In case you were wondering, nothing has changed.
No rivers in the desert. No manna from heaven. No peaceful places for a meal and a sleep. No ravens, even. Nothing.
James is still working from home, which means he pops out of his office constantly to fry bacon, fry ground beef, eat food and leave the wrappers lying around, scold me for making food with sugar, scold the kids for being messy, scold the kids for being loud, ask me what on earth I’m doing all day, scold me for breathing, complain about the dog, ask why the hell he’s supporting me in my sloth, demand that I quit vacuuming because it’s too loud while pointing out the fish bowl that needs cleaning, the lunch bag he found in the garage with pizza still in it, and the mud on the floor that shouldn’t be tracked in and needs to be cleaned up.
“Why hasn’t that been done yet? This house is going to hell in a handbasket? What on earth were you doing all morning? Why are the kids outside and not doing school? Are they learning anything at all or just driving all over town to music lessons and swim team practice?”
I’ve learned by now that sticking up for myself only causes a big fight, which is exactly what he wants. And I’m so wrecked internally at this point that I just shut down. My eyes glaze over, I stare straight ahead, and I purse my lips. I do not dignify his attacks with a response.
For the record, that makes him very angry. Very.
Today, I was making cookies (Violet’s request) while they played outside before round two of school. He started in about the fish tank and the lunch bag (I threw it away, btw…the whole bag…I have a lot more to throw away, too...including the marriage). I had been vacuuming for an hour before I started cooking, but he didn’t notice the floor. Only the noise.
His rage intensified as I stared into the mixer. “I don’t know why the hell I’m busting my butt to provide for all of you. I get ABSOLUTELY NOTHING out of it. No gratitude. No respect. Just your horrible, disrespectful attitude. You won’t talk to me. You won’t have sex with me, and when you do, you won’t act like you enjoy it. You won’t even cook for me anymore. If I’m going to have to cook for myself and find someone else to listen to me, then you need to get out. You want to be part of the single moms club? Go ahead. But I’m getting my own checking account. The money is going to stop coming, sweetheart. What are you going to do then? And I’m keeping the house because it’s MINE. Paid for with MY MONEY while you sat on your ass. Your huge ass. You won’t event tell my where you’re going. You just leave and drive around for eight hours a day, doing god knows what, having a good time. You just used me to get you pregnant. You got what you wanted, didn’t you, whore? You’re gonna go be a revolving door for boyfriends now? A welfare mom? Good luck to you. Just get out now.”
It went on for twenty minutes. I can’t remember it all, which is normal. At a certain point, I black out.
I walked out to the deck and the kids knew right away something was wrong. And they knew right away it was dad. But I’m not supposed to let them see me hurt, so I walked outside the fence toward the woods behind our house. I couldn’t stop crying, and I called the police non-emergency line. I stammered something to the effect of, “My husband won’t stop harassing me, and I don’t know what to do..” and she cut me off. “I need to transfer you,” she said. The phone rang and rang, the kids on the other side of the fence wondered aloud where mommy was and what she was doing, James came outside and started asking the kids questions about where I’d gone (because apparently “get out” doesn’t actually mean get out). And the call cut off. The police won’t even talk to me.
Eventually we came back inside and finished school, with me choking up over and over again while I read about Alabama, and the kids asking again and again why I was so upset. I want desperately to cry – hard – but I can’t. It will scare them. It will scare other people. I. Can’t.
In addition to my failed call to the police, I’ve talked to three lawyers now. The third one never bothered to call back to set up a consultation. I found a house I could afford, but the loan officer never returned my call either. Safe on Seven, the local resource for domestic violence, was very apologetic and assured me that the treatment was so, so wrong…but warned me that I was unlikely to get a restraining order for emotional and verbal violence. The refusal to let me sleep could be harassment, she asserted, but the risk is that he’ll know I filed for a restraining order and it won’t be granted and then I’ll have to live with something worse. It can always get worse.
The rental home market is impossibly expensive. Buying a home is impossible because I’m a freelancer with irregular income. Even working has become impossible in the life where I’m not allowed to stay up late at night or get up early in the morning or sleep on the couch because the man might not be able to harass me for sex. Working is “staring at facebook” and working for the church is “being taken advantage of.” I’m both expected to produce an impossibly large salary and expected to do it without ever leaving the house or turning on my computer. I’m supposed to be emaciated, but I’m not allowed to exercise. I’m supposed to be a Biblical, submissive wife who goes to bed with her husband and stays there until he wakes up (but not a moment later) who also miraculously works a full-time job while homeschooling the children, maintaining a spotless house, and preparing three meals a day – on time – that meet the specifications of my husband’s current eating disorder.
And all I want to do is die.
I have exhausted every resource I know to go to. I cannot wrap my mind around living in a shelter. We are bleeding and damaged…we need safety and protection. I cannot fathom crashing in someone else’s home…I am too damaged to share any kind of intimacy with anyone. I turn over options in my mind over and over again, but there are none. Mention you’re married to a narcissist and even the shark lawyers don’t want to get involved. The best loan officers can’t work miracles. It takes me days to find the emotional energy and privacy to make even one of these phone calls, and no one calls me back.
The way I see it, I have two choices: I can stay here until I die, or I can speed up the process.
My children have suffered more than they even know. They will suffer more, but I can’t prevent it. The courts will see to that. But maybe I won’t have to watch it. The other night, I watched him stroke Violet's butt, then squeeze it. It makes me think that the predatory sexual inclinations didn't stop with the woman he got fired for. Obviously he doesn't understand consent. I can personally attest to that. But the courts will make me send her to him - unsupervised - over an over again.
Everyone feels bad, but no one can do anything. Not. A. Thing.
And don’t get me started on God.
I could make it if He would at least meet me in relationship. If my prayers didn’t bounce off the ceiling. If he’d just throw me a scrap. I’ve begged and begged for Him to open my eyes to the ways He is working. I have repented of my unbelief. I have acknowledged that my life might be nothing but pain, and that would be OK if I could just have Him.
Nothing.
I believe in God. I believe he is good. But not to me.
Maybe His intention for me is that my death will bring awareness to the other women and children living in this hell. Maybe that’s my purpose.
Redemption – earthside, at least - does not seem to be part of my story. I’ve waited 15 years. I’ve tried to get out. Maybe not hard enough, but where, pray tell, am I supposed to find that energy?
I have read my Bible cover to cover. I have earnestly sought Him. I can’t even crack the thing anymore. Why bother? It made me hope. Hope will destroy you faster and more efficiently than despair.
I went to counseling for THREE years. My counselor moved to a private practice that doesn’t take Medicaid. Friends have offered to find recs for other counselors, but I’ve done that before. The waiting list for financial aide is three years. I can’t spend money. I can’t leave the kids here while I go, even if their father is present. But I can’t take them with me. Thanks to Covid, they can’t go to anyone’s house…and if they did, I’d be in trouble with their father.
I've prayed. And begged. And listened. And prayed some more. In two years, I heard one thing. One.
I know we don’t get to judge God or His ways, but I’m saying I’d be satisfied with enough of His presence and assurance to feel loved.
Nothing.
I have to assume that I’m the problem.
No daddy would let his daughter be treated this way, right?
I have actually begged God to take me. Put me out of my misery. If I’m the problem, why make me hang around?
Nothing.
I tried.
I tried for fifteen years.
There’s nothing left of me. Nothing left to try.
