me? That I stay because I can’t let them fend for themselves?

Life seems cut and dry until you find yourself – and your children – in the mess. There’s no good option in this …just pushing forward and hoping for a breakthrough. Or at least limitations on the collateral damage.

Life With a Narcissist

As a long-time reader of People Magazine, I remember vividly when someone asked Christie Brinkley how she was doing during her divorce, and she responded, "Just google 'divorcing a narcissist.'" Oh, how I wish I'd done some Googling...before I got married.

I was halfway through a HIIT workout when my husband came downstairs. He mumbled something that I didn’t hear, so mid-way through an ab set, I grunted, “What?”

“What???? Gosh, you’re just so sweet and pleasant, Laura. I’m so glad I’m married to you.”

It almost sounded like a compliment, but for the tone of voice. He stalked out of the room, and my muscles gave out, my cheek coming to a rest on the rough wool rug.

I’d like to say things got better, and it seemed at first like they might. He complimented Caleb for helping make breakfast and praised Violet for using the potty. Then I took Violet with me to pick up the groceries, and left the boys at home. When I got back, he was still sitting in the same recliner, and the boys were itching to go outside. I can’t begin to describe the apocalypse that would have happened if I had been the one in my underwear in the recliner, but obviously rules are different for men. I told the boys they could stay in the driveway while I brought in the groceries, but Violet had to stay inside. Because she’s two, you know, and she needs someone to watch her at all times. She didn’t take that news well and the tears began to flow.

James came out to the garage and told her he’d stay out there while she played. I thought maybe he was going to play nice. I was dragging in the groceries, but I found the sunscreen and took it out to him. “Can you please put this on her?” I asked. He is the parent who is hysterical about sun exposure, to the point of fighting me about the pool membership because the kids would be in the sun too much.

“I don’t know how to do that,” he snarled. I was kind of surprised by the ferocity of his response. It seemed to come out of nowhere.

“Just spray it on her,” I responded, and I put the sunscreen bottle on the trunk of his car.

“DON’T PUT SHIT ON MY CAR!” he bellowed.

“But you’re the one who’s always worried about sun exposure and I have cold food that has to be put…”

“I SAID, DON’T PUT SHIT ON MY CAR!

I fled inside.

Moments later, Eli appeared, asking for a washcloth and soap. “I’m putting food away. Why do you need a washcloth?”

“Dad says my neck is dirty because you don’t wash me well enough. He says I need to wash it off.” I looked. His necked looked tan to me…not dirty. And Eli, at 7, showers by himself. I’ve coached him through the process a number of times and, well, he’s 7. Sometimes he does better than others. I wiped his neck with a wet paper towel.

“Looks fine to me,” I told him.

Eli disappeared outside, but moments later he was back. “Dad says it’s still dirty. I need a washcloth and soap.”

“Then go get one from the bathroom. You know where to find that stuff.”

James reappeared in the house, with the other two kids. He was furious. “He has dirt caked on his neck. You don’t bathe him well enough.”

He stormed upstairs after Eli, and moments later Eli reappeared with a bright red neck. Aside from the red, there was no difference in the skin, but he was certainly well-scoured. I can only imagine how that went down, since Eli is so ticklish that he falls apart when I put lotion on his neck and shoulders.

“You have to teach him how to bathe!” James bellowed.

“I did. And he…”

“No you didn’t. You just throw them in there and sit around and do nothing while they shower themselves.”

“I don’t do nothing. I’m bathing Violet. You can handle bath time, then. If you’re going to criticize, you need to handle it yourself.”

“I did handle it…when Eli was a baby! You like to forget that!”

“I don’t forget that, but that was over seven years ago. And now you’re criticizing, so you need to handle it.”

“You don’t ever do anything. You sit around here and don’t do anything. You like to brag about your $1000 a month that you make. Do you know how little that is, after you pay taxes? It doesn’t pay anything. I pay for the house, for the food, for the gas and electric. You just spend your money on stupid fun stuff like a pool so you can lounge around and do nothing. You don’t do shit. You should be a little more grateful for the life I provide for you.”

He made sure I was crying, and stalked upstairs. Half an hour later, he was back. “Good luck supporting three kids on your thousand dollars a month. You’ll be living on food stamps, in government housing. You won’t be doing all the fun things you like to do.”

And here we are again. James conveniently ignores the years I spent working 2-3 jobs while he was taking grad school classes and working out. And he conveniently ignores the year he was out of work and I marched back to work far too early after having Caleb because, frankly, I was the sole provider. He also conveniently forgets that we still paid childcare for two kids while he was out of work because he refused to watch the boys, and how I still did all the cleaning, cooking, and nighttime parenting. Because, you know, he coached freshman track. So he was doing SOMETHING.

Over and over, he reminds me that teaching isn’t a real job. That I got three months off in the summer. (I worked several jobs every summer until I had kids, when the cost of childcare no longer supported it.) He forgets to mention that I gave up a tenured teaching job that paid really well when we moved down here. For the job he just HAD to have.

He tells me I’m cold and unemotional with the kids. He claims I never hug them or love on them. He claims I’m brainwashing them. Why? Because I tell them, “This is not how a man should treat a woman.” It’s the only thing I know to do.

When I was sobbing uncontrollably, and Violet was sobbing uncontrollably because of it, he muttered, “Oh, so you’re going to make a scene out of this, are you?” Because a real man makes a woman cry, then accuses her of manipulation.

I would like to leave, but I haven’t because I’m quite certain a family court judge would give him partial custody. He looks good on paper, and he can be charming if he wants to be. He is perfectly capable of controlling his vicious temper if he wants to. He doesn’t. The thought of my children having to navigate his moods without someone to speak truth to them is more than I can bear. So I stay. At least I can tell Eli, “You are fearfully and wonderfully made” when his father picks on his size. Because yes, he does treat the kids just as badly as he treats me. He screams at them and swears at them. Today, he hollered, “I’m not going to let you raise my sons to be fags.” All because I let them play in the shallow end of the pool instead of demanding that they go off the diving board. It scares them. I believe in letting kids work their way up to conquering their fears. He’s downstairs right now pretending to be super dad, trying to love up the kids so they think I’m the crazy one. But Eli knows, and so does Violet. I worry the most about Caleb. He wants his dad’s affection so badly, he’ll believe anything.

Trust me, this is only the tip of the iceberg. No, he’s never hit me…but my mom, who has seen how quickly he flies into a violent rage, is sure he will. And sometimes I wish he would; it is easier to prove physical abuse in a court of law. The effects of a decade of emotional abuse are more elusive.

I’ll never judge a woman for staying, and I’ll never judge a woman for leaving. For every set of “irreconcilable differences”, there’s someone else like me, fighting and praying for the truth to set her free.  I’ve remained mostly silent all these years because, frankly, it’s embarrassing. I mean, I fell for this man. I married him. I had no idea people like this existed, but I still bear the responsibility of my choice. I mean, who wants to say, “Yep, I was young and dumb.”

But I feel like I need to start telling my story. My husband will go crazy if he finds out, but you know what? Evil prospers in the darkness. I’m not keeping his secrets anymore. I’m throwing open the doors and letting in the light. If the light reveals that I am, in fact, unlovable, a terrible wife, deserving of this life I’ve lived, then so be it. I’m just tired of living the lie.

It Is Better Than This

Today my husband, who has never met a vegetable he didn’t hate, decided that we (yes, WE) are going to do a Daniel fast starting on the 1^st. I’ve explained my hypoglycemia to him approximately 500 times since then, but apparently I am crazy for thinking I need the protein I get from eggs and meat. He is furious with me for “not supporting” him, furious that I “won’t even try it.” I did try it. In my twenties. I was so sick the doctor thought I was having panic attacks and put me on Lexapro. When my friend’s dad (also a doc) showed me how to portion my meals and eat protein snacks every few hours, I felt like a whole new person. I am never going back to how I felt in those awful months. Why would I?

I also know that when I totally give up sugar, I binge when I’m finished. And I know that short-lived challenges don’t produce lasting change. I make lifestyle changes in ways that I can manage long-term, and it pays off. I feel absolutely no calling to do this Daniel fast. I do feel ready to tackle training for another half-marathon, boosting the amounts of healthy vegetables I consume, and creating a schedule for my life that involves waking to an alarm an hour before the kids get up to go a short workout and read the Bible.

Oh, but starting tonight, I’m not allowed to have my cell phone plugged in next to my bed anymore. My cell phone is my alarm.

No, I don’t use it in bed. I don’t check it first thing in the morning. The volume isn’t on, and there’s no light. (His volume is on, his light is on, and sometimes he checks it at 4am when he can’t sleep because he took a marathon nap the day before. But whatever.) I am 38 years old, I’ve single-handedly kept three children alive through the baby stage, I worked successfully as a teacher for 14 years, and I run my own business. But I can’t make my own decisions about my cell phone.

Eff him.

That’s what I should have said twelve years ago when he berated me for half an hour because I put a closed, room-temperature bottle of water on his precious bedroom furniture. Let me repeat: it was sealed. Room temperature. Not a chance in hell of condensation from that sucker, but he was sure it would leave a ring and ruin the dresser. He didn’t ask nicely either, he pointed out all the ways I didn’t respect the value of the dollar or his stuff. He made me out to be completely worthless. I was shocked that someone was speaking to me that way, especially someone without a job and living in his grandpa’s ramshackle rental house. I should have put on my stilettos and walked out that door, but I didn’t.

I should have walked when I told me he loved me after one week and then took it back the next day. I should have walked out every time we battled over my desire to wait for marriage to have sex. I should have walked out when he told me he was concerned because the rental house I shared with two friends was kind of dirty, and he liked a “clean house”…while standing in the middle of his own house that looked kind of like a frat boy’s room on a bad night. I should have walked when I had a terrible day at work and he told me men like to come home to a happy, perky wife. (In his case, he still wasn’t working, so really I was coming home to him. And he is never happy or perky. But whatever.)

I could go on and on. I could tell you how my five-year-old won’t quit saying hate, and I couldn’t figure out where he was getting that word until the trip home from Ohio where my husband screamed at me repeatedly: “I fucking hate you! I fucking hate you!” Certainly that isn’t the first time he’s said it, but I’m kind of desensitized from years of verbal abuse. Caleb is also toying around with the “F” word…probably because it seems so effective when Daddy uses it.

I could tell you about how he berates my oldest son for being a sensitive soul. I could tell you how he tells my daughter to shut the fuck up, how he says in front of her that all women cry really well for attention, even though I personally gave it up long ago. I could tell you how I would leave tonight if I could be sure that a family court judge would understand the power of emotional and verbal abuse and give me full custody. I can’t, and I also can’t send them to live with their father every weekend when I can’t be there to protect them. So I stay.

On the off chance that you are reading this and not yet married, let me tell you the things you should be looking out for, things I overlooked in those early months of dating because I was truly afraid no one would ever want to marry me.

I should have paid attention to the way he tipped. If he is stingy with the people who serve him, he will be stingy to you. You shouldn’t have to be embarrassed by the way he tips your servers. And pay attention to the way he treats his mother and his grandmother, even (especially) if they annoy him. Does he hang up on them while they’re still talking? Does he call them names? Does he say they’re crazy when they’re sick instead of showing concern for their well-being? Then run. Because it won’t be long until you are the one annoying him.

And how does he argue? Does he listen to you? Like, really hear you? Or does he just tell you why you’re wrong? A narcissist is always, always right…even when presented with a mountain of evidence to the contrary. I have not really been heard in over a decade, and there’s no sign of that changing. That ten-thousand dollar wedding isn’t worth it.

Look, too, at how he handles household responsibilities. Does he do his own chores, does he help you cook (or at least clean up)? Or does he sit on the couch and watch TV while you work. If he does that now, he’ll continue when you have kids and I promise, you’ll resent it. The eternal adolescence of the American male is destroying marriages, because after all, who in their right mind wants to be married to a teenage boy? Ugh.

If you are moving forward as a couple and making decisions together, are you an equal part in those decisions, or does he badger you until you come around. Does he agree to disagree? Does he focus his attention on changing himself or on changing you? A normal, healthy person will embark on a Daniel fast individually and invite the other person to be involved. A narcissist will tell you that you’ve stopped losing weight and you need to do something about it…and then bully you until you give in.

And when you disagree, how does he handle it? Does he continue to affirm his love for you, or does he call you an ever-worsening barrage of nasty names. Are strong women “bitches” or “leaders”? Does he consider women leaders or followers? Does he make generalizations about all women? When you are rightfully frustrated with him, does he accuse you of being on the rag? All of these are signs to lace up your running shoes.

Grace has given me three children that I love dearly in spite of my mistakes, but it truly sucks to raise children while using their father as an example of how not to act. At least once a day, I have to ask my sons how their father’s behavior makes them feel, in hopes of helping them see the consequences of unbridled rage. You don’t want to do that. You don’t want to be me. You want to be free to have a brain and use it. You want to be in a marriage partnership, not a marriage dictatorship. You want a husband who is brokenhearted when he hurts you, not one who accuses you of crying to make him feel bad.

And what if that guy never comes along? Well, stay single. I promise you. It is better than this.

Grace and Truth

I grew up in a version of the church that talked a lot about grace without actually believing it. God forgives our sins, BUT if we keep sinning, clearly we aren’t sincere in our faith. God forgives our sins, but we still have to sleep in the bed we made. God forgives our sins, but only the sins we committed before we believed in him.

As you can imagine, the focus on my spiritual life wasn’t God. It was perfection. And when your focus is perfection, eventually you’ll fail. And when you fail, there’s no safe place to fall, so shame tells you to put up a front, flog yourself daily, and get to work trying to fix the harm you did.

My church also talked a lot about marriage, and how hard it was supposed to be, and how the woman was supposed to submit and suffer long because that was her lot in life. Everyone was expected to get married, and if the person you married deceived you…well, that was on you, too.

I cannot ever remember reading the verse in Ephesians that follows the one about wives submitting…you know, the one about husbands loving their wives more than life itself (Ephesians 5:25). When I read that at 40, I was absolutely floored. I thought the husband did what he felt was best and that “best” usually came at the expense of the woman and kids. I had no idea what love should look like.

My 20’s found me floundering. I’d never had much luck with boyfriends, and I felt tremendous pressure to be married so I could be a “real” person. A colleague introduced me to her brother-in-law, who was returning to the area after four years in the Air Force. He was good-looking, intense, and seemed to be heading down a very successful road. I figured this was it.

There were massive red flags, but of course no one ever told me how a man should treat me. He was selfish, his temper flared over the most insignificant things, his expectations of his new job were unrealistic and he quickly resigned. He mostly spent that summer playing, and he expected me to pay for most of it. He was controlling. He fought with my parents. He wanted me to turn my life inside out for him, and he wanted it to happen on my dime. His philosophy in life was best summed up as "What's in it for me?"

I was confused. He forced me to apologize for things I hadn’t done. He professed his love for me and took it back the next day. From day to day, hour to hour, I never knew what he would say or do.

He professed to be a Christian, but he felt sexual purity was an antiquated notion. “No one actually waits for marriage,” he insisted. I resisted. He persisted. When he got into a fight with his grandpa and had to move out of the home he was renting (for free), he insisted on moving in with me. I was afraid of losing him and I caved. I caved on the sex eventually, too. And then shame moved in and took over.

Shame told me I was damaged. After we had sex, he told me he had an STD that he hadn’t revealed before. He seemed remorseful, and besides, I knew no one else would want me. Shame told me to fix my mess, so I married him. I married the man who told me he didn’t understand why people with money would get married. I mean, if you have everything, why get married? He didn’t have everything – or anything, really – so he married me.

When he lost jobs, I took on more. When babies came and he refused to help or couldn’t cope with the crying, I stepped up to the plate. When he raged at me for all my imperfections, I worked harder to get everything done. I resented him and felt that he wasn’t doing his share, but my upbringing had told me over and over than any married person will feel like they’re giving 90% while the other only gives 10. No one had mentioned a 100/0 split, but I figure it worked out the same. Either way, I had to hide my sexual sin from my parents and the world, so I kept scrubbing the outside of the house and making excuses and doing more.

It took almost 14 years for someone to explain to me that what I was experiencing was abuse. It took 14 years for someone to suggest that I was precious to God regardless of my decisions and my past. It took 14 years before I realized that my husband did not love me, that he possibly wasn’t capable of loving anything or anyone. And even as those realizations crept in, I stopped short of begging God to fix it. After all, Jesus died to forgive sinners, but in my mind, my sin didn’t count. It happened after I knew God. I knew better and chose anyway.

A huge part of healing is staring down the past unflinchingly. It was physically painful, but the more I sat in God’s presence and listened, the more I began to understand where I went wrong. And yes, I realize that no one EVER deserves to be abused. I did, however, make a mistake that helped me fall prey, and it’s important to recognize our mistakes so we can try to avoid repeating them. The act – sex before marriage – was actually symptom of a deeper issue. I didn’t trust God. I believed in Him. I believed he could do miracles. But I didn’t believe he wanted to do miracles for me.

Since I didn’t trust him with the desires of my heart, I wasn’t willing to wait for God to provide. Instead, a man appeared who flattered me and took interest in me, and I “took” my own blessing. Not unlike Sarah, who thought perhaps God had forgotten to provide an heir and gave Hagar to her husband instead, I figured I would have to go out and get what I wanted.

Furthermore, that command about sex isn’t there to ruin us. It’s there to protect us. My husband’s refusal to honor a Biblical command should have be a clear warning sign that he wasn’t under the headship of Christ. Friends, you can love Jesus and say the right things and look like an amazing Christian, but someone who trusts God and lives under his headship will obey the Bible. Even the hard stuff. What I know now, as I work through the hard journey of obeying God through forgiveness, is that God’s commands are always for our own good, even if they seem archaic and unrealistic. If we’ll lean in and obey, He’ll meet us there. But at 26, I didn’t know. I didn’t think I was valuable anyway. I certainly couldn’t afford to be choosy.

At 26, I was afraid to stand still and wait. Life was passing me by. At 40, life is still passing me by, and I’m still afraid to stand still and wait, but I’m doing it. I have young children now, and I understand just a tiny glimmer of how God parents us. I tell them all the time, when they try to dart out in traffic or hide from me in a rack of clothes at Kohl’s, that I need them to obey me so I can protect them. That “WAIT!” is to keep them from becoming a pancake under an SUV. That “Stay close to me,” helps me make sure the people they encounter are safe. Of course, I’m fallible. But God isn’t. If my children should trust me, how much more should I trust God?

I’ve learned so much, but I’m still knee-deep in the consequences of my sin. In spite of my sin, God blessed me with three amazing babies. But now we’re all trapped in this cycle of verbal and emotional abuse. The cycle of revolving jobs and constantly wondering if we’ll be provided for keeps us all on edge. We never know what will trigger an outburst of his temper.

I’ve met with a divorce lawyer, and unfortunately our family court system will do little to nothing to protect women and children from abuse that can’t be documented with bruises. I think I could muster the courage to leave, quit homeschooling, and return to work in a new field, but I can’t wrap my mind around sending my kids on overnight visits with a father who likely won’t care for them if they get sick at night, who can’t be bothered to follow laws about carseats, who doesn’t see the harm his temper does to his children’s spirits, who speaks lie after lie over them and then turns into fun, playful dad on a dime, leaving them just as confused as I was in the early days.

Obviously I’ve spent a lot of time mulling over our predicament, turning it over in my mind, pondering what sacrifice will be required to atone for my sins and set us free. And then it FINALLY hit me: that grace God gives, the grace that promises to completely erase our sins? That’s for me.

I fought it for a little bit. This is not something I did before I knew you, God. In fact, this is something I did when I was finally starting to wrap my mind around how much you loved me. I was right on the threshold, and I chose to turn away and do my own thing.

And a still, small voice said, “This. This is exactly why I died. For you. For the sin you’ve suffered for since you were 26. You don’t have to whitewash it and cover it up. That’s shame telling you to do that, not me. Look deeply into your past, let me help you learn from it, and hand it over to me. My grace is sufficient…even for this. Especially for this.”

And do you know what grace does? It gives you the permission to tell your story, even if your mom and the perfect people in the church hear it. It gives you the permission to tell your friends and your pastor what really happens behind closed doors. It gives you the permission to say you don’t know what to do next, that you feel pretty trapped and exhausted and useless. It gives you permission to pray that the deep, deep hurt that controls your husband will somehow lose its hold, so your kids don’t have to live through divorce, while simultaneously praying that God will do anything necessary to let you live the next fourteen years of your life with joy, not constant crippling anxiety. Grace helps you realize the secrets you’ve been told to keep for over a decade aren’t serving God, and it’s safe to throw open the doors and windows and let in the light. Grace promises to protect and provide for you, regardless of what your husband does. Grace promises to speak for you, when the man in front of you hears you beg him to be kind and tells you you’re an entitled bitch.

Grace gives you permission to quit holding it in and let the tears flow. It gives you permission to be weak. It gives you the audacity to hope, even though, especially because, you aren’t perfect.

I’ve served perfection for long enough, and it’s gotten me nowhere but trapped. I’d rather serve my good, good Father. I'll take grace any day. I wish I'd accepted it sooner.