Monthly Archives: May 2016

Dear You

Letting Go, That Fateful Day

We’ve had a rough go of it, this marriage of ours.  We weren’t exactly set up for success right off the bat, with all we were up against even in our first few years. It wasn’t all bad. It wasn’t all hard. We truly loved each other (or at least I know that I truly loved you).  You make me laugh, you always have.  This life we’ve built has certainly been a roller coaster.  Our highs are wonderful, but our lows are oh so low.  Low and painful and scary.

Exactly 1 week ago, probably right about this time, I was sitting on our bed with our sons, trying to figure out how to tell them that their dad might not ever be coming home.  What I ended up telling them left it open for the possibility of your return, but in my head and in my heart, I truly didn’t know if that would ever happen.  In reality, I didn’t even know if you would wake up, and if you did, whether or not you would complete the plans you were plotting mere hours before.

I mourned you that day.  I cried to the point the tears stopped coming. I was dried up. I tried to figure out how I was going to tell your sister. I was angry. I was sad. I was confused. I was scared.  Not just for you, but for whoever was about to unknowingly walk into your plans to somehow end your life.  I sobbed at the thought of an unsuspecting police officer forever carrying the weight of being the one to shoot you and likely kill you.  I wondered if your kids would ever learn the truth about how their dad really died. I will never forget that day.

But.

You didn’t die that day.

That sentence is usually ended with a different sort of punctuation.  However, for the next 2 days I lived in a home where there were loaded weapons, loaded magazines, and handguns (ammo status unknown) in my basement.  In the home where our children lived.  Weapons who’s original intent was to ultimately cause your death (or based on your offer, maybe the intent was for my death?) in some way or another.  This past week has been filled with moments of “is this my life?!” I still struggle to wrap my mind around the reality of the last 7 days, not to mention the last 13 years.
Story End

I realize it will be a futile attempt if I try to convince you the many “whys” of my decision, and I’m sure they will be discussed and dissected over the coming months, even years, so right now I’m not going to waste my energy.  Energy that has already been spent in abundance over this issue.

You and I.

You and me.

We.

Us.

We are done.

The risk is too great to continue to figure out how to make this marriage healthy.  I am too tired from cleaning up your rage-filled destruction.  I refuse to live one more day afraid of what might happen the next time you can’t control your anxiety.  Not when I have 4 precious children to protect.  A mama should never have to protect her babies from their own daddy, but that’s what I’ve been doing.  I will no longer live a life fearful that one day my husband will snap and kill us all.

I still remember being in bed next to you that night seven years ago, absolutely terrified as you laid there clutching your loaded Glock.  I don’t know why I didn’t call the police that night.  Just like I don’t know why I didn’t call the police last Friday as you tied up loose ends, offered to “make me disappear” and ultimately made plans to end your life.  Living with you has twisted and contorted my brain in ways I can’t explain if I tried.

I’ve lived with many regrets over our marriage. Countless times I didn’t call the police. Times I put a smile on my face and convinced those closest to me (the ones reaching out in concern) that everything was fine, that you were just stressed about this thing or that, and that it always gets better eventually. Times I went back too soon (or at all).

I know one thing for sure: I won’t regret this.

This isn’t going to be a smooth ride, but I’m choosing a different path now. I pray God gives you the same peace I have found in this decision.

let go

Standing Here

domestic abuse

Yesterday I rang the doorbell to a women’s shelter.  A shelter where abused women seek refuge and safety.  I wish I could say I never in a million years dreamed I would ever be the woman on the inside of that door, but that would be a lie.  I just *hoped* it would never come to that for me.

Yet here I stood.

It’s surreal talking with people with years and decades of experience relating to domestic abuse.  The fear in their eyes, the urgency in their voice, only to realize, oh! They’re talking about ME!  They’re concerned about ME! Something about my situation really IS frightening!  I’ve spent so many years being made to believe I’m the crazy one for being concerned about yet another scary outburst or breakdown, being made to feel like it wasn’t a big deal, it was just an anxiety attack (which, according to him, I could have helped).  It was my fault.  I didn’t keep a clean enough house, so he couldn’t find his stuff.  I didn’t respect him, so he reacted in kind.  Always my fault.

And yet it doesn’t feel real.  I’m being validated left and right.  This is NOT ok.  This is NOT appropriate behavior.  This is NOT a safe situation.  They aren’t making me feel like I’m being dramatic, or overreacting, or trying to paint him in a bad light, or being a bad unsupportive wife.  I don’t know how to sort through all these different emotions.  Friday I was quite literally mourning my husband, who, as far as I knew, was at home planning his own demise.  It’s horrifying to realize you’re not sure if what you’re feeling is sadness or relief – and to admit that out loud makes you feel like an absolute monster. By Saturday, and every day after, it was life as normal.  And I was basically told to be patient, because I was the one that dropped the bombshell about wanting to separate, so I needed to give him time to process.  That would have been SO much easier to accept had there not been loaded guns in my basement, and knowing that mere hours prior, they had been in the trunk of my husband’s car with who knows what intended outcome.

I feel like I’m going through the stages of grief, but out of order.  I have been angry, I have been sad, I have had major guilt.  This is such an unpredictable journey, and I’m so cautious to embrace the next emotion because I don’t know how long it will stick around.

This is so surreal.  This can’t be my life.

Domestic Abuse. It still sounds so foreign on my tongue.

And now I shall submit this blog post, after one tiny but mighty mason jar of moscato, and no reviewing it.  Here’s to life, unfiltered and messy.