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.
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