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.

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.