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.