Counted as Loss

While I was still at the [un]safe house, time came to move out of my duplex in North Idaho. I knew what I had written down on the decree to receive, which was more or less everything essential for the stability, normalcy, and safety of the children. Oh, and I definitely wanted my bed since I was the only one who slept on it for the most part. The ex preferred either the couch, the floor, or the office floor downstairs next to his ballistic gear. That song "Cold as Ice" comes to mind. You've heard it, I'm sure.

If I remember correctly, as it was all such a blur, I had to hire movers. The protection order meant I could not set foot on the property unless he was off the premises. Law enforcement was to work with me in this regard, whenever I set up the day for the civil assist. I must say, for all of the many times I spoke to them on the phone, and I mean I was practically on first-name basis with a few of them during this time, giving and receiving updates, they were less than helpful when I really needed them to come through. I was afraid the day of the protection order hearing, but this time, I was paralyzed. I was told the morning the movers were to go to the house that my almost ex husband had movers there the day before. I was literally standing in the UHaul place when they told me that if I set foot in that house, I was going to jail. Period. 

But I thought you were supposed to defend me.

"The protection order states that you are to remove HIM from the property so I can get my stuff out!" 

"Well ma'am, I'm not sure what you're talking about, but didn't he tell you, because he told us, that he was having movers there yesterday?"

"SIR! I HAVE A PROTECTION ORDER! How in the world would I know what he has or has not done?? All I want to do is feel safe going over there. Can you or can you not provide a civil assist? The movers are AT the duplex, RIGHT NOW!"

"Well, if you want to make a copy of that and bring it to the sheriff's department, we can have someone look over it to possibly approve what you're suggesting. It's not something we normally do. We don't have it on file and I don't have notes here staying any of this."

"Look. The judge wrote it in. How is it a fault to me that your officers don't have notes? You said you briefed about my situation this morning -- and yet this is the best you have to offer? I feel like I'm being brushed aside or maybe it's just that you don't want to deal with him, either. But my life is in danger around this guy and you said your lives are potentially at risk which is why he's an 'officer security risk.' I thought you'd have more to say than this. I don't have time to bring you a copy! Movers are at my house right now! And so what you're telling me is you're above the judge in a civil case? I don't think that's correct, sir. Will you please have someone go to my house and make sure he leaves?!"

I was shouting on the inside. What he heard was a twinge of exasperation. Maybe a few cracks in my voice. I had to be stronger than they expected me to. I dared not break. I dared not show my true emotions. They didn't give a damn about me.

A very close friend of mine drove their van to the UHaul store with me to get the UHaul truck with supplies over to my place to meet the movers. 

Guess who was still on the property!!!

Yes. Oh yes, he was. With every door and window open for the elements to destroy. It was raining somewhat.

And guess who was NOT there!

That's right. Law enforcement. 

So my friend, who wasn't supposed to have been in contact with me, saw the shit head. She saw him piling things into the car and she had a sick feeling there wasn't much left to move out.

Police came in a bit, and talked to him and he left. I was instructed by my friend to take myself out for coffee. A while later, I received a video clip on my phone. It was the remains of what was in the house. I had a horrible feeling about this day, and now I knew why.

He took our oldest son's bed. 

He took all vital records.
He took my family rings.
He took the kids' favorite books.

He took all of my photography for my photography business (I was just starting out, too)

He took all of the photography I shot for a non-profit organization

He took the money out of our son's wallet!

He took the couch, book shelves, other furniture, the pot to the crock pot, my favorite spices, the tv, all of my stationary and photos from my childhood, the wedding album (which I found interesting and I'm really GLAD he has), the vows, threw my books all over, took my interlinear Bible sent to me by a friend of mine, an older woman, took my concordance, and definitely read through my journals. He took the grill/smoker, took pieces of my van, took the coffee table, the floor lamp, etc etc.

He made his mark. He made his statement.

But... I kept going. Had to. I showed up at the house despite the fact that I really could have gone to jail and lost everything, and I walked around screaming "You're an asshole!!!" at the top of my lungs, apologizing to the movers for my horrible mouth between every breath.

What was left went into a storage unit. And my nerves.... they were shot. All I wanted was a drink, and I hardly ever drink. The terror of going into that house, the condition he left it in... it was horrible. And that sneaky bastard happened to get in there the day before me with movers? Wow.

I found out from there he took himself across Washington to a VA hospital out there where he tried to check himself in as homeless, but they did a check on his finances and found out he had.... about 10k cash in his pocket. He was mad because they didn't think he belonged there. He could pay for a hotel!

From there, he was helped out by the Wounded Warrior Project: Room and board until he could get into inpatient. Then he was inpatient for a bit and I found out where. His doctor called the church to ask me questions and the pastor contacted me to let me know. I got an organization involved on my behalf because I wasn't supposed to have third party communication. But then the doctor wanted to talk to me directly to find out exactly what the deal with him was. And guess what. I reported EVERYTHING. I reported having met with the FBI by this point and having met with CPS by this point, and having a domestic violence advocate by this point, and divorce pending at this point, and staying in a shelter, etc etc. The doctor said "Oh my. We haven't gotten that impression from him at all." I said "I'm certain you're telling me the truth, because he's a master manipulator and he's been bullshitting your entire system for years!! Just wait. He will walk out of that program there as soon as you tell him about CPS, as soon as you make a treatment plan with him, and as soon as you call him on anything."

The very next day, not even joking, he booked it. He told people the VA kicked him out, but that's not what happened because I spoke to his doctor to confirm it. No no, he took himself out! And then he allowed the Wounded Warrior Project to "help him" by paying for a hotel room for him so "poor me" didn't "have to" stay in his car. He never had to! Their plan was to get him into an extended, 3 week on, 1 week off, 3 week on, and so on and so forth inpatient program in a different location: a PTSD domiciliary. He went the three weeks. And then.... he left. In fact, he left the entire region of the country, forfeited his service dog, turned to drinking, and God knows how much sexual immorality. Gross. He moved into a place with a shady, unstable, majorly depressed friend who has been fired from jobs because of his own character flaws.

Meanwhile, life has only improved on my end. I received a recommendation for my dog to be my service dog so my anxiety wasn't AS bad, I worked a TON on my relationship with my oldest son and it's vastly improved, I moved into an apartment with my little amount of things (and that's okay because I'm not a materialistic woman anyway -- it's kept me humble), I got the children residual income through the ex's SSDI, SSI is pending for the baby, all of our medical needs are ok, food is okay, and I'm working on the rest of it. I applied myself to online college as a Psychology major with a Christian Counseling Cognate, and I start tomorrow. My faith is strong and grows stronger daily. I'm exercising consistently. I'm eating well. I have some incredible friends, too, both near and far. I reconciled with my family, I have cut ties with his. I am closer to elders in my church, and I can think on my own and set my own boundaries, and I'm loving it because no one has been disrespectful to me, because I respect myself! I'm processing things and I'm so much happier to be away from him.

So.

Much.

Happier.

He can keep the things he kept. I did not ask for child support, either. He can keep it all. Everything he has is because I fought for him to get it. I may have mentioned it before, but I really do think $4k a month is a lot for a divorced and unemployable bum. But it's okay, you know? I have peace about my actions. I have remained pure.

A few of my friends suggested I have some fun. One friend boldly suggested I just go and kiss a few guys. At least one. Rebound isn't my thing, though. I will wait. I would be so scared to kiss someone and then have to give account for my actions down the road to my sons. I tremble at the very thought of such an act. Just a kiss? What the hell is "just a kiss" anyway? It's laughable. Women with integrity don't "just kiss."

But let's be honest here. I lost a marriage, I lost my sense of financial security, I lost my tie to the military, I lost hope that counseling would be effective, I lost hope that God actually wanted to restore my marriage. It was toxic. I learned a lot about how faith plays into reality and I'm going to learn a lot more about wisdom and folly and how often we put faith in front of folly when really we should just be using the wisdom God already spelled out in Scripture instead of playing Russian Roulette with what we hope for because we hope for things that are foolish and against God. Oh, did you see that? I found Pandora's box and opened it a crack and closed it back up again! Ha.

I have had a lot of flashbacks of the last look around that safe house, the way I scrubbed anywhere my feet rested just before I left, the way I packed up the back of my van so meticulously, you could tell if you stood there next to me that I had been in survival mode for quite a while. If I'm really honest, it's been that way for years, with as much instability as my ex husband provided.... "survivor" has been my role as much as it was his, only I am not so quick to say "I am barely surviving" when I know that I have a future ahead of me. I did not think I'd be able to settle again for a very long time, nor have a sense of safety, true. I carried myself that way, too: very restrained. I made sure the place looked better than it looked when I arrived, however. That's how I do things. I like to leave a mark, albeit foreign to others! I left a very warm note on the door for the staff of the place. I'll never know on this side of Heaven who actually received that note. It's not important. It needed to be written. They were kind to me. Still, a sense of scrutiny crawled under my veins as I left, like resentful residents wanted to send me off with their covetousness. Their own short sweet nothings resembled "off with you, bitch!" I remember I received a lovely care package from a dear sister of mine a few thousand miles away for the purpose of picking up my spirits. She had been through domestic violence at the hand of a Marine herself. What a comfort she was. But in that summer humid hot house, one resident sat on the couch gawking, back and forth between her sorry text messages and the box I was opening, chanting, "I'm so jealous, I'm so jealous." The same day, John Legend's "All Of Me" was put on repeat. Some band-aids.... *women are crazy!!!* True enough, you don't hear a song like that differently, with less of a desire to have a functioning and healthy relationship, when you hear it in a white washed tomb of a place like that safe house. It's turned into a song of displacement, but a theme song, and a song of hope. Maybe it's just a fantasy.

I'm thinking too much.

This morning I was reminded of the following: Believing in Jesus is just as important as obeying Him and those who claim they believe in Him but don't obey as evidence of their faith provide ample reason to doubt their claim to faith.

2 Corinthians 13:5 "Examine yourselves, to see whether you are in the faith. Test yourselves. Or do you not realize this about yourselves, that Jesus Christ is in you?—unless indeed you fail to meet the test!"

I won't fail this one. Many have I failed. So very many. But no, not this one. It's not going to happen.

He lost me, he lost his children, and he failed the test. He didn't even give a forwarding address, so his divorce decree actually came to me, and then went into dead mail. Idiot. Since I'm working relentlessly on my self-esteem these days, I'm going to go ahead and say he lost a gem. I think I'm worthy of much better. I will treat myself right because I love the Lord. I will treat myself right because the Lord loves me. Never again will I allow myself or my children to be abused. I won because God is my witness and my protector, my rock and my salvation. Of whom do I really need to fear? I'll stick with counseling, I'll work my program, and I will absolutely grow in grace and mercy and wisdom and truth and Spirit. I have, I am, and I will. Exciting. I am so glad I am His.

Thinking back to the first entry in this blog, there's a major change already. I guess I just needed to get it all out of my system. I want to apologize to my self for making myself blush so badly as I typed out those words. Who really wants to hear about sexual abuse I've been through? Not me. Especially not with such profanity. I did not like my reflection in the mirror much after I wrote it out.

But I don't have that rage inside me anymore. It's just.... gone. I hope I never have it again, because Lord, have mercy, it was so uncharacteristic of me. It needed to come out, though. I never mean to justify a foul mouth, much less from a lady, but that's as far as my vengeance will ever go. Anger at sin.

I lost my hatred. I'm nearing the point of forgiveness. I mean, I'm not quite there yet, but the more I accomplish on my own, the easier it gets. I know that right now, as I'm writing this, I am not even bitter. Maybe I'm just too sleepy to be bitter, but unloading my thoughts helps me rest well. One thing I am thankful for in all of this is that I have not become a feminist. I was when I was younger. Ew. I'm not interested in saying men are evil or all men are pigs or men think with the wrong head. No way. I had a really bad run with my ex husband. Ok. The end. There is good reason he IS the ex. My, how he held me back! But I don't hate the gender. Men are amazing. Their simplicity is strikingly intriguing. And then there are those who are more complex. They're even more intriguing. Pretend you can see my smile.

My goal is never to speak ill of the ex in front of the children or even behind the children, although that might be a far stretch, but the goal includes conversation through body language. Stiffening up and turning away counts. I have to relearn how to think and be unafraid of who I am now. I am forever changed, but I know I am also forever changed for God's glory, for His purposes. I have no reason to fear what He will do in and through me. He is beautiful and kind, and His kindness leads me to repentance. May I continue to lose my flesh and take up my cross for the sake of honoring Him.

"7 But whatever gain I had, I counted as loss for the sake of Christ. 

8 Indeed, I count everything as loss because of the surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord. 

For his sake I have suffered the loss of all things and count them as rubbish, in order that I may gain Christ 

9 and be found in him, not having a righteousness of my own that comes from the law, 

but that which comes through faith in Christ, the righteousness from God that depends on faith— 

10 that I may know him and the power of his resurrection, and may share his sufferings, 

becoming like him in his death, 

11 that by any means possible I may attain the resurrection from the dead.

12 Not that I have already obtained this or am already perfect, but I press on to make it my own, 

because Christ Jesus has made me his own. 

13 Brothers, I do not consider that I have made it my own. 

But one thing I do: forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what lies ahead, 

14 I press on toward the goal for the prize of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus. 

15 Let those of us who are mature think this way, and if in anything you think otherwise, 

God will reveal that also to you. 16 Only let us hold true to what we have attained."

Philippians 3:7-16 ESV

Relax. It's a "safe house."

Is there no qualification for the calling of God? How great is His mercy to allow me a chance to do what I did there? What courage did He put in my heart to walk the halls as I did? And thus, and henceforth, and therein. . .

The fear I felt. The knowledge that I was going where the battered fled, but having no peace about where I was fleeing, as a refugee in my own country from the man whom I swore I'd love, who swore to love me.

How do you flee? How is it that you rip yourself apart? How great must the agony be? It is a fanatical blur. I was intoxicated with desperation for God on a level I had never previously known. How can you carry children when you feel smallest of all? Somewhere inside you, you feel the twinge of spiritual muscle growth and you put one foot in front of the other, and you move. You move and you breathe in slowly and painfully, or you die.

HE WILL KILL YOU IF YOU ARE FOUND!

The darkness will EAT you ALIVE!!! MOOOOOOOOVE WOMAN! FIGHT FOR YOUR LIFE!

Dear, GOD?! Where do I run?

To me, child. And don't you dare let your eyes wander. 

FIX your eyes on me. 

My love is deadly for the wicked.

It's too much.

They SHRIEK in fear.

But not you.

No, not you.

I will protect you. I will hold you. I will keep you safe I SWEAR! 

I am the LORD your God. You have nothing to fear.

And every day on my KNEES I went before God, crying buckets from the depth of my soul, my eyes so swollen I could not blink. 

Inside the walls of a "safe house," you find nothing safe. What baggage one woman carries, what demons ONE girl possesses, are enough for an army to battle for a lifetime. The depths of sin....

....but "the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it."

Her shirt was so skin tight, you could see the rise and fall of nipples so scared they may as well crack. Skin so tense you could scarcely tell if she had been shooting up or had merely been beaten so much her skin froze on her body in that awkward taught fashion out of terror. Bruises. Bruises on her psyche. Hair in a mat. But she kept her air about her. False pretenses of bleach blonde hair brushed meticulously and tossed above a sleek black body suit formed to her petite legs, so glamorous behind her bold black glasses and high-end lip gloss. Her lips pouted that quarter inch apart, enough to attract just about any man, but that must not have been her goal.

Dear God, why would any woman want to chase after another man while running?!?!

Two bags. Two bag limit per person. I'd be damned if that didn't include two bags for my puppy.

Roused suspicions permeated the windows streaked with their tears and their shadows. Their hindered prayers were visibly caught in cobwebs. What can live and move and breathe in such a dungeon? Demons love these places, and you can feel them crawling across the sheets while you sleep.

Can you imagine?

Cabinets were haphazardly filled with food labeled with names of past residents who fled again too quickly to take their food items with them, and then some "house" food that may have been years old.  A big refrigerator was stuffed with awkward and half spoiled, on-sale bologna that frightened you to touch the packaging of. There were shelves with labels for residents, too, but the moment I put my own items in there, because I insist on buying organic or as close to non-gmo as I can, mine were stolen. More than once, this happened. Too many onions were placed hospitably in a milk crate in the garage in order to ease the stress of "nowheredom." Why? Who wants onions on their own? Eat them like apples? No one in such a situation wants to make a crock of french onion soup. Nomadic. Grievous. Apostate veggies for the misfit women of traditional life in a modern culture; wishing, dreaming, woefully resenting. But really, that's insoluble. I was the only misfit woman of traditional life residing there: That is to say, I was the only woman with traditional values and morals. I slept the least and worked the hardest toward my goals. I had more children and I appeared to have more to smile about, as well. Outspoken, eager to survive, eager to find solutions, eager to serve. My wings were most definitely clipped but I was itching to get through this time.

There was the one resident whom I called "Mrs Craigslist," for example. Bad situation, but she found her solace in contacting strange men from CL to self-medicate. I couldn't understand. She even used the safe house phone for hours and hours. I heard the guy's voice. I told him he was a fool and had no idea what he was getting himself into. Same for her. My admonishments were blunt. What did I have to lose? Nothing. I can't understand why people in bad situations gravitate toward such great folly. It all made me hate the world and all its inhabitants. Disgusting sinners, wretched hearts. Alas, that was my own wretched flesh talking, struggling with my own salvation, working it out moment by ugly moment, trying to remain optimistic, confessing and repenting and confessing and blessing.

I was the oldest resident for some time, and the only one who was fleeing from a marriage for safety. I prayed for protection over my family and prayed for the protection of angels and rebuked demonic forces. Adieu! Back to hell they obviously went, because in a matter of less than 24 hours, every resident left! I mean out of nowhere, packed up and bolted. It was incredible. For about five days following that event, I was alone in that big house. And I was scarcely monitored by any staff person. This safe house had cameras and a coded door and alarms, but I was on my own more or less, and I loved it. I was able to defrag and cry and pray. The climate changed. It felt peaceful, relaxed, and manageable. Something had been in that house that was purely demonic.

Then, the silence broke, and older women came. Some were far more disturbing than the younger generation that had just left. I pushed myself much harder to get out and relentlessly networked with whomever I could. I didn't fit in with anyone at all, but even still, I wanted to listen to the women who came in the door. Some looked for quiet. Some could not handle quiet. Some were busting at the seams. They didn't permit themselves to scream, so instead they rolled cigarettes, chain smoking enough to build a chain-link fence by connecting the buts: no ands, ifs, or buts. The alarm was deafening at night when they'd forget about the auto-set at midnight. Sleep was a miss and I was not happy about their laziness or disregard for other residents in the house with young children-- primarily, no, exclusively myself. Why is courtesy so hard to come by these days? 

I cowered at what I saw. Why did this safe house, for example, have a drawer with condoms in it? It was a sick joke. Like a small girl, I just wanted to cry in the arms of a strong, protective man with strong arms and let my tears soak their shirt and their neck and breathe all over them and fall asleep drenched and really not give a damn. But, that's what I needed to be protected from. When you're THAT vulnerable, the only one equipped for the job is Jesus, and Jesus is all I had, and Jesus remains all I have.

And I often hate that, and then I resent hating that, because He is immeasurably perfect. But I am human. I am a woman. I am feeble and weak, but mostly just weak, and weakness isn't so bad, nor does it last, because this writing builds inside me tons of strength. There is power in story-telling. Non-fiction. This ain't your grandma's parable.

The safe house I stayed at was not suited for a safe house. It was originally built in the 70s, if I recall, as a group home for adults with disabilities. This meant showers had bars to hold onto and windows were large and did not open. They forgot to install a cooling system, so when the heat picked up to 100 degrees, my sweet children and I were left sweating, aching for the freezer so we could take turns letting the film of sweat we'd frivolously applied [involuntarily] freeze for a moment. Then back to the grind. Back and forth.

I made more weekly goals while I was there than all of the residents put together. My case manager never had a word to add. She was afraid I was making too many goals, actually. She asked me if I was able to find a way to rest and take time for myself. 

I knew I'd crash if I didn't, but I did not feel safe enough to crash until all of my goals were met. So every day what I did was push myself to the extreme. Push harder, every day. Get up. Doesn't MATTER how tired. Push push push. Get out of the place you're in.

Some residents who came wanted to be around me a lot. They sensed light. I went behind their backs and threw away books I saw in the communal living area that touched my spirit in volatile ways: One called "Obsession" and one called "Dancing with Demons" or somesuch. I knew that if I were to be reprimanded for any particular reason, I would not mind that being the reason.

I prayed relentlessly. I anointed the door posts and the walls and the windows with oil. I sang worship songs. I praised God verbally in front of the residents who were loster than lost. I did not care. I felt strongly that I HAD to use this place for the kingdom. I HAD to take advantage of the opportunity I was given to witness to these other abused women. Was I not sought by His own hand? Did He not use someone to reach me? Was I not ripe for the picking, knowing my sin?

I know from what darkness I have come. I know that even in my darkest moments, He is there. I know that when He is there, the darkness cannot win. It is an impossible feat.

So that's what I did. I met my goals, I made a thousand of them, I was still using a breast pump exclusively, I was managing my little lost household in one little bedroom, and I was surviving. And I hated it. But I smiled. I put on my big girl pants every day and I said to myself "I must affirm myself even though I don't believe a WORD of it. I must do this to honor God because He made me and I am His and I must remind myself of that truth until the truth of that fills my whole being with the joy of His salvation. I must get it back. I must fight against the demons who strike my right and my left. I must win."

My relationship with my oldest began to deteriorate here. He was jealous, confused, hurt, resentful, and lacking in foundation while I crumbled and clung to dangling ropes of affirmation. I was punched, bit, kicked, and insulted and screamed at to my face. He would hold onto things while I tried to pick him up and carry him to bed. Every night he'd get out of bed about six times, and throw massive fits. What was it about? Daddy. He was acting out in the only way he knew how to process and it was so ugly. I hated myself a lot because of this. How could I have failed my son so much? I did by not leaving sooner and not putting my foot down more effectively. You know? I should have taken the belt from my ex husband if it meant him not using it on our son, but then he'd lock himself with our son in the bathroom and go at it.

I was reminded, and this had to be drilled into my brain by quite a few people, that his actions were normal, and that they'd subside, probably by the time school started, as long as I was consistent. So then I was terrified that I wouldn't be consistent. Again, even in this, the Lord proved faithful. I prayed that He would help me to be consistent. I still pray that every day. He entered into domestic violence counseling and I did for myself, as well. I could not dare to hurt my child. He'd seen WAY too much already. I was going to be his safety net no matter what.

And I kept up the habit. That's how I get through my days now, too. I am diligent, self-controlled, goal-oriented, practical, frugal, and I wait on the Lord for everything. I answer only to Him, I long for more, I confess my longings, and I wait. I grit my teeth and I breathe and I cry and I laugh and I wait. 

And He delivers me from myself.

And He loves me.

And I don't have to earn His love.

I'm good enough for Him to love with His perfect, holy righteous love.

And I like it.

His love for me is more intimate than the dawn I crave every morning upon my lashes, breathing life through my veins, opening wide the chasms of hurt I know too well so that He can heal them with His heat.

It is good.

I'd tell you specifically what else happened there, but I dare not break confidentiality, even if I never see those residents again. I witnessed to them. I held them. I allowed them to cry upon my shoulders and talked them through their panic attacks the way I wish my ex husband had done for me when I had mine. I was the friend I wanted to have and excelling in that area of compassion drove me further to pursue my own two feet, my own space, and my own sanity. I thought "well, maybe school." Believe me when I say I have stories. I have heard much. I have greater amount of empathy than I used to, for women and children, and also for men who have to endure the sting of battered women who desire love but have trust issues because of the poor excuses for men out there who boisterously walk about. I have SO much compassion for families, and though my heart is now very divided about some things pertaining to the military, I know I can serve broken and breaking families because of what I endured. I know more about functional love (but still don't ask me about falling in and out -- I'm so torn about that -- someone help me), and I know more about how to instill and enforce proper boundaries. Nothing is wasted. He gives freely. I'm nowhere near done processing, of course. I just love Him, I love those He's given me, and I hate evil, and that's why I persevere.

It was during this time, this small season, that I realized I was seven years exactly from when my ex husband had deployed and I accepted a position as an Overnight Resident Adviser at a women and children's homeless shelter. It was really something when I saw how the table had turned! What perspective! A major paradigm shift took place and the reality of being gifted such a full understanding rocked me. Now having been on the receiving end of such pale, staunch humility, I know the purposes it fulfills, and I understand the why and the how and the when and the "please, God, NO!" I know why women are too scared to stay. The very core property of a safe house is its admittance of transparency. Your true colors will come out whether or not you want them to, and you will have to face them. You'll tremble in terror at the realization of what you are made of AND of what you're not made of, and you'll have to choose between the scary unknown and possibility of losing yourself and your children if you don't "make it," or... you go back to the abusive situation. 9 times out of 10, women will go back, uneasy about independents, lost for self-confidence, and lost for resources. I think it's telling that I was ripped out of my situation with gusto and did not go back -- yet I had no resources. It's sobering and from the outsider's perspective, also sounds delusional. Faith can be like that, because women without resources are sitting ducks. Without self-defense, we are sitting ducks. And without support, we are sitting ducks.

But without God.... we are not even sitting ducks.   

I fought through the paperwork efforts necessary to win my children's hearts and the heart of the judge. Technically I did not even have a lawyer. I did it anyway, while many watched with twitching faces, wondering how in the world I was handling so much with a bit of grace. Sole legal and physical custody belongs to me. I prayed long and hard and even decided against pressing for child support. I felt strongly that there was no use in fighting for dirty money from a man I wanted no contact with at all. Why give him extra reason to harbor a grudge? (He'll find reasons enough.) I sat through family law classes. I sought legal counsel in two different states and two counties but could not get any legal advocacy because of interstate jurisdiction rules. Where I was could not represent me because of where I went, and where I went could not represent me because of where the case was filed. I went not two miles out of my comfort zone, but two hundred. And the Lord honored this. He granted me my heart's desires. The divorce went through without so much as a court date. My ex husband filed no complaint, responded not, and failed to contact me. It was incredible, and also incredibly stressful.

The one time I saw him, I was in the courthouse for the protection order hearing. I saw him and his service dog, who glanced over at me with her sweet loving eyes, although she knew there was a barrier she could not cross. I was with a few members of the police force and my church's associate pastor, as well as the bailiff and security from the courthouse itself. Yes, I had that many people surrounding me, strategically placed in the waiting area. When court was in session and we were both called up, the ex did not contest. The judge asked him four times in a row if he understood what he was saying. He said he did. You could have heard a pin drop. I was escorted out and instructed to call 911 if I felt I was being followed. Praise Jesus, I think He held the ex back. Justice. Oh, how I love Your laws, Lord!!

By this point, I had not been to my own house to retrieve belongings. It had been about a month, maybe a little more. I had written them as mine into the divorce summons, but had to wait a terrible length of time before I could get to the duplex. I had no idea what I'd find there and cannot begin to articulate the sense of uneasiness I felt at just the thought of going back there. There was evil in that house. A very real evil. And thus I was captive in crevice of sorts, between a rock and a hard place, cautious before everyone, stiff, eyes straight, anxiety explosive. I waited for the means to get my things out, as I had no idea how I would or if I could.

But God made a way for this too, and walking it out terrified me, although He was with me. Reconnaissance. Intelligence. Ten steps ahead of the evil one, I learned how to be cunning and yet harmless.

From the Acapella works of Eric Whitacre
http://youtu.be/p7nf1agjkBU

Go, lovely Rose-

Tell her that wastes her time and me,

That now she knows,

When I resemble her to thee,

How sweet and fair she seems to be.

Tell her that's young,

And shuns to have her graces spied,

That hadst thou sprung

In deserts where no men abide,

Thou must have uncommended died.

Small is the worth

Of beauty from the light retired:

Bid her come forth,

Suffer herself to be desired,

And not blush so to be admired.

Then died-and gone

The common fate of all things rare

May read in thee;

How small a part of time they share

That are so wondrous sweet and fair!

With my kids, and my faith, and nothing.

May 20th, 2014, seven years minus one day exactly since I started talking to my ex husband. I'm talking first letter. First contact with another life-form kind of first. It's a typical Spring day in small-town, woodsy green, fresh-aired, racially aware Coeur d'Alene. I warm to think about how someone could miss the beauty of the mountains, but it's easy when your mind craves another planet, a higher cloud. I drag myself out of bed, careful not to crack the eggshells hanging in the air like concrete drapes, walk slowly, and relieve myself quietly, in case too forceful of a flow might crack the shells beneath me.

Don't put music on. He's got a migraine. Don't cook. Don't work out. Don't dance. Don't pray too loud. Just pump. Be his support. It's for him that you're here after all. You're his "helpmeet." Just check on him... and go about your subliminally bitter way, hoping you get results in your email sooner than later.

And he wakens, groggy and grumpy, like a grizzly who detests Spring's birth, and a bit on the edge of unhygienic, because changing clothes takes effort and brushing teeth is annoying and they'll just get dirty again after he eats, anyway. His spoken logic.

I'm uneasy. I can't shake it today. It's Tuesday, which means I have Significant Other Support group at the Vet Center. It's at 1600 and the day is moving too slowly. Check the plants. Water, toss the dead. Take care of doggies. Hand out VA meds with filtered water. Get some organic eggs cooked up. Still can't shake the feeling.

The email comes. Paternity test. This will prove to him that the baby really is his, just as I have been saying all along. I am not an adulteress.

[Meanwhile, he is emailing a friend to say when he exposes me for who I really am, he'll prove finally that the baby isn't his and he'll take the kids and leave me with nothing.]

Test Results: 99.9999999999999999% positive, since someone else's DNA can't be 100% your own. He's his own person. Husband's face? Dead still. No movement. No joy. No peace. No relief. Just a dead stare.

"Aren't you happy he's yours? Aren't you moved that I wasn't lying as you thought I was?"

Blank stare.

"Okay," I walk away slowly, feeling really uncomfortable. Something is not right at ALL. Being around him feels like a bomb is about to go off. His service dog doesn't even want to be around him. "Maybe we could go out for a bit? We need to go to Home Depot anyway, and then let's get some sushi." I hug and kiss him and it is the most rancid bland kiss I've ever been pecked with. Hollow point forty-five, shoot me once, a kiss and I cry. Nine months of brutal accusations brought no relief with the results. Shoved. Yelled. Insulted. Mocked. Pushed down the stairs. For what? I was right. It means he lied to our marriage counselor when he said results would put him at ease. No no, this was no ease at all.

Pile everyone in the car. Check the mirror. I wish I am backing up into myself. What would it feel like to be rolled over? No different than I feel at this very moment.

But I'm proud, because's alive. He's wearing his USMC hat I bought him. I got the bum out of the house. Accomplishment of the day number 28467475840 and the day is young.

Stop light one. Exhale, turning ever so slowly to see who's nearby. Don't make eye contact because I'll be accused of having sex with anyone I smile at as well as anyone who smiles at me. Joy is offensive.

Home Depot: He walks ahead of us, because we are inferior. Always. It's a big blessing if he communicates anything to me in public. His service dog looks back to check on us. A few things in our car and we are going to make a house key but can't. The key machine is jammed. This should be a sign, but I am blind. I am so naive: So naive it may as well cost me my life: The life I gave up for him and the life I live for him now.

We leave and move to the sushi place, just across the street. I order for everyone, he offers nothing. I get up, I get up, I get up. "What else do you need?" A gravely "Thank you" is interrupted by a "What do you think you are doing?" to our oldest because he's not sitting straight enough. Feed fed. He gets up and leaves.

Just like that.

I text him to see where he's at while I collect the kids and make our way to the van. "Super 1" is all he says, and I can't remember with everything else I need to remember what he is getting there. He didn't say. He just up and left. I text him a few more times and begin to assume he wants to walk in the nice day. He has mentioned wanting to walk more, so I think this may be when he puts his feet where his mouth is.

Next thing I know, I see "WTF?" on my phone and I explain again that I can certainly be there in a few minutes, as I have made my way home since he did not respond. I get a frantic phone call from a friend asking me to go retrieve him because he has told the friend his caregiver abandoned him in the middle of town. Say what?

I go back to get him and by now, he has left the store and is walking home. He curses me out loudly in front of the kids and goes to the back of the van. Glaring. Ohhhh, that evil glare! My friend calls to see if I am ok because he's never heard him sound so off the hook before.

He's mad that he's the father? What?

I'm told to call when I get home and we talk a bit, but when we get home, it's uneasy and borderline violent. He grabs my arm, twists it, and pushes me out of the way to take the baby out of my grasp from the bassinet. "What are you doing?? Leave my son alone! And get OFF of me!" I can't shake him off of me. "Oh, NOW you want to be a father?!"

"This obviously isn't the family you want!!" he says.

Huh?

He takes the baby who is crying hysterically, and he can't console him. Our oldest is minding his own business by listening quietly to every single word and inflection. His mind is amazing. He comes to get a bottle of pumped milk out of the fridge and I offer freshly pumped milk instead, so he leaves the other out, grabs the fresh from my hands and takes it back down, but the baby doesn't want to drink because he's not comfortable with his Daddy. I ask him to put the other milk back in the fridge and he yells "YOU put it away!" and stomps off with the baby. Then he brings the baby back and grabs the van keys and stomps downstairs. He doesn't come back up.

What on earth has triggered him? Being a father should be good news. His wrestling match against himself can end now.

I ask my oldest if he would like to go to a friend's house instead of staying him. He is uncomfortable at home. I ask my friend if he can go there while I'm at group. No problem, she says. I go get the van keys from where he is and I hear "And where do you think you're going?" "I'm going to group, and I'm taking both kids because neither feel comfortable staying here with you. They'd rather be at a friend's house. Bye."

I walk into their house and enter a war zone. They see me and are frantic, on the phone with the Wounded Warrior Project, the Crisis Line at the Vet Center, and the police. I don't have a clue until a few minutes later that they are frantic because of threats against my life, the kids' lives, and lives in the community within a span of less than twenty minutes. They BEG me not to return home, and I get on the phone with the Vet Center now, who is trying to call him and not getting a response. He has told our friend he plans on taking a gun to his head (again). They ask me to contact other friends who may be able to reach him. Of course, he has isolated from most and the few who persist can't get him quickly enough. We panic, and I don't want him to become a statistic. Or a threat.

I talk to the counselors, I talk to the crisis line, and I talk to the police. The police go there and he is armed with my M4 and has intent to cause harm to an officer. He's now an "Officer Security Risk" and they won't go over there again because of it. High alert now. SWAT teams are alerted, police in two counties and two states, and the FBI gets involved. I'm stuck with the kids. I'm told to stay put. Hide.

Hide? Yes, hide. He threatened to hunt me down and kill me if I ever tried to leave him and that was back in 2007. People come and hide my van. I'm at a friend's house with my newborn and my older son and I'm terrified. I can't eat I can't breathe I can't think.

I sit down on the couch and I'm finally told what he said. All I can do is shake my head.

I don't want a divorce! I don't believe in divorce! I can't give up on him!

"If you don't get one, he's going to kill you and the children!!" Why can't he get help?!

"We've been trying to get him to for the last 18 months!! You can't go on like this."

No..... I can't.

And this begins the shattering of my Elmer's-glued heart, which has been ripped apart so many times before, I can scarcely cry with freedom. I can barely feel the difference between this moment and yesterday. It's all built up to right now. Right here. And I feel as though I'm falling off the cliff of a canyon into white water rapids teaming with jagged rocks and fish much stronger than I. You can see a deep, deep pain in my eyes and in my body language, but the steady stream of tears hides behind a dam by the name of "If you cry, you are weak." I have to be strong for the kids. I'm thankful to my friends who quite literally saved our lives but I can't even utter "thank you" yet. I can only hope and pray they know how thankful I truly am.

I'm in survival mode. Air mattress, pjs, my baby, my pump, my five year-old.... a nomad. A nobody. I can't tell a soul and I'm still dealing with the embarrassment of needing to break out a breast pump for my disabled child every couple of hours. A few days are spent here in this place, and more days following this in a hotel thanks to my church for putting us up. My husband has taken about thirteen thousand dollars out of the bank account and left us with a whopping forty-three cents. I'm followed everywhere. Helicopters circle overhead. I have an interview with the FBI. I get set up with state assistance. I'm eligible for everything. I get a protection order. I prayerfully consider divorce. I fight it. Ohhh, I fight it tooth and nail. But I have to risk my marriage in order to save my children.

I don't want to die, and yet there's a looming threat of death if I try to leave. I can't stay with him and essentially tell them it's right and normal and healthy and OK for Daddy to treat them as he has. He wouldn't even hold the baby in the hospital when he was born. He would not kiss me or hug me. And then shortly after, he left the hospital and didn't return until it was time for me to be discharged. Nurses thought I was single or maybe he wasn't the father. It was horrible and humiliating SO many times. I went through an amount of torture that I now have to unpack and unravel and DEAL WITH so that I can live a healthy life. That's what this is.

I will never forget the feeling of saying "Ok, I'll file for divorce." I'll never forget how I felt when I heard what he wanted to do to the children and I. I'll never forget how it felt to feel utterly despised and hated, and how very far from the Lord I felt at that moment. How small. How frail. How fragile. How meek. How stupid. I'll never forget how it felt to be emotionally stoned to death. I'll never forget how it felt to leave my friend's vehicle and step into a hotel room, two kids and two beds and a coffee maker, a little room with forced air and forced smiles and the most awkward silence I'll ever know, the most uncomfortably single beds I'll ever sleep in, and the air of it all. I'll never forget the look in my son's eyes as he said "Why is Daddy always so mean?" and the look in his eyes when I said "Daddy can't see you anymore." He looked sort-of relieved and then guilty and unsure if it was okay to feel confusion and relief. I know for a fact he was out driving around looking for me.

I felt dirty. Violated. I didn't want anyone to look at me. I wanted to be invisible. I hid, I had help hiding, and I hid well. About a week of this went on until I called the domestic violence crisis line. And that's where I went next.

Disquiet

Trembling, it's hard to breathe when your heart wants to crush itself, your head is a dizzy spell of salt and vinegar, producing more salt to rub in its own wounds and vinegar to sting and cleanse. This isn't the time for water yet.

Back and forth you bobble like a gummy bear on a turbulent plane. And the pain.... guttural, deep, graveling from a place inside you you didn't know existed but you feel it because it's owning you, morphing into your very being.

You swish thoughts around your mouth; you spit tears. You fall on your knees and cover your head because there are bombs going off all around you and you can't stop them because no one else can see them. Your mind is exploding from flashbacks, pillars of wood falling heavily upon you to remind you of how dense your forest is.  You hate yourself. Unworthy. Ugly. You're not good enough. No one sees value in you. You've made up the value in your own mind. Delusions. Self-righteous piety. You're forgotten abandoned by another. Your goals are shallow, your vision cheap. Rot.

Your body tightens and writhes, your breathing quickened, your emotional tank on empty, sputtering as it tries to get you through your next task anyway. The walls are caving in. Blackness. You hear your breathing and you can practically see it, you feel so cold, but it's summer. You can't see; the tears have taken over. You understand what drives people to self-medicate, to numb the pain, to say "f* this!" But you can't.

In and out. Slowly. In. Out. Pray. Break the chains. Put down the phone. They can't feel this for you. Your emergency contact is in Heaven. He heard your heart before it even started to speak.

Precious Redeemer, Counselor, Friend....

I'm going to love You until the end.

I'm a survivor, this is my trend

So Heavenly Father, will me to mend.

Effervescence

The cat is out of the bag by now. This lady is divorced from the unemployable, disabled combat veteran. I am free from abuse. Yet no matter how I try to swing it, sing it, or write it out, a twinge of 50 fiery emotions surface when I speak of it. There is the happy and the sad, the egregious and the calming, the hopeful and the desperate. And my mind? Well I waiver. It's not copacetic but manageable with time. I don't believe time is really the healer -- the Lord is, of course -- but I'm not backing down. I would not say I am nearly as unstable as I was three months ago. Most don't know the full story, so I'll jot almost all of it down here. (I keep remembering things so this post may be under construction for some time.) I still get slapped by winds of "How could you?" (It's more like how could I not) and "Don't you miss him?" (No, not even a little, in fact) and "Would you remarry him if he repented?" (No, I definitely would not)

I don't want to start a blog out this way, but I need to be consistent in starting from where I am. The tones will fluctuate, but I'm not afraid of that. And I don't view myself as a victim, however anyone who reads this will see me as such.. I am who I am; love me or leave me. Yes, I am in counseling, and yes, my oldest is as well. 

So, these words [spoken by my mother, who was right] haunt me:

"If you marry him, he will die in combat or something and you'll be left a single mother. Wait a year."

I married him anyway. And he did die in combat. PTSD stole that man I married and he gave into PTSD with fervor. But PTSD wasn't even the tip of the iceberg of debilitating conditions. Multiple traumatic brain injuries, cognitive impairment, debilitating migraines, vertigo, black outs, seizures, paranoia, rage, major depressive disorder, a torn rotator cuff, bilateral hip arthritis, unexplained knee pain, back pain, and then, if you ask me, shadows of personality disorders as well. Dr notes read "Psychosis - NOS" which is "not otherwise specified." Too much for a 28 year-old, no doubt, but if you ask me (and you haven't because you are writing this to yourself), the worst disability of all is a bad attitude. It's the desire to live and flourish wasted away. It's a demon embodying what you once loved. And it took seven painstaking years, many moves, homelessness, unemployment, robbery from the government, hell from the VA and the DoD, unceasing efforts in advocacy, two miscarriages, and two full-term pregnancies. But then yes, I also became the single mother I saw in my worst nightmares. (My other worst nightmares involved standing before him while he put a bullet inside his brain or shot the kids up and made me watch --- both of which he was considering pursuit of). Now I am left with triggers from PTSD, anxiety, and a moderate social disconnect because as an ENFJ, I see the world so much differently than others. I'm enjoying learning about myself, however, and even though I am my own worst critic, I know that I am on the road to recovery. It turns out I'm fascinating, which... is fascinating! I may be my own worst critic, but I am never bored, and I laugh constantly.

My exhaustion is summed up as such: Through "sickness and in health," which really should read "Health and then sickness until you're dead," I stayed by his side as best I could, and I gave 500% of my life to helping him get "wounded warrior" resources and getting plugged in with transitional groups and affiliates and programs that he never really cared about, yearning for love he would not or could not give me -- maybe a mix of both. Through multiple witnessed suicide attempts, subjugation to the ways of a master manipulator, and mental, verbal, emotional, spiritual, and sexual abuse, I came out alive, but only because God ripped me out in a forceful way. I'd have been killed. For sure the children would have been killed as well. People asked me why I stayed many times over the last seven years. My answer was always the same: "I love him." And then they'd say "Well, I give you a lot of credit. Most women would have been gone by now." In my [self-proclaimed] lunacy, I took those spoken words as complimentary and inspiration, or a challenge, more or less, to stay. I am now the biggest disappointment to myself. I live with the wounds I incurred because I did not think it would get so bad and pushed myself to be strong enough to take it. Obviously my plan of action was not the wisest, but I didn't have a support system like I have no, so leaving wasn't really much of an option.

Words have been etched on my heart, my mind has been calloused, my heart ripped up, and my hope tested to the max. My faith is strong, and my foundation unshakable, but the scores and scores of scars I have pulverize my soul, the sting too great to live with, so I depend on Jesus, and counseling, and prayer, and safe outlets like this. I hate divorce, I hate what I became because of my reluctance to stand up for myself, and I find it ironic that the very great amount of respect he demanded has been shattered, irreconcilably so, because he demanded it so much. 

See, I respect a lot of individuals. I know some truly amazing men and women. None of them demand respect. They earn it because they are beautiful people and then there's a degree to which it's freely given, too. Tyranny is not part of the equation.

If I could tell him a few things, they would be as follows:

You did not deserve me. I spent a great deal speaking highly of you because the Bible says not to speak ill of anyone. I spent more time than you'll ever know praying for you, seeking reasons to admire you, looking constantly for godly qualities within you to praise. I did your grunt work, and I fought for you. No one on this planet would dare say differently because it's the truth. But I was so beautiful and so valuable and so stunningly set apart from this world that in order to make yourself feel anything at all, you had to manipulate, dominate, control, demean, belittle, hold me at gun point, threaten to take my life, threaten to cut my hair, sit me down and refuse to let me eat, push me, shove me, grab my wrists, humiliate me in public, scream in my face in front of the children, refuse to hold your newborn son, downsize any interests I had, immortalize yourself, and force me to sit still while you grabbed my head and shoved your dick in my mouth, because you were a man, you crazy misogynist, and you had needs and I owed. You thought causing me to gag was fantastic, because you let me go and sing in a choir. Bitch, please!!

It was either that or the manipulation I dealt with constantly, a guilt and shaming adventure to the end of the lonely road. But then that blowjob wasn't good enough, either. Why? Why were you so linear and so dark? Why the fuck did you lay there like a dead fish? Why is it that my best memory of you was our wedding night and after that it was a constant battle for one reason or another? You had enough energy before  jumping onto your computer games to tell me I wasn't satisfactory, but you never really sought to connect. Never "really." We had our better days, and I thought they were amazing because they didn't involve death threats when they happened! Isn't that sick? But frankly, I could neither give you my best nor even fake enjoyment of such an act while all I wanted was to be held, touched, loved, appreciated, heard, and prayed with. I felt like your whore, but unpaid, chewed up, used, and unworthy of anything real. I tried. You know? I really tried. It is no wonder that while many women go on a sex-crazed freedom spree post-divorce, I want nothing but the Lord. I don't even want to touch myself. There's no appeal for anything physical save a physique change, so that in the future, I don't have shadows of the past in my hips. In the future... so help me God.... I'll be restored, and someone is going to sweep me off my feet through a slow and steady friendship that builds, and I tell you what. Holding out for that day, oh, it's worth it. You aren't.

I remember the days you screamed so loud at me, cursing me out with your fists raised to throw punches, I was embarrassed to be seen with you in the house. I remember the time you tried to choke me on the couch and I had to kick you off of me. You came after me and used enough force that yelling "Stop!!!" provoked your service dog to break you off of me. Why am I so attached to her? Because she saved my life. The dog who wasn't known to be assertive or even bark had to get between you and your wife. WHY?! Then you yelled at her, avoided her completely, or closed the door in her face as she tried to be a service dog for you. Enjoy your miserable, lonely, worthless life with your unstable friends.

You knew how deeply and desperately I longed for a spiritual leader: a man who would look forward to affirming me, talking with me, worshiping the Lord with me, raising children with me, accepting me for who I really was, learning with me, growing with me, repenting with me, building faith with me, seeking the gifts of the Spirit, praying with me and for me, and actually loving me, both in and out of the sheets. The world is interesting and amazing and vast and funny and turbulent. It's meant to be explored! You knew I was romantic. You knew I was sentimental. But then you'd point your gun at my head, and laugh when I got scared. You showed me that playing simulator-style computer games in a future Russian fallout was more appealing than the softness and warmth of the woman "you loved." You told people I had seven affairs. What on earth is that? I've never had sex with another while married. I'm nobody's whore and never will be. I don't struggle with lust. I struggle with unfulfilled desires, yes, but I'm not going out to seek something that doesn't belong to me. Emotional attachments which have been broken do NOT materialize into reasons to abuse me for 9 months of pregnancy, pushing me down the stairs, claiming you know for CERTAIN that your second-born is not actually your own child. Paternity test, oh yes... I went to that extreme willingly, because you said your bitterness would die. But of course I knew better, and your bitterness grew worse once you found out the baby was yours, because the baby was disabled. Disabled babies are supposed to be taken out, according to you. You relish in an old and dead Spartan world in which the "weak" are done away with so as not to taint the race. But you're not even close to being of that people group. It's all in your head. You have no honor.

My worship isn't hindered by your shit anymore and by God's grace and self-discipline, my innermost yearning, my perpetual desire to be loved the way I'm supposed to be loved and worthy of being loved will be met, and my interior will be as beautifully tempered as the fading beauty of my outer shell.

You would insist that I have dinner on the table at a certain time while instead of going out job hunting, you sat in front of computer games for 10-12 hours a day for years while we were on state aid for food, back-ordering and painting over-priced tabletop models as a means of escape from the shame you felt from having been torn apart from your love of combat in theater, but then it was me. It was my fault I spent $40 on produce that we needed and therefore that was the reason your precious motorcycle was repossessed. I took the heat for that one because you spent $2k on online games! But no no, that $40 was the deal breaker, to feed your wife and your child. You had to escape from your family. I must not have rubbed your feet correctly or moaned loud enough. I know you preferred a porn star. I'm not. I don't go tanning. I actually eat food. I save sex for the confines of wedlock. My breasts are real. But you know, porn doesn't love you. It's as numb as you are. Maybe that's why it tempted you. There was no challenge and no spiritual friction between your lost soul and another, you cold, heartless, unkind bastard.

You know nothing of God, though you claim to believe Him, you lack love, you lack work ethic, and you're a thief. You're no leader. You're a poor representation of what the white, Christian male ought to be, and you should be dismissed of your honorable discharge from the Marine Corps. Marines don't "do" what you did. You spoke of God's law with such eloquence you could have turned a rock into gold. You could have caused a poor man to budget for your opinions, you so highly carried your lofty self. Such mighty speak for the laziness you flaunted.

Here is where I fell short: I took so much of the verbal and mental and emotional abuse it was easy for me to be carnally taken for a time by another, or another, or another --- flattered by kindness that I did not know in my own home, honored by quality time given even just online. I was the sucker I never wanted to be, and I beat myself up repeatedly because of it. I went to counseling because of it. I pushed and pushed and pushed myself to be OKAY with your tyrannical ways just to prove to you that I was not what you accused me of. I am not so easy now, but that's because I caught wind of the pattern I was in: Abused wifey tempted by nice guy who was nice in the wrong context to the wrong woman because the woman was married, even though maybe she shouldn't have been... and abusive husband made her pay for it. I'm not sure I'd say you did well by making me pay for it. Payback's a bitch, isn't it? It's ok. Now you may have whatever your dark heart desires.

I began to believe years ago that if he was so bent on harpooning me with his words, I must really deserve it, so I focused inward. I focused on keeping myself "in check." It was never enough, however, and I repeatedly heard "You say you're sorry but you haven't dealt with the issue." I'd say "What more than repentance do you require?" And I always heard "For you to deal with it." "Well, what's it look like to 'deal with it' in your eyes?" I honestly think his idea of making me pay was killing me. I think he fantasized over the idea. He wished he died in battle. No, he lusted after a shattered dream. Wonderlust consumed him. We tried different counselors, but it always came back to me. I remember when one counselor said straight to his face "If you don't repent, no matter how much she tries to avoid leaving you, she'll hit her breaking point. It's just a matter of time as to when that point will be. Don't play with fire. Be the godly man you preach about."

What I heard at home was, "You're a complete failure." "You'll never be what you claim you are." "I know your sins and if you do me wrong, I can shout them from the rooftops until you learn your place." "You are nothing more than a cheap whore." "Don't walk next to me." "You want a hug? What have you done to deserve a hug?" "Why do you need to go to school? You don't need to be educated to have kids." "You don't know anything." "You're wrong. No matter what, you're wrong." "I thought women were supposed to be good at this." "You think you have it so tough. Be happy I let you live in my house and breathe my air." "You think I don't love you? I let you spend my money and sleep in my bed." "What makes you think you have control over your children? You can't even keep yourself from crying when you're upset." "Cry-baby. You're so weak." "Women are all emotion and no logic. I think God made women to give men sex. And when you think about it, why else? We're lonely, we get aroused, we want to fuck. We do the hard work. We don't need you otherwise. You do make great salads but I don't need those to survive. The military taught me all I need to know." Etc etc etc....

Yet I believed if I had enough faith, if I JUST had enough faith, he'd be healed. I could proclaim it and it would happen. God answers when we knock. I knocked... for seven years, and we had some good times, but the cycles became worse and worse. I had to stop speaking of him so highly because I would only make myself look stupid for doing so. I became deluded by his delusions. That's how it goes with abusive situations. You start to believe everything they tell you, in spite of the pit in your stomach and the feeling that there's a hand squishing your brain all the time, preventing you from believing in yourself enough to think your own thoughts. I no longer had secondary PTSD. I had PTSD of my very own.

To our son he said "You're stupid and weak." "Shut up. SHUT UP!" "You're not a boy. You're not even good enough to be a girl." "You don't deserve to eat." "You can't read." You're not my son right now." "Go sit under your mommy's apron, you little shit." "Do you need your ass beat again?" "Shut up or I'll beat the shit out of you." "You don't need more affection. You need to do right because you're TOLD to, boy! You don't need a hug! You need to be STRONG! Quit crying! STOP IT NOW or I'll smack the tears out of you!" "Shut the FUCK UP!" "Get away from me." "Go talk to someone who cares." "I want to take you hunting but your mother wants to sabotage the family."

I was property. I was never his equal. And... I sort-of liked it, because I'm submissive. My personality enjoys being controlled to an extent, so I actually thought I was doing right and was willing to continue to submit, thinking I was in God's will, praying I'd be a perfect wife eventually. His prayers? Forced. Faked. Thrust in and pulled out, like a cold speculum on a hard metal bed. I'm not afraid to be graphic. Too much information? That's imagery. It's mine. I own it. Read it or leave it.

Countless times throughout my marriage men would approach me discretely to tell me that if their wife or prospective wife was less than half of what I was, they'd be the happiest man alive. I've heard "Your husband married up," "married out of his league," "I don't know how he got you," "What do you even see in that guy?" and "Does he treat you as well as you deserve to be treated?" so many times. Each time, I'd crumble a bit more and a bit more of the mirror would shine on a part of myself I was reluctant to see. Eventually I'd wipe my hand down my cheekbone and wonder where on earth I was hiding -- without makeup. What I thought was beautiful at one point was scarcely "okay," and who I was --- was just;

Caregiver. Homemaker. Tireless worker who worked enough without pay to give everyone as much time to nap as they desired while I'd lick the dishes clean if I didn't have time to run to the store to buy a new sponge. It sounds extreme and it was. I was everything for him. I paid the bills, I sought the disability increases for the means to pay the bills, I got on my face before God when there was no way we could, and God opened doors through many people at many times. I think people had a clue, but then also had no clue. God's a protector, you know?

I "loved too much." I was the classic example of an abused, battered wife. But I was strong. My strength was hailed. I couldn't give people more than a tiny piece of what took place because I was so upbeat no one would have pegged me as anything other than a fake. But my faith never has been fake. I'm outspoken about it because the only salvation I know of, it remains. 

But, foul stench of an ex, I wiped you when you could not reach. Bathed you when you could not sit upright. I tied your shoes, I buttoned your shirt, I pulled up your pants, I held your cup so you could swallow, I clipped your nails, I shaved your beard, I took showers with you so you wouldn't fall from a blackout, I walked with my arm linked in yours no matter how angry you were perceived as being by the general public, I looked out for you when you had too much vertigo to give into your paranoia in public, I undressed and dressed and administered medications and helped you walk and listened to you talk about the darkness you hated but was all-consuming. I encouraged you the moment I saw you sink into your black house of depression again and again. I memorized Scripture so that when your faith failed you, I could offer you some solace. I looked into homeopathy because you hated how the chemicals in the VA's prescribed narcotics affected you. I scheduled my entire life around you, and you never complained about it one bit. You were happy to take it and complain when something wasn't right. When you'd have moments of giving back, you then wanted the red carpet rolled out beneath your pedicured feet, some funds set aside for new ballistic gear, and hot, steamy sex on demand. I could go on.

I did it for lost love. You had this uncanny way of making me feel dirty and then almost causing me to enjoy feeling so dirty. It must have been that smile and how you know I have a thing for strength, for height, for protection, for warm hugs and sturdy arms.But the smile faded, and your excuses multiplied, and your gave yourself over to the grave. Grace evaded you and so did God from your life. You lost your joy, you lost your hope, and you found reasons to be angry, wasteful, daring boastfully to speak of how you were always "trying." ALWAYS "trying." Never doing. Your phrases got old. 

I stuck it out but I hit my breaking point.

"Trouble and anguish have found me out, but Your commandments are my delight." -Psalm 119:143

It wasn't until the day I heard what you said that my entire world crumbled. "I am going to beat her like the Muslim bitch she is." And to think I was at home while you texted it to a trusted friend. Thank God our trusted friends are mandatory reporters!

I remembered "I promise to encourage you all the days of your life. I promise to love you. To hold you. To cherish you the way you deserve, my Queen."

You said, "I should have taken him [your own flesh and blood] out in the hospital when I had the chance."

You're a mongrel. A beast. You're despicable. I shook my head profusely at my sister's house on her couch, at my one safe place at the time, and now a month out from the finalized divorce, now I crumble. Now all I want to do is sleep. Now I smile and it's realer than real, and I laugh and it's honest and true, but I am SO broken that I am doing this all by myself. Truth be told, I have been a single mother since the day our firstborn was born, and you know it. Because you claimed to love children but then when you had your own, it was more fitting in your eyes to bruise his little face before he was a few weeks old. And yelling "shut up" seemed fatherly to you. Your son's memories of you are far from angelic. You belted him until he could not cry because he'd been screaming for too long. You had him carry weights back and forth in the back yard for 30 minutes while drilling him because he didn't tie his shoes fast enough. You threatened to take a belt to me if I stood in the way of how you disciplined him, because it was my fault he wasn't perfect, because I was a shitty wife. You bruised his back and legs so badly I had to reschedule doctor appointments. You made him stand naked in sleeting weather outside, chugging water bottles until his face turned purple. WHY?! You sat down with us twice as a family in his whole life to play games. TWICE! I don't even think he'll remember those two times unless I remind him. And he's a cute kid, too!

Do you have any idea how much time I have spent instructing him to honor his father and pray for him regardless of how mean you were? But he doesn't even ask for you because his time as "Daddy's little helper" was never had. You were home every day and while you were home, you were as good as dead. Instead of just hugging him and kissing him and building towers with blocks and painting pictures of cars and playing with worms and frogs, you told him to have a plan to kill everyone he meets. You put a seed of murder into my sweet boy's heart! Go fuck yourself, you heartless bastard. Stay away from my precious firstborn son!!! I LOVE HIM and I will work with him through his challenges and love him forever and ever! But you? You are what horror movies are made of. You did worse to him than what you complained of your own father doing to you.

And I was too afraid to report you. Shame on me. But it's reported now. To the VA. To the FBI. To CPS. To the Vet Center. To the service dog organization. To the domestic violence crisis line. To the police. It's why you have shied away from treatment and why you ran. It's why you're on the other side of the country now. It's why you know you have NOTHING to stand on and you walk around with a limp, drinking yourself stupid with whiskey and coke, talking about getting random chicks in hotel rooms. It's why you lost, son. You lost. It's why I have sole legal and physical custody of the children and you will never see them, so help me God. God served justice rather quickly and your lack of remorse speaks volumes. "My family left me," you said.

You're clueless.

I hate your sin. I hate your cold, cold heart. You claim you lost. Yes you did. What family deserves such treatment? Your fraud against national organizations screams, your desires, your lack of goals, your delusions.... what women would want you? I have friends who hate you because of what you did to me. They see the mess I'm in, and they read between the lines, and they hate you. Destroying my photography and taking 13k wasn't enough for you, was it? You had to take our firstborn's bed. You had to go and take his money out of the wallet you made for him. Vital records? You have them all, too. Everything you have is because I helped you get it, because I believed you were as disabled as you said you were. But ohh, you were clever enough to do the damage you did. Where's the worst part? You don't think you've ever been abusive. You're sick. You're fucking sick. I haven't even written everything down that you did. 

I have not figured love out, you see, because I must come to terms of how I could so quickly fall madly in love with someone only to see it become what I've just mentioned. I don't know how to wrap my head around that. I hate him. I don't understand how I can preach what I know is true, that love never fails, and know that my own did. I don't know how to explain to the Lord that I believe He dwells richly inside me but not where my marriage was. There is a massive gaping hole in my theology regarding this, and as a result, my mind and my heart are mangled. I am too afraid to approach my pastor on the issue. I need to however, and I will not let my fear get the best of me.

I am currently sour. I'm more tart than a kitten trying to poop out a lemon head. The sweet side of me is not completely destroyed, but today, and I'm not sure why today (maybe why not today is an appropriate question), is rough.

I will cling to God. He will help me. He always has, always will.

For behold, those who are far from You shall perish.

You put an end to everyone who is unfaithful to You.

But for me it is good to be near God; 

I have made the Lord God my refuge, 

that I may tell of all Your works. 

Psalm 73:27-28 ESV