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.
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.
No comments:
Post a Comment
I value your mind.