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.