My Verbally Abusive Marriage

DreamScapes

Me — Sun, 01 Aug 2010 19:22:06 +0000

The dream hurt. I was at Will’s house and my son’s room was beautifully decorated and he had all the “things” I ever wanted to give him. Professionally painted wallsand trim, decorator-type bedspread and pillows, matching bedset, plush carpet – it was an oasis of his personality, soft inviting comfortable. And Will provided it for him, not me.

I stood there with a notebook in my hand, ready to write the emotions, willing to write the story, but lost for the words required to express the sense of utter failure I felt deep within my gut.

I pulled a book off his shelf, overladen with reading material, and opened it. On every page was a map showing where “Iodine” lived. I knew it should say “Iroquois”, but it didn’t. It said Iodine. In the margins were pictures of military vehicles, land and air, labeled neatly with a blurb about each one in tiny print. I felt like my tears should be wetting the pages, but the tears didn’t come until I woke.

Helplessness. Defeat. Failure. Doubt. Fear.

Fortunately, I was able to share the dream and as I listened to myself talk, I realized that “things” and “appearances” lie.

I know that one of my greatest faults is in thinking that I can buy my boys something to make up for the pain I think they feel. I was able to do it all the time when I was married to Will. Most of the time I was married, I didn’t know what pain I was trying to make up for by purchasing the latest game console or pair of shoes.

Now, in hindsight, I realize I tried to make up for the deficit I perceived in myself. Yes, I knew my boys were in pain, but they maybe didn’t know it. They knew one thing all their lives…the way things were…they were young and didn’t consider that other people may live differently. They didn’t know they were being deprived.

I subconsciously knew it before the word “abuse” entered my mind, but I consciously came to terms with it after discovering the truth. I knew their lives were lacking a mother who could give her all to them. I felt deprived of love and acceptance and projected those feelings onto them. I thought that I couldn’t fully love them because the one man in the world who I wanted to love me could not. There was something wrong with me, and if purchasing them the latest toy could delay them finding out that I was a fraud, then that was a game I was willing to play.

Now I cannot play anymore…I must be real. I must be myself because I have no green paper-bill bandaid to fill any void. I am literally stripped of my coping mechanism, laid bare for better or worse to those boys. I am what I am, and I fear that who I am isn’t enough.

In the dream, faced with the room Will decorated and the toys he bought for them, I came face to face with the realization that it is time to put up or shut up. No longer can I compare what I do as a mother to what he does as a father. No longer can I make up for any perceived deficits in either Will’s or my character by changing who I am or what I do to mend their possibly aching heart. I cannot be the malleable wood-filler that magically fills the gaps in my boys’ broken hearts.

My perception of what may go on behind their dad’s closed doors haunts me. I truly hope he is the father he projects himself to be to the outside world, and the outside world now includes me. I see him nagging about homework and chores, keeping tabs on the boys’ friends, taking them to doctor appointments, and sharing horseplay and jokes with them. I see him being the father I knew he could be, and I hope I am right because I really want that for Marc and Eddie. But I fear that my perception is limited.

I fear that they are now experiencing what I experienced with their father, and honestly, I am torn about it. On the one hand, I don’t want them to go through the painful voyage of realization I experienced. I want to coccoon them, protect them from finding out the truth I discovered. I pray that I am truly the only person in the world whom Will desires to be “just like him”, that I am the only person in the world expected to live on a pedastal and to be punished when I fall off of it.

On the other hand, I want them to see the games Will plays and the subconscious lies I feel Will tells himself. I feel that if the boys could see the manipulation and control, then they could learn to detach themselves from it. Never in a million years would I want them to NOT LOVE their father, and I know they COULD NEVER stop loving him. I don’t want them to hate him or to not want to be with him. But I want them to be able to protect themselves.

I want them to be able to say to themselves and believe in their heart that there is nothing “wrong” with them, despite the tornado tearing through their heart and mind most likely created by Will’s inability to allow individualism on any count. In hindsight, when I wasn’t mirroring Will, then I was wrong. And I have a strong suspicion that the boys are experiencing that same tornado without the inadequate storm shelter I tried to provide.

I want them to love both Will and me without limitation. I want them to be able to see each of us for all of our goodness and all of our flaws, and then choose what they want to carry with them into their own lives. I don’t want them to make subconscious choices, I want them to make conscious choices.

And yet I have no control over their choices. My hands and words are tied. I cannot tell them what I know, I cannot share with them the strategies they can use to protect themselves, I cannot say or do anything to help them without sounding like I hate their father or want them to hate Will. Or at least, I haven’t figured out how to do that yet.

I’ll search my dream for an answer. But I already think I know it. I must continue to detach from Will. I must continue to accept the love and protection of the angels (living and ethereal) in my life. I must continue to shed my fears, to discover who I am, and to love my boys unconditionally even when it hurts so deep inside that I think I will literally explode into pieces.

I must rip off the bandaids, even when the sticky parts pull my flesh from bone.

Linda’s Abusive Experience

Me — Wed, 21 Jul 2010 00:13:39 +0000

Linda recently wrote to tell us about her abusive marriage. Although it appears her husband is changing, she suffers from PTSD and cannot trust that what happened before truly will not happen again. She remains in the marriage, prays for guidance, and trusts that God will guide her steps.

Read Linda’s testimonial.

Hold and Release

Me — Tue, 06 Jul 2010 03:04:14 +0000

There must be something in the air. My mood is so serious, like a rain-filled cloud threatening to rain on my parade.

Although I feel in my gut that I’m moving in the right direction, I’m getting stronger, finding out who I am and what I like (and don’t), … there’s something heavily sad about this weekend.

Will and I have talked several times, amicably enough, in the past weeks. But Saturday, I found myself embroiled in a disagreement with Will, told to quit popping off at the mouth and scolded about my soap opera drama. I didn’t see it that way. Said to stop telling me what I was doing and what my intentions were. He got madder. We hung up the phone. It didn’t last long.

Somewhere in there, in response to him telling me he didn’t trust me and that he thought I was up to no good and being dishonest, I said, “You’ve always thought that of me.” He replied that no, he hadn’t always thought it, that its a recent thing. He got angry that I had said it, told me that he was sorry he’d tried to talk to me. I thought to myself that he wasn’t talking to me, but at me.

When we hung up, I tried to shrug it off as if his words didn’t bother me. They did. But I think what is really bothering me now is what I said: “You’ve always thought that of me.” Shrinks will tell you to not use words like “always” in conversations because they’re accusing words. But I used one, he felt defensive, and the rest is history.

Now, writing this, I’m torn between two paths I could write about. The first one is that it would be nice if he had only said, “I don’t think it’s fair to say ‘always’” to which I could have corrected myself. Or at least apologized for inflammatory language.

But (and here’s the second path), I think I was right. I don’t think I said it to be accusing or to pop off or to start some drama. I think I said it because it was what I was thinking, and the more I think about it, I think I was right.

Although I do wish I hadn’t used the word because I want to learn better ways of expressing myself that don’t ignite someone’s defenses, there are several reasons why I think “always” was the right word to describe what I felt:

In the beginning, I was called “whore” often. He didn’t trust me to be faithful to him.
When I did tell him about the kiss one of his friends dished out, he told me that I was mistaken, that his friends would never betray him. Sometimes he would come home and “investigate” the house. He’d look for something out of place, or maybe something to give away what I was doing with my time when he was at work. Sometimes he’d get lucky and feel like he hit the jackpot, caught me in some imagined lie and confront me. This wasn’t usually about “other men” it was about how I spent my time. There were times when no explanation would satisfy him. He didn’t trust me to tell him the truth.
Although eventually all the finances fell to me to handle, he constantly insinuated of my mishandling them and became angry over what I’d spent without bothering to find out what our expenses actually were. He didn’t trust me with “his” money.
When our children would act out and misbehave, or behave in a way he considered wrong for “men”, he claimed that it was my influence causing their dysfunction. If I’d only spanked them more, if I weren’t so soft on them, if only I’d act more like him when he was away on deployment, they’d know better. He didn’t trust me with his children.

Integrity, sex, money, children… what else was there to our marriage? I feel that there was nothing at all I could have done to gain his trust in any of those areas. Everyone has weaknesses, everyone makes mistakes, and I am no saint. But for crying out loud, how could I really have fought this issue? If he doesn’t have trust inside of him, then how could I earn his trust? I wonder if he had any to give (to me, at least).

When I would bring these things up to him, he would answer with, “I married you, didn’t I?” or “I must trust you, I have to leave you with the boys when I deploy,” or “You’re the one who handles the money, aren’t you? You could really screw me if you wanted to!” All true statements, but never truly honest.

Sigh.

But there is a silver lining to the storm cloud. It happened today. Will told me that he thinks our relationship should be “only business.” He wants to pull away from me. He said that he can tell I’m moving on, but he’s still stuck in the anger and hurt. He wants to detach, and he set clear boundaries. I listened to him without saying much at all.

A big piece of me is so freaking proud of him! A big piece of me wanted to tell him that he was on the right track, that detaching from me was the right thing to do in order to find peace and health and happiness.

And a small piece of me is sad. The little wife inside of me wanted to hug him and tell him that it would all be all right. That I appreciated his vulnerability and that his decision is a wise one. And I cried (after he left) because he is detaching from me.

You see, when I started this blog, I thought Will and I would be married forever. I thought we’d have our ups and downs and solve the downs and be happy. I thought when he saw what effect his words and actions had on me that he would change them because he loved me. I thought we would heal together, never to be torn apart.

But now he and I are healing on our own. We won’t be together when we’re happy next. We won’t be married forever having overcome the trials of our own humanity. We’ll never sit on the porch together, rocking, gray hair blowing in the breeze.

I must detach from that dream, and saying goodbye to it hurts more than any dream I’ve ever held and released before.

Update from Todd

Me — Sun, 04 Jul 2010 06:29:19 +0000

Todd communicated with me today, and I am so happy to hear from him. I posted his testimonial earlier today, and now is as good a time as any to let you know how he’s doing.

From Todd:

Hi Kellie,

I hope you are in a safe peaceful place in your life. My wife and I are still separated and it’s been 90 + days and I am making progress with my abuse but still have some ways to go to build up her faith & trust. There are times that I take a step backwards but seems to put things in a clearer perspective for me to learn from because I have the will to improve me. I sure love my wife and kids, but I need to be patient, kind, honest and understanding in all my affairs! Please feel free to upload this and display it if you would like on the blog. Take care!

“…patient, kind, honest and understanding” sure sounds like a winning combination. Todd, I’m thinking good thoughts for you.

Allison’s Abuse Testimonial

Me — Sat, 03 Jul 2010 18:40:59 +0000

Whew! Allison submitted a testimonial from the other side of the abuse. She left 7 years ago, and has been busy! Book published, paper under consideration by the Journal of Aggression, Maltreatment and Trauma, scholarship granted…

But perhaps most inspiring is Allison left her abuser when she was 56 years old. Her life is not over, there are many many blessed years left for her to continue LIVING and accomplishing whatever she sets her mind to do. Never let the number of years you’ve suffered determine the number of years you will accept it.

Diana’s Abuse Testimonial

Me — Sat, 03 Jul 2010 17:43:51 +0000

Diana is, I think, the youngest person to contact me in hope of breaking the silent pattern of abuse. She’s 18, and her abuser is 23.

Although I hesitate to use the word “fortunately”, I find myself thinking it because at the time of her writing, she was not with her abuser due to his physically violent rampage. He went for her throat, pushed her into a window.

Read Diana’s Abuse Testimonial.

Ali’s Abuse Testimonial

Me — Sat, 03 Jul 2010 17:16:13 +0000

Ali’s testimonial gets right to the root of the problem for abuse victims. It’s beautifully written, like sad, dark poetry.

She wrote me in February, and I am greatly sorry that I didn’t post her testimonial sooner.

Read Ali’s Testimonial - you won’t be disappointed, although it will make you think, wonder, and maybe recognize yourself and the abuse you’ve suffered.

Todd’s Abuse Testimonial

Me — Sat, 03 Jul 2010 16:44:11 +0000

Todd’s testimonial has a twist: his story comes from the point of view of the abuser. I’ve communicated with Todd outside of this testimonial and he seems very sincere and ready to change. He mentions “Controlling People: How to Recognize, Understand, and Deal With People Who Try to Control You” by Patricia Evans as the book that helped after his wife moved out with his two children.

You can read his testimonial at Todd’s Abuse Testimonial. I am so excited to have a testimonial like Todd’s on the site! I wish him love and luck in regaining his family through truthful actions and words.

Dear Erin

Me — Sat, 03 Jul 2010 15:24:53 +0000

My sister, Erin, supports me consistantly and constantly. She loves me regardless of my decisions, actions, and quirks. She knows my dark side and thinks it’s valuable. I couldn’t love her more, yet every day, I do love her more.

Before I recognized the abuse in my life, she was largely quiet about it for fear of her words pushing me away from her. She knew, instinctively, that Will (probably subconsciously) wanted everyone who loved me far, far away – or at least that’s how it appeared. Still, she would cry with me when I hurt in large part because there were things she wanted to say but held them inside. Or at least, this is the way I think it played out.

One time, after realizing the abuse for myself, I asked her why she didn’t just TELL me I was being abused, and she said, “Would you have believed me if I had?” Of course, the answer was “No.” I’ll never ask that question again of her or anyone else who loves me. It’s not up to them to tell us what is going on, is it? It’s something we have to realize inside of ourselves.

Erin is a very wise woman. She’s decided to put her skills to work helping other people who need fresh ideas and perspectives so they can move away from the things, people and ideas that hurt them. She wants us all to live in our own light, within our own power augmented by Spirit (God, Goddess, Angels, The Powers that Be…).

Here is an email she sent me on facebook two days ago. She said I could share it, and Iwant to because you need to know that there are people in the world like her. People who support you, who love you, who are just itching to help you. You may not see them until you take off the blinders abuse is causing you to wear.

Here is her email:

“I think you are overlooking something you don’t want to look at again… yet.

“You are a survivor. You pushed your way through a horrid time in your life when you was married, and then again pushed your way through the time of uncertainty after you left.

“Other women need to know this can be done. They need to know that after they leave their abusive marriages, they will come out better on the other end.

“I think you are just not ready for it yet. You are not ready to re-visit the pain of it; or to be faced with the women who are still enduring it because you NEED to keep pushing through this segment in your life for right now.

“So, don’t question what you should be doing to earn an income. You are loving your life where you are right now; and I think that is exactly where you need to be. The time will reveal itself to you when it is time to step back into the world that brought you to where you are now…

“The only difference is that you will already be on the other side. Completely.

“Keep doing what you are doing. You haven’t been this happy, or this authentic in a long time. Own it. Live it.

“You will know when the time is right.

“I love you, and I am so proud of you Kellie!!!”

The good news is that even if you don’t know a soul like Erin right now, you can contact her now at her website, Dear Erin. The link takes you to her “What Dear Erin Does” page. I encourage you to contact her because her first two clients are free if you agree to give her a testimonial in return.

Carolyn’s Abuse Testimonial

Me — Sat, 03 Jul 2010 14:51:30 +0000

Carolyn wrote an abuse testimonial a couple of months ago. I hadn’t posted it yet because I didn’t really want to think about my own abuse. That wasn’t fair, and I’m sorry Carolyn, that you waited so long.

As you read through it, think about the years Carolyn has lived with this verbal, emotional and mental abuse. The time it takes you to read the testimonial is nothing compared to the years she’s spent living the abuse. I got a knot in my stomach realizing that many of the abuses she reports were happening in real time even though she was listing past abuse.

Carolyn’s Abuse Testimonial

Verbal Abuse Revisited

Me — Fri, 02 Jul 2010 17:41:37 +0000

Lately I’ve not preached the gospel of what verbal abuse IS or how it is affecting me because I’m in a new phase. The phase that exists after the prime abuser is removed from the majority of life. However, just because I’m revelling in the freedom, that doesn’t mean that all of YOU are revelling with me! So I’d like to share some links about abuse and where you can find help and relief from it.

The Narcissism Daily Mirror, author Kim Cooper, is writing a series on verbal abuse. The latest one is When verbal abuse is covert or may not sound like verbal abuse … Check to the right of the article to view the others pertaining to verbal abuse.

My friend recently found a site called Women Exhale. It’s an inexpensive alternative to traditional therapy for abuse victims, and it is not insurance based, meaning that your abuser will not receive notice of your choice to seek therapy from any insurance approval letters that may come to your house.

Patricia Evans, author of books such as “The Verbally Abusive Man: Can He Change?”, is online at VerbalAbuse.com. I highly recommend becoming a member of her message boards. Yes, you must call the toll free number to join the board, but this is done to ensure only abuse victims have access to this resource. No abuse perpetrators allowed. When I called, I spoke to Patricia directly, and had access to the boards within minutes.

For information on verbal abuse, try Dr. Irene.Please call or virtually visit the National Domestic Violence Hotline at 800-799-7233 even if you don’t know what you’re going to say, and even if you haven’t experienced the physically violent side of domestic violence (yet). Domestic violence includes mental, emotional, verbal, financial, and all other sorts of abuse. Just because you’ve never had a bloody lip or blackened eye does NOT mean you are not experiencing domestic violence.

To read my story from the beginning (1992), start at Less Than I Am and click “Next” at the upper right to continue. Or to read testimonials from other abuse survivors, visit Your Journal Entries.

Also, check out the Blogroll and Links section to the right, near my facebook badge. The more you know, the more powerful you become. The more power you have within yourself, the sooner you can make changes to stop the cycle of abuse.

You do not have to leave your abuser right now or ever, you can stay. That is a valid choice.

For me, I chose to stay until I’d reached a point of power within myself that did not allow me to stay any longer. But before that point, I had begun reacting differently to the abuse. Back then, there was no way to know if my husband would change or not, but I hoped he would.

Hope is not a solution, it’s a distraction. Stop hoping and start educating yourself.

I’m Not That Person…Yet

Me — Fri, 02 Jul 2010 16:49:27 +0000

The past month whirled around me, through me, like a red wine hurricane. I feel alive and strong, but spinning uncontrollably in my heart are questions and wishes that I’m not ready to answer or fulfill. I feel like I’m in danger of losing my vision because time isn’t pacing itself with my desires – what I want to become, who I want to be is not yet centered inside of me. The person I want to be is still ahead of me on the timeline while I’m forced to continue living in the present.

I am grateful beyond words that the only voice in my head is my own. After so many years of sharing space with Will’s voice, I had hoped hearing only my own would end the confusion and doubt. Living free and dis-anchored from Will’s reality set loose a storm of giddy emotions, loving dreams, and happy thoughts within me. I’ve loved the time I’ve spent in the whirl, loved the people I’ve met, loved the feelings of re-connectedness to life itself. But, as all storms, it is passing and I’m left to deal with the thoughts and decisions I made in the spin-cycle.

Despite the whirlwind of emotion, underlying it on the earthy path of my soul, I knew I was in danger of being swept away into a different kind of false world. If I weren’t careful, I could easily exchange Will’s version of reality for another unreal reality, a possibly more dangerous one made up of my own delusion and wish-craft. A conversation with the powers that be warned me of the magical world of delusion and falsehood and then my flesh and bone therapist said, “It isn’t REAL, Kellie. You’re not yet separate from Will, from that life. You need more time.”

Of course, my ego denied the gods and the therapist outright. This delusion was FUN, it was EXCITING, and it was WORKING! … Dammit. And people around me were in danger of being hurt by it; I was in danger of being hurt by it. My boundaries blurred, my dreams for myself pushed aside, I realize I am spending too much time in the whirlwind and not enough time feeling my feet on the ground.

Right as I left my therapists office, I turned and asked her “How long should this last? Do I have at least another month?” I meant the storm of good-emotion fuel, the feeling of being high on living. She said, “As long as it needs to. There’s no set time.” And although I told myself with forced smile that I could ride for at least another six months, inside of me, the storm began to quiet.

I tried to deny the silencing of the storm. I forged ahead, made an emotional decision that felt good in order to re-ignite the dramatic whirl. But what I found was the drama wasn’t worth the price I asked another person to pay. The seed was planted in my mind, I know the storm is coming to an end, and that the person I am right now is not the person I’m destined to become. I’m not the person I want to be…yet.

So now I’m standing here on a muddied path, feeling alive and humbled, letting the greenish overcast that fills the atmosphere after a storm flow through me. The color green heals, so I know that the coming down from the high is also part of my destiny.

Although I’m saddened to know the storm has passed, it also feels good to know that I’ve weathered it. I haven’t blown so far from my path that it is unrecognizable. My feet are firmly planted in about a half inch of mud, much different from the waist-deep shit I was entrenched in months ago. This mud will dry, the sky will turn blue, the birds will sing and life is good.

Life is different, again, but washed clean and humbly refreshed.

Searching

Me — Tue, 29 Jun 2010 00:13:59 +0000

One time an old friend said he pictured me as Peggy Hill and I about had a heart attack. Right there. On the spot. You can’t forget being compared to Peggy Hill. It ain’t funny, y’all.

I felt like sending him a picture, but seeing that I was 200 pounds, I refrained thinking he would then picture me as Miss Piggy! Besides, it wasn’t the physical aspects, I hope, but the simple fact that I now lived in “The South” – that foreign, steamy, mystical place we Northern Chicks sometimes think about, but don’t want to live. Now that I have lived there, I’ve found that most nights are not sultry, sit on the porch fanning and drinking tea kind of nights. They’re merely frigging hot. I still feel out of place, out of sync, with the others who can point to their great-grandmother’s house on that hill over there.

I don’t transplant well, I suppose. It’s been fourteen years of Southern living. If I were gonna grow roots here, they would have sprouted by now.

I’m starting to see myself as a traveller. I’d like to visit foreign lands and stay for awhile. I’d like to move to different areas of this country to see if I mesh with the natives a little better in the West, or the Southwest. Or maybe New England, although I have the feeling that like the far South, the extreme North may be foreign to me, too. I’ll visit Alaska via cruise ship only – I hear it’s breathtaking. Then, after the travelling, I’ll pick a place, or maybe the last place I travel to will simply pick me and I’ll stay because it gets me, through and through.

Part of me knows that this search for the perfect exterior place is a pipe dream. I don’t really believe I’ll find that place until I know myself through and through AND am strong enough to not compromise what I want for myself for what someone else wants for me, or for what I want for them. The exterior world mirrors my soul; if I’m uncomfortable somewhere, it’s because I do not know who I am there. It’s because I’m looking for some external validation that I am okay, perfect the way I am.

I have to be very careful and remember to pay attention to my self, my opinions, my wants and needs, before I go searching for someplace (or someone) that TELLS me I’m okay. I want to know that I’m wonderful, beautiful, creative and strong deep inside, for me.

No related posts.

In the End

Me — Sun, 20 Jun 2010 19:07:12 +0000

This is a stream of consciousness writing I did on the beach some weeks back. Little punctuation, bits of clarity…just felt like sharing.

Sun Surf Freedom Coincidence and Lack. Suntans, sunburns and jumping in the waves, shaking Saltwater out of his hair. Sunshine and goodness, fisherman, vacancies. Maybe too windy. Waves drop into us as we struggle against their push. Wet and warm waves like the aftershocks of sex. The smile and sparkling eyes of a lover and the touch in intimate places feels like warm red wine not meant ot be drunk but for pouring pouring pouring.

Crafty and cunning is the body which longs to experience the carnal quickening of the heart, pulling hair just enough to remind of vulnerability but not enough to threaten. I could but I won’t. I trust but I watch and listen and compare those words to the ones I’ve heard oft repeated in anger.

There is a difference and the difference may merely be time. Perhaps at once, time catches up to us like a freight train with no brakes, slamming into the soul. All at once, one day, one small thing is simply too much anymore to tolerate that one thing shines a bright light on the multitude of smaller harshness from the years and it is too much. Too much.

I fight back. I try to regain some knowledge of who I am and what I want. What I want. The red pouring wine. The small kisses. The shining light from his eyes as he looks at me instead of past me as if i don’t exist. I miss the longing…but he cannot long for one accessible, easy. He longs for what he may not attain, not that for which he has conquered. And he conquered me. He took me. He swallowed me. And he was satiated.

I sat so long in hs gut that his insides started to churn and struggle to digest me…but I wouldn’t leave. And he hated me for it.

Hated me. Hated him. I gave him all of me – All of me. And he hated me. Iam sorry I surrendered to him and I am sorry I remember the harshness of him.

I wish I remembered what my light reflecting from his eyes felt like. What I looked like to him when I was still me. I want to see that light again. I doubt that he will be the one to see me…but perhaps someone else will. I will see him, too.

A man who is tall and thick, with laugh lines around his eyes and a leisurly pace when we’re together. I’ll drink him in like warm red wine and touch him along the lines most will never touch. I will see his light and soak it in, then release it back to him so I can delight in his presence instead of his shadow.

He will lift me, I will lift him. We will be as one but two distinct loving hearts. His arms will open to me a billion times, and a billion times I will rush to fill them. Strong but soft. Supporting but freeing. If I fly away he will patiently wait and if he flies from me I will allow him freedom. Coming and going. Coming and going. Coming together in the end.

Luxury

Me — Tue, 15 Jun 2010 04:44:12 +0000

For the first time in a very long time, I’m dealing with a variety of emotions, bad and good (if I have to judge an emotion as bad or good…). In the last year(s?) of my marriage, I dealt with anger, betrayal, fear, bitterness, probably even hate. But now there is a whole world of emotion to experience that I didn’t recognize or had forgotten about or refused to feel. Most likely a combination of all three.

I was talking to someone tonight and realized that EVERYTHING is different now. The way I experience the world thrills me beyond hope and reason. My microfiber chair is softer, my cat is crazier, food tastes better, music means more. Water is a need instead of a treat I may give myself if I pass a sink on the way to do something for someone else. Now I stop by the sink all the time and I love the sound of the water whooshing from the faucet, anticipating the non-taste of the cold, and quenching a deep thirst I hadn’t paid attention to before.

The emotions swirling around my heart and mind excite me. Some I think I “shouldn’t” feel, but I’m trying not to shut them off. Maybe letting them run their course, as I’ve let my anger and hate run their course, will ease the intensity and mystery. Pretending not or trying not to feel something I feel is not a good thing – I know that now. Being inundated with these new-found high-energy hopes (and doubts) is luxurious. Like a cold drink from the faucet “just because”. I need it. I need this time.

Married to Will, I spent my days deciphering HIS emotions, his thoughts, his wants in order to avoid upsetting the balance. I didn’t do it very well and beat myself up about that. But what I was missing was my own life, my own internal workings. Outward focused, I forgot what it felt like to truly FEEL something that came from ME.

Now I am trying very hard to stay inside my own body. I am refusing to guess what he meant by that, what she meant by that. I am trying to ask questions and accept the answer. I think I throw people off a little sometimes. They’re not used to it – being asked to clarify. But I think most appreciate it when they realize that I am truly curious, not judging or waiting to judge their response. I’ve been lucky to be around people who are open to me.

Life is a luxury that I haven’t lived in a very long time. I’m changing that.

How to Stay Positive

Me — Sat, 12 Jun 2010 07:35:58 +0000

Absolutely! I can do anything good!

Some Guy Off the Street

Me — Fri, 11 Jun 2010 23:42:28 +0000

As you may have gathered from my last post, I am entertaining the thought of having some wonderful sex in the future. (:Pd:) While that is true, I can’t seem to think about sex without also thinking about a “RELATIONSHIP”. Well, that isn’t entirely true. I very well can imagine the sex without a relationship, but I can’t imagine me having sex without also having it evolve into a relationship.

Crap. That isn’t entirely true either. Grabbing some guy off the street has crossed my mind. But I’ve got to tell you, I don’t think it would work very well today. When I was in high school in the 80′s, probably; today, I doubt it.

I have a good reason for doubting it, too. The first weekend I was without my boys, my good friend took me out to a bar. (She’s a brave woman!) We got completely wasted, and bless her dear husband who both dropped us off and waited patiently until the wee morning hours to pick us up again.

I was not there to “grab a guy off the street”. I was there to drink. With my friend. And hopefully not cry. Which I didn’t.

What I did experience were several conversations with several guys ranging in age from about 25 to 65. Some were creepy, some were soldiers, some were creepy soldiers. Anyhow, at one point when a young soldier who hadn’t found a woman his age to talk to, he began talking to me and my friend. I asked how he felt about sex with strangers, and his answer was, “Well, I’d have to think about it. There are STD’s and shit out there.”

I wondered just how long a young man in this day and age would think about it. Back in my day, the thought was probably about 15 seconds. But I digress.

His answer made me think about a hundred million diseases that are out there, and that if I did decide to have sex with some guy, then I couldn’t trust a mere condom to protect me. I’d have to know him, know his history. I’d have to trust him (and the condom brand).

And TRUST is a difficult feeling for me to conjure these days. Anyone I’m with, from here on out, will be someone I trust. Which takes “some guy off the street” out of the running.

On the other side of it is “the guy”. If I am looking for someone similar to me, then he’s going to want to know my history, too. He’s going to want to be able to trust me. Because I do want to trust a man again in the future, then I have to make sure – completely positive – that I am being honest with any potential lover I meet. Or know. Or knew once upon a time. Or imagined and then discovered that he was real after rubbing a genie bottle.

And to be honest with HIM, I have to be honest with myself. And that could very well prove to be the hardest thing to do.

After all, I am getting to know myself over again. I am discovering how I’ve changed as well as how I’ve remained the same. It’s kind of exciting, but it’s also a tricky ride. Sometimes I don’t know if “old Kellie” is at the wheel or if I am doing the driving. It’s confusing.

I don’t want to default to “old Kellie’s” thinking because it may not be my true thought. That girl may be long gone, but I don’t think so. There are some things I remember about myself that I would like to repeat. For example:

I loved to lift weights. I loved to eat foods that allowed my muscles to show. I cheated on those diets back then but couldn’t now because of slowing metabolism…but still. I liked that experience very much.
I loved to draw and paint. I still “think” I would love to do that, but I’m wondering if my creativity is best served via writing now.
I loved sex. It was fun and adventurous, loving and crazy. I made mistakes with sex that I won’t repeat, but I wouldn’t take the experiences back for a million dollars. (Well, maybe I’d cash in on a couple.)
I loved seeing people grow and become more of who they were. I loved it when my friends did something they thought they couldn’t. I loved it when I reached a goal for myself.
I loved being able to accept that people could freely move in and out of my life while leaving the door open for their return. Sometimes when they left they never came back, but sometimes the miracle was in their return.
I loved being a free spirit. “Things” weren’t always rosy; in fact, sometimes they were pretty shitty. But my openness to life and its miraculous events created more goodness than I had imagined. Being free allowed the flow of life to continue.

And yes, back in the day I had no qualms with grabbing up some guy off the street. Now I do. So there are things “new Kellie” is not going to do:

I hate that I used to hide my true feelings out of shame or because someone told me I “shouldn’t” feel that way. I feel the way I feel, dammit. When I express the feeling, maybe it will change or evolve. Maybe it won’t.
I hate that I kept parts of myself secreted away because of fear. I don’t want anyone in my life who judges me against him or herself. We’re all different…we’re all wonderful. Let me be wonderful too!
I hate that I acted proud of some of my actions but secretly felt ashamed. I want to do things that I am proud of inside and out. This will require thinking before acting – a forming skill that I will develop more fully.
I hate that I allowed myself to be absorbed by another person. I want to always see the line of distinction between “me” and “you”. And I want to choose what is good for “me” over what is good for “you” OR consciously choose what is better for “you” because that’s what I want to do, not because “you” say it’s the only way or promise me that my “turn” is only a little time away.

I am opening the flow once more. I’ve been closed off to it for long enough. I expect good things, and great things happen. Boy, some guy is going to be lucky to know me…in a few years.

Gotta Raise

Me — Fri, 11 Jun 2010 17:29:34 +0000

A few days ago, my boss gave me a tape measure with my name written on it in permanent marker. I was so darn happy to see that thing – such a simple thing, yet it caused me so much joy! My name in permanent marker on a tape measure. Go figure.

So anyway, today she gave me a raise! I was so surprised I started jumping up and down and then realized I didn’t have the appropriate bra on for heavy jumping and composed myself.

No, I don’t make a lot of money, but when I’m careful, I’ll make “enough”. I’ve got some big dreams and hopes that need financing, and minimum wage plus a quarter/hour isn’t going to cut it. Nevertheless, I feel at home at this job. I love the people, I love the work.

In fact, I find wood-working to be very sensual. I absolutely turn myself on at work I am wondering if it’s the wood and the work, or if I’m just horny all the time! LOL Oh well. I’ll just enjoy it while it lasts. But if I’m 95 years old and own my own woodworking/refinishing business, you’ll know why.

Speaking of being, um, sensually minded, I am finding freedom in this area too. With Will, the sexual aspects of our relationship were stale. He is a very attractive guy, when we did have sex I could imagine better times. But now, it feels like someone tore off my blinders. I inhibited my sexuality to fit into the mold 18 years of marriage created. There was no fun, no joy… Sex’s goal was to reach the end, the happy place, and the enjoyment of feeling along for the ride WITH him was lacking.

Not only his fault. It was both of our faults.

Awhile ago, running through my mind was the thought, “I wonder if sex would be better now, since we’re separated…?” My therapist told me lots of people wonder how sex would be with their ex after divorce. She said that she’d save me the trouble of finding out on my own – “It’s NO different.” That’s good to know. It saves me some grief.

One downside to being sensually oriented these days is that I’m single. That’s a snag. I was married, so if I had gone through this awakening THEN, I imagine Will and I could have pressed on. Maybe made another year of it. I’m glad that didn’t happen on so many levels!

But hey, I get to work with wood all day. That’s enough for now.

Secrets

Me — Wed, 09 Jun 2010 22:03:10 +0000

When I started this blog, I was an open book. I told it ALL, and it felt wonderful to unload. Will desperately wanted me to shut up, to forget about it, to stop telling “lies”. I knew I couldn’t stop telling my truth. Spilling those secrets was the best thing I ever did for myself because only by being open did I find all of you, and with you, the courage and power to move forward, to move away.

If it weren’t for my willingness to lay it all out here to be picked apart and at times judged harshly by strangers, I never would have pressed charges against him on January 22, 2010. I would have left that night for sure; but I would have slunk back into my own home like a shamed puppy the next day. I did that in 2008, but by 2010, I knew that I couldn’t let it slide anymore. I was no longer ashamed of myself.

Life here on the other side is sometimes frightening. Sometimes his words and behaviors still throw me for a loop, and I very anxiously await the next time I must speak to him. Like always, these outbursts are preceeded by days of calm, considered conversation. And as usual, I know the outbursts will not be followed by an apology.

It’s still all my fault in his eyes. I make him mad. I make him say the things he says and do the things he does.

I guess I have power over him, in his mind. I think he thinks I feel entitled to his money and to get everything I want at his expense, and that I lie and manipulate my way through life, blaming him for my wrong-doings and taking all the credit for his success. I suppose I am still a cunt, to use his word.

But Will is not much of any of that to me anymore. He isn’t my world, he isn’t my life, he isn’t my other half. He is the father of my children. He is a volatile force to reckon with for sure, but because we spend so little time together anymore, his eruptions are easier to handle. Despite the fact that I do feel anxious after an outburst, I also have a strong voice in my head that reminds me “This is the pattern. It has little to do with you, Kellie. Some things are his to own, whether he chooses to own them or not.”

I have my own sanctuary, my house. I have my own money, my own job, my own financial plan. I have my own dreams and I’m finding my place in the world. I have my own thoughts, and I can (usually) tell if my thoughts are benefitting me or hurting me.

New to me are my own secrets. I have some wonderful, heart-pounding secrets. There are also some secrets that I can’t wait to tell you, secrets that would shed light on my silence. But I must wait to share them.

Please don’t mistake my silence for pain. Although there is still, at times, plenty of hurt, the hurt is no longer fueled by fear.

For example, although it hurts to not be labelled my boys’ “primary” parent, it is merely a skin-deep wound. It injures my pride and nothing else. I tell myself that the custody situation is only temporary, but this could very well turn into the permanent custody arrangement. I could stay the “secondary” parent in the eyes of the law. Nevertheless, my boys will never see me as a secondary parent. I know that now, in my bones and throughout every cell in my body. I will never “lose” my children to their father. They will never choose one of us over the other.

Will cannot win, even if the law calls him the winner. Our boys are not a prize or a thing; our sons are feeling, thinking, loving beings who are wiser than even I gave them credit for being. They are their own people, their own men. Time will work it’s magic with them, too. Their broken hearts will heal, bit by bit, understanding by understanding. It probably won’t happen as quickly or even in the way I hope, but it will happen. They will probably be angry at me, angry at dad, angry at everyone including themselves at some point, but after the anger, the healing begins.

Eventually, we will all heal. I dearly wished we would heal together, but that is not going to happen. Eventually, all my secrets will be exposed. I am not worried. I am not ashamed. But I can’t tell you all of them yet.

But it is no secret that I am happy. I am truly, through and through, happy.

Tomatos For Lunch

Me — Tue, 08 Jun 2010 17:23:22 +0000

Today I’m eating a really large beefsteak tomato, grown locally and full of flavor. I thought about having a sandwich, but the bulk of the bread doesn’t sound all that great. Sometimes, eating is a struggle. Still.

But instead of stress causing me to forget to eat, I just don’t feel like eating. I can be STARVING and not want to eat. I kind of like the hungry feeling, but it does absolutely nothing for my mood.

But this tomato, red and cold, hits the spot. I’m glad I took the time to slice it.

I’m struggling with more than my eating habits this week. There is a change going on inside of me, and I can’t quite put my finger on what it’s all about. I’m questioning my habits, good and bad, past and present. I’m wondering which old habits I could fall back into as I create my life, and frankly, although possibly damaging, the old habits sound comforting.

So I struggle with NOT attaching myself to someone, NOT allowing my heart (or libido) to override my good sense. I really miss having “someone” with me. Cats are nice, my boys are great…but there is a void that I’m not accustomed to just yet. I know the loneliness will vanquish itself IN TIME. But I don’t know if I am patient enough, or good enough, to wait and grow.

And then, I think about if I did find someone to spend some time with and I wonder exactly what TIME I have to spend. I fear that time spent not working is wasted; I need the money work provides. I love my job refinishing furniture, but I knew when I took it that I would need something else to supplement the income.

Now I feel torn between web design and writing. And torn between sleeping and eating. Torn between dreaming and doing.

But at least the tomato is delicious.

Loneliness

Me — Sat, 29 May 2010 15:11:48 +0000

In the weeks leading up to “the separation day”, I would cry to my sister over the phone and tell her that I was “so fucking lonely” even though Will, our boys, my friends, and she were there for me. I was lonely; it was the first time I’d realized it, and I wondered how I could be so lonely amidst so many people.

I was looking outward for the cause of my loneliness, just as I looked outward, to other people, for a solution to end it. Isn’t that what we’re told to do when we’re depressed and lonely? Volunteer, make friends, … fill your life full of activities and responsibilities to be happy. But that’s bullshit. Those good deeds, the other people, the outward motions, they merely distract from the loneliness. They don’t erase it.

When I drew this picture, I didn’t know that the blackness inside of me was loneliness. I thought it was a flaw within me; that if I could find the source of the flaw, then the blackness would disappear. I was searching the blackness with a flashlight, but looking for the wrong objects. What the flashlight revealed was a great emptiness. A vast, tightly compacted, black hole. Nothing else.

But I missed the blackness because I was looking for THE FLAW.

Realizing I was lonely when I was still with Will was more painful in many ways than the loneliness I now feel. I brought that pain on myself because I EXPECTED him to “make me” not lonely. I thought that if I reached out hard enough, long enough, that he would eventually connect with me, ease my pain.

Expecting him to “make me” feel something caused the flurry of side emotions. Every time he didn’t do as I expected, I felt betrayed, hurt, unloved, crushed…those emotions distracted me from the truth and any possible solutions.

Loneliness is realizing there is a black emptiness within myself. Loneliness is the place where I do not allow the light.

I chose to keep this black hole inside me because searching the blackness with a tiny flashlight is scary; finding NOTHING when I hoped to find THE SOURCE is actually terrifying. (Kind of like in horror movies when the flashlight is darting from corner to corner – you don’t want the heroine to find the monster, but when she does see it then there is a sweet release. At least now she knows from which direction to fight or run.)

But I am changing course. I’m not going to search that blackness with a tiny light. I’m going to flood it with light.

If my loneliness is like a black hole, a dead star, then in time, it will explode outward from the force of its own compaction. When it explodes, it will form a new universe, a new beginning. All new. All me, but re-formed and rejuvenated.

I am unaware of when my black hole’s lifespan will evolve. What is the moment before the explosion going to feel like? Will I notice when it happens? Will I feel the Big Bang?

Is it possible that an infusion of intensive LIGHT, which is both nothing and everything on which our world depends, could hasten a black hole’s end? Is LIGHT the catalyst for the Big Bang?

I am going to concentrate on pushing light into the vast emptiness within me. Whenever I feel the rumblings of discomfort in my gut, I am going to imagine real love as a light source and PUSH that light into that dark space. I am not looking for anything. I know there is nothing there to see because it is too densely compacted to see anything right now. But after the explosion, ALL will come into the light; I will KNOW what I’ve created. And once I know, then I can either do something about it or leave it alone to see how it develops on its own.

I will have a new universe inside of me. A new universe to tend to, love and cherish. I can enjoy it and cease to rely on the external world for manufactured and temporary joy.

Take in the light, black hole. Your lifespan is at its end.

“…Stephen Hawking thinks that once matter falls into a black hole and reaches the Singularity, this Singularity at the quantum scale may actually become a gateway or a spawning ground for a new universe which would exist in some adjacent set of spacetime dimensions. Black holes formed in our universe, according to Lee Smolin, may actually spawn universes beyond our own.” - Ask the Astronomer

My Job

Me — Fri, 28 May 2010 22:12:34 +0000

I LOVE MY JOB! I am working for a woman who owns a furniture refinishing business. Her shop foreman is teaching me everything I need to know to do a professional refinishing job. I get along really well with them, and they say that I am an easy learner and only need to be told something once. (We’ll see how long I can keep that up – there’s a LOT to remember! LOL)

It is part time, minimum wage right now, but the owner is expanding soon and she wanted me in on the “ground floor”… I think that’s a wonderful thing.

Will and I get along when there are witnesses, but not so much when there are none. That’s okay. I can deal. Especially now that I have my own home to go to at the end of the day. I think if I ever have the opportunity to advise someone in a similar situation, I will tell them to move away from the memories, the pain, and the patterns by physically moving from the home.

I’ve got to tell you, financially I am not “set”. My expenses outweigh my income, and I’m locked into them for at least another year. Well, unless I want to ruin my credit. I’ve also had to charge things to my credit card, and now I have that bill, too. The fortunate thing is that I have enough to cover my rent through the month of August, which means I have until then to make up the difference.

Nevertheless, I am happier and confident that I will be able to overcome the financial situation and move forward with grace. Too many miraculous, magical events have occurred recently for me to believe otherwise.

I’ve worked hard. I’ve overcome much pain. I am able to handle the new pains that come at me as he and I separate from one another. The hardest pain to overcome pertains to our children, the fear that I will not see them as I wish. But this is simply a fear, and I cannot let it stand in my way of creating a life that is joyful, full of love, and fulfilling in every way.

He’s taking me to court to change the visitation. He isn’t happy that he doesn’t get to be with the boys on weekends, yet he’s only asked to see them on a weekend once. I want the boys to be with their dad, too; but Will is unresponsive to my requests to rotate weeks. He’d rather I see them every other weekend.

Of course.

Court next week…I hope I get what I want, but, if I don’t, then I’ll manage the pain. I’m a big girl, and I can take it. I do wish I didn’t have to handle so much of it.

Daybreak

Me — Wed, 19 May 2010 17:07:55 +0000

Back in March, I spent a couple of days writing a story for a Memoirs, Ink short-story contest. I didn’t win, but now I can share the story with you.

This story did not factually happen the way it is presented. I drew from my last night with Will and all the other times that were (and are) so vivid in my memory to create a snapshot. Again, this story is a mash-up of times and places, a reorganization of reality, with a knife thrown in because I had only 1500 words to tell this story.

DayBreak

“I don’t believe you,” he said. “You’re calm. You’re calculating your next move … I can see it in your eyes.”

“What?” I asked. I felt my eyes scrunch at their lids, felt my brow knit together into the one wrinkle on my face, off-center between my eyebrows by a fraction of an inch.

He used to smile at me when he saw that wrinkle appear, run his finger along it gently. Now, years later, looking into his whiskey reddened face, I understood why he loved that wrinkle. The subtle line showed my first signs of anger. It was his clue that he was getting to me.

“I can’t trust you when you’re calm,” he continued. I felt my wrinkle deepen. “Why won’ cha you call me an asshole, a bastard? Why won’ cha yell at me no more?” he said, “I’d respect that more than this calm, manipulative thing you’ve been doin’ to me lately.”

He grabbed his drink from my desk. I smelled the sourness of the whiskey as he pulled the glass toward his pinched mouth. He took a sip, looked into his half-empty glass with narrowed eyes, and then finally relaxed his face enough to gulp the rest.

I felt the wrinkle disappear, my face relaxed as if I were his mirror image. Calm for an instant. But then his knuckles whitened on the glass and he brought it down fast, stopping it an inch above the surface of my desk. My hand gripped the computer mouse tighter than a second before. He concentrated on his hand and banged the glass to the desk three times, seeming to need the punctuation of sound. I squeezed the mouse three times harder and felt my ribs clench together in my chest.

My eyes were wide as he slowly defocused from the offending glass and settled his greener-than-sober eyes on me. “What’s that look for? What’s wrong with you?” he whispered, emphasizing the “wrong”.

We looked at each other for a long silent second, me wide open and scared and him white-knuckled and angry. Was he angry because I was frightened? Was he mad because I wasn’t angry?

It would be wise to choose anger. Smart to give him what he wanted. My mind shot five minutes into the future and I saw myself yelling and crying, shouting horrible things I didn’t mean to placate him. I foresaw his muscles relax, envisioned him turning away toward the kitchen. He would be saying, “You’re fucking irrational. I can’t talk to you,” with a sneer on his lips.

I would hear the ice banging into his glass, then hear the Coke fizz briefly before the Jim Beam silenced the fuss.

What he wanted was an excuse to keep drinking.

Spinning out of the vision, looking into his eyes, I realized I was stuck in a tight corner, my only exit through him. If I stood from my seat, I would have to lean into his space. Would he allow me to stand? I decided he wouldn’t.

I blinked my eyes, then pinched my lids together tightly for a moment. Opening them, I saw that he was leaning in closer to me, bending at his waist and eyeing me curiously. I felt like an unknown type of animal the hunter must study before killing. “What are you doing?” I asked.

“Tryin’ to figger out what you’re gonna do,” he said, tilting his head a little and slowly pushing his chin toward my face until he managed to look down at me even though our noses were aligned. I felt his breath on my cheek.Smelled the residual stench of alcohol mixed with sweat as if it were my own. Familiar. Threatening. Vile.

I didn’t move. I thought of how a deer froze in the road as if its stillness guaranteed immunity from the car barreling down on it. The car always won. I saw my carcass in a ditch.

I snapped back in my chair. He startled. I rose up from under him and escaped the corner. I didn’t go far, turning to face him as quickly as I could from a new position near the freedom of the kitchen and its exterior door. Six feet of air stood between him and me, and my purse was three feet beyond him on the table by the front door. Could I exit the kitchen and then round to the front door, re-enter the house to grab my purse and get to the car before he could stop me? I considered his slowed and drunken state, but I doubted my ability to execute the plan. I imagined that once I was out of the house he would lock the doors, and I would be outside in my socks and the cold dark rain.

Or worse, he would chase me outside to subdue me. I would run, but he would tackle me. I would fight, but he would win. What did it mean to win? What did he want from me?

“What do you want from me?” I yelled, knowing he wanted me to yell. “You are scaring the hell out of me!”

He slowly stood erect, a delayed reaction that bought time for his voice to switch to a croon. “You’re scared? Come on, Woman. Have I ever hurt you before?” he said, corners of his lips lifting upward while the centers stayed straight. He slightly lowered his head like you do when you peer at your naughty child over the top of your glasses. I expected him to tsk and shake his head in disappointment.

He may have forgotten holding my face over the lit stove burner and using my neck to swing my head into the wall, but I hadn’t. Five years had passed between that night and this, but I remembered it clearly.

I put my hand to my mouth partly remembering the heat and partly in shame. Why hadn’t I left him then? Why was I still here?

He took a slushy step toward me and I heard the sole of his Ridge Desert Storm boot slide barely over the surface of the wooden floor. At 1 a.m. he was still wearing his uniform and boots. That meant his knife was still attached to his belt, in its case, positioned horizontally not vertically.

I took a step backward, purposefully staring into his eyes so I wouldn’t glance at the knife.

He wore the knife horizontally so he could pull the 5-inch blade from his side with a smooth backward motion before giving a powerful forward thrust. He’d shown me the move, proudly, not long ago. The knife was too long to be regulation, but he’d said “Some of us get to carry what we want,” and I hadn’t doubted him. He was a stellar soldier.

“Why do ya gotta be so different from me, Woman? Why d’ya havta challenge me all the time?” He took another but steadier step my way. My thighs tightened into coiled springs. He subtly rounded his back. My torso twisted slightly facilitating my right arm’s creeping motion toward my own imaginary weapon. I was gonna take my knife and twist it into something raw.

“I only want you to respect me,” he said. His glassy eyes filled with tears. “Why can’t ya respect yur husband, Woman? Why?” He moved toward me, the toe of his boot rubbing the floor somehow wrong. He stumbled and then fell to his knees, putting his hands to his face, shamed. He sobbed. I felt the tension drain from my body. I couldn’t run.

I dropped to my knees and pulled his head to my breast. My eyes welled up with tears and we cried together for a while. He cried until he passed out on my lap and I let him sleep there while my legs grew numb.

I sobbed my goodbyes to the sleeping soldier. He seemed innocent like this, on my lap, in my arms. I smoothed his thick dark hair. I wondered if he would wake to mimic my broken heart, to express grief in the same way I now mourned, realizing we would never grow old together, never see our children, and never once touch one another, ever again.

It was a comforting thought, thinking he may weep for me.

I gently placed his head on the golden wood floor then straightened my legs to get the blood flowing. I uncased the knife at his side, and carried it with me to our bedroom. Packing, I would stare at the knife at times, reminding myself why I was leaving. It would be easier to pretend he hadn’t wanted to stab me, that I had imagined the whole thing. I wanted to crawl into the bed and sleep away the pain. Instead, I packed.

On this side of daybreak, I stepped over the soldier on the floor. I laid his knife on the table by the front door, took up my purse, and drove away.

Checking In

Me — Sun, 16 May 2010 15:07:06 +0000

I am FINALLY moved into my sweet home. I won’t lie to you – this week has been a roller coaster.

When I started carting things from the old house to the new, I cried quite a bit. I never wanted this marriage to be over. I never wanted to separate so completely, so materially. But I am glad I am the one moving from the marital home. I felt like a stranger there. I felt out of place.

Feeling like a stranger in our marital home was the tough. Why would I feel like this in a home I created with items I loved? Throughout our married life, Will let me decorate the house as I wished. He even let me paint colors on the walls after we moved here in 2003. He never complained about my choice of curtains, rugs, towels, etc. I furnished the house pretty much as I chose.

When I moved out this week, I got to thinking about why I chose the items I was moving. Some things I didn’t want to take but felt that I needed to take “for now”. I struggled with leaving three things:

1. A print I had framed called “La Belle Dame Sans Merci”. I left it because I purchased it while he was deployed last time. The knight in the picture actually looks like Will; I had so wanted him to come home and rescue me from the pain I felt. I so wanted him to come home and be the knight in shining armor. It was an unrealistic expectation, and not one I ever want to repeat. I don’t want to ever think another person can rescue me.

2. A print by Klimt called “The Kiss”. This is another image that I hoped would represent my relationship. Longing for that kind of love, from Will, … it’s a wish, but my heart has no more room for wishes.

3. A family picture taken on the day he returned from the deployment. It’s a snapshot, really, but it is the last picture taken of us as a family. We’re smiling, I have my arm across his shoulder. Again, I was hopeful; I didn’t know what was to come. I wrestled with leaving the picture – I mean, we are our boys’ family. That won’t change. But I couldn’t bring it here. It’s too painful to know that those four people, that family, was about to be torn apart. I couldn’t take it, I couldn’t bring it here.

And now I’m crying again. My heart is broken, my life is new and uncertain. But I am not afraid. I don’t know HOW my life will straighten itself, I only know that it will.

“Things” between Will and I are okay. We’re both fighting for the same things, but against each other. And yet, there is a kind of peace in it. He inspects and plugs my tires, tells me he hopes I find a job that I love (and I believe him). He is going through a similar hell…but separate from my own. I see peace in our future, working to co-parent two wonderful young men.

On Monday, I’m going to social services to see if I qualify for food stamps. If they don’t keep me waiting all day, I’ll then go to a place a friend told me about to apply for work. When I get this new house livable, I will write more often and tell you what I’ve been doing in addition to moving piecemeal, bit by bit in a car.

Until then, if you think of me, think of me optimistically. I truly know in my heart and mind that I will be okay. So many things that once mattered do not, so many things that never mattered now do. I’ll be sorting through it all as I go about setting up my new life.

New House New House New House New House!

Me — Sun, 09 May 2010 06:22:15 +0000

I am so grateful to the married couple who decided my boys (and cats) and I should be allowed to live in their house! I feel FREE.

And then I panic. But then I feel FREE again.

And then I panic. LOL

I’m hoping the panic subsides. I am sure it will as soon as I find a JOB.

I can’t wait to transplant my lavender and sage into the front flower beds. The woman who owns this house has a yard style kind of like mine – if it grows and it is pretty, then it stays. You can’t see the yellow flowery bush (is it wild dill?) she refused to mow down in the front yard. She told me I could, she left it because she thought it was pretty. I think it is, too, so the wild thing stays.

I paid out the money to the landlords today, and it felt so good. I’m so willing to let the cash flow when the pay-back is going to be worth SO MUCH more than the cost.

Peace. Peace. Peace.

You can’t make it out too well in this picture, but that is MY car under the carport. My car under MY carport.

Happy (then anxious) happy happy day. I can’t wait to sleep there.