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?