Opening the Door

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February 27, 2007 . . .  Most of the events of my marriage run together . . .  Dates are nearly impossible to remember, but this was a special day, so I remember, and this was the day the door opened . . . for me . . .

I don't remember what we fought about.  I rarely do after a little time.  The fights are so often over the insignificant.  But . . . he once again brought up divorce.  Nearly every fight, every argument . . . and there were so many . . . for the first nearly six years of our marriage . . . he brought up divorce.  He brought up divorce.  For me, divorce was not an option.  It didn't exist as a choice.  This marriage was going to work . . .  Until this morning . . .  This time when he said divorce, something snapped inside of me, and suddenly a door opened . . .  Divorce was a possibility . . . It is a possibility . . .

Our relationship began a steady decline after that.  With me no longer fighting to hold this marriage together, it rapidly began falling to pieces, until finally in November 2007, I drafted and signed divorce papers.  He just needed to sign and file them . . .  And instead he talked me into giving the relationship another chance.  He knew so many ways he'd been wrong, and he didn't want to lose me . . .

It's a funny thing though . . . this door to divorce.  Once opened, it never really closes.  And as the relationship hits new all time lows, it even becomes a comfort . . . for there is a way out of this hell.

So, that door stands there . . . open . . . beckoning . . .  But, something holds me back . . .  Something keeps me from stepping through it . . .  fear . . .  Fear of the unknown . . .  I know others find my inaction exhausting . . . frustrating . . .  But, fear is paralyzing . . .  And it is only overcome one step at a time . . .

If knowledge is power, the fear of the unknown is just as powerful.  It is a war fought on mental and emotional battlefields that those outside of the abuse simply cannot comprehend, and any truly positive outcome is excruciatingly slow in its arrival.

Three weeks ago I embraced that door.  I was more powerful than that fear.  I was ready to walk through it . . .  until I was wrenched back from its threshold . . .  and consumed by all new fears . . .

But the door stands . . . open to the blackness of the unknown . . . and I am on an agonizingly slow journey once again . . .

A journey that may someday end in my stepping through the door . . . into the abyss . . . and beginning again . . . beginning anew . . .

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Sleeping With the Enemy

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I have struggled with today's post . . . Is it too much?  Is it too soon?  Are you ready for it?

I hesitate, because you will be outraged.  You will want to do something.  You can't.  I'm sorry, but this is my struggle, and I must find my way out of it.  For you to interfere is for you to make it worse for me.

Part of me wants to skip it . . . write something else, but I started this blog with the promise to be real . . .  This may get long, but here goes . . .

Jim and I started arguing at 5:40 Friday morning when he called me from work.  I didn't care that he called me, but that he started blaming me for someone else's actions started things seriously rolling toward not good.  I will not hash out the details.  The details do not matter.

Just after I arrived at work, as the argument continued (on the phone) I told him I would contact my attorney.  Later in the day he called to tell me I should call my attorney, because he was tired of me threatening and never actually doing it.  Little did he know I'd already called at that point and left a message with the attorney's answering service . . .

Fast forward to Saturday morning . . .

I was trying to go about my day and get a million things done.  I needed to do three loads of laundry, wash dishes and bake/ice/decorate Sam's birthday cake for his party Saturday afternoon.  In the middle of all of this, Jim and I continued a rather dispassionate conversation about our relationship . . .

Jim stood in the hallway telling me how unfair it was that I kept threatening divorce.  Right . . .  He threatened divorce in every fight for the first six years of our marriage, while I refused to believe divorce was a possibility.  Now that I accept that it is, he feels slighted.  Go figure . . .  I calmly told him he was right.  It was unfair of me to keep threatening divorce.  I just needed to go ahead and do it . . .

His voice turned cold with underlying rage . . . "Let me tell you something, Abigail.  If you ever try to take my little boy from me, I will kill you.  I will kill you and your whole family.  Do you hear me?"

Sometimes it just doesn't pay to hold your ground . . .

"I take that as a serious threat . . . "

"You should, you can't look over your shoulder forever."

"But, it won't stop me from filing [for divorce] . . ."

"I'll kill you, Abigail.  I'll kill you . . .  Matter of fact, I'll do it right now."

He threw me into our bedroom.  He closed the door . . .  We wrestled, as he body slammed me . . .  We wrestled, as he threw me . . .  We wrestled as he wrapped his hands over my nose and mouth cutting off my breath . . .  I fought with all of my strength.  I scratched.  I bit. I fought . . .

But the match is unequal.  He's so much bigger . . .  He's so much stronger . . .

I screamed . . .  But the only ears to hear it were those of my little boy.  My precious little boy . . . in the hallway . . . listening to his mother fight for her life . . . crying on the other side of the door . . . "Mama . . . Mama . . . Mama . . . . "

For a moment it stopped.  His voice, calm, cool, almost comforting called through the door, "It's OK Sam, go see saw on your horsie."  Sam grew quiet . . .

And, his voice turned hard again . . . so cold as he began the threats again . . .  I had some responses, but I can't remember everything said, for my mind was racing . . .  I do remember him telling me that he had nothing to lose (by killing me) . . .  This is not good . . .  My mind raced . . .  Oh how I wanted out of that room . . .  If I could get out of that room, maybe I could get myself and Sam to my brother's house or my car before he caught me . . . But, he was between me and the door, and there was no way I could get out a window quick enough . . .  My only hope was to control the situation, because I despairingly realized . . . there was no way out . . .  And then I saw his eyes go hard . . .

"You know, I think I want some more of that."

I braced, and the fight was on again.  I kicked.  I screamed.  I scratched.  I bit.  Sam cried again in the hallway.  I didn't hold back, but I also had minimal impact on him.  If he really wanted to kill me, he could . . .  One of the chopsticks I use to hold up my heavy long hair ended up in his hand, and with a glint of wicked humor in his eyes he told me it could be used as a weapon.  He could stab me with it.  And he raised his arm and came at me . . . and he stopped himself just inches from impact . . .  And he backed off . . . Thank God, he backed off . . .  His rage was spent . . . Or perhaps he sensed that I was beaten . . . if only for the moment . . .

And, then he wanted to talk . . .  He wanted to solve our problems . . .

I wanted to control the situation . . .

He is now in repentant mode.  He is now doing everything right.

And my love for him is dead . . .

Sunday I cut my hair shorter than it's been in 25 years.  I will not have my hair accessories used as weapons against me . . .

Monday I spoke with my lawyer, still making no final decisions.

Each day, I get through the day.  I pray.  I plan.  For escape must be carefully planned . . .

And each night, I sleep with the enemy . . .

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~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Added notes for those who will ask:
     This is not the first time things have turned physical, and if I stay, I already know it likely won't be the last.
     It's not as easy as calling the cops, because we live in a very rural area.  It would take the sheriff's department a minimum of 25 minutes to get to me . . . at which point I'd be dead, and who knows how many people in my family would be dead as well.
     Yes, I know I could get a restraining order, but he'd never abide by it, and enforcement is too far away.
     I am trying to figure a way out.  A way that is safe for me, my Sam, and my family.  I am already approved for shelter at our Women's Center for Non-Violence, and my attorney deals only with domestic violence cases.
     And, for now I am OK.  It's a pattern I'm accustomed to, and for a while, all will go well, as he tries to woo me back in with his repentance . . .

Every Little (Empty) "I Love You"

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I watch my little Sam growing up before me.

We run.  We roll and tumble.  We build Lego towers.  We play cars.  We laugh.  Oh, how we laugh.  And I can't help myself.  I grab him up in my arms, squeeze him close, and the words pour out of me, "I love you!"  For if I don't say them, I just might explode . . .

We read.  We cuddle.  We fix uh ohs and boo boos.  Sometimes we cry.  And I pull him up in my arms, squeeze him close, and drop kisses on his head . . . "I love you!"  For if I don't say them, my heart might break.

Every "I love you" . . . so full.

I once read somewhere that for every negative action/statement between intimate partners, it takes seven positive actions/statements to counteract . . .  In my relationship the scales are way off balance, heavily on the negative side . . .

And when the negative comments get to me, as I sit in pain, I hear:

     "I don't care about your feelings, I just care about _____."

     "Stop crying.  Your tears don't do anything for me."

     "You need to quit being so sensitive."

     "You should just suck it up and take it.  Just do it."

Oh, how many times have I heard this and more . . .

But, over time, I suppose, I've complied . . .  I cry less now.  I'm not as sensitive.  I take what he dishes - most of the time.  I just do it.  Feelings?  I don't share my feelings . . . at least not often, and I usually regret it when I do.

Occasionally he's made the comment that I look dead . . .  Perceptive I suppose, since in many ways that's what is happening.  For as I have became more callous and the tears have stopped falling, I have slowly been dying inside.  As I have felt less of the negative, I have felt less of the positive, until now I often feel nothing.

Hugs, kisses, Hello, Goodbye . . . Nothing.  Just motions.  Actions.  Those things we do . . .

And every little, "I love you."  Empty.  Obligatory words as we say goodbye or in response to the same three words . . .  Words that once warmed my heart but now just leave me cold.

And as "I love you" passes my lips, I can't help but wonder if it sounds as empty in his ears as it feels in my heart . . .

Now, when the tears occasionally find their way to my eyes, it's no longer so much about the pain . . .  I feel more like I'm mourning what I've lost . . . for I long to feel something . . .

For now, every empty "I love you" shared with him just makes me feel more distant . . . more removed . . . more numb . . . more empty . . .

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