The Dragons

"It's important to name the dragons", said my therapist during a previous session.

The dragons...those are my fears...the monsters...those things that keep me paralyzed. Here they are, in no particular order:

1. I fear the custody battle.
2. I fear that my husband will find this blog.
3. I fear rocking this boat so violently that we would all drown and perish at the hands of the sea monster under the raging churning waters of a storm that may not pass...and it would all be my doing.
4. I fear the children may take his side.

I am terribly afraid of going through a custody battle. I fear that custody would be granted in the exact opposite manner of what I would want. In this marriage I could leave EVERYTHING...except my children. I am afraid that he would take advantage of this vulnerability if he were aware of it.

If my husband discovers my blog, then he may take the fears and vulnerabilities that I expose here and use them as a weapon against me. His aim would be to hurt.

Life will never be the same after a divorce, but what if it is not necessarily for the better? What if none of us ever recover? What if we are not OK?

I don't want to turn my children against my husband; they need to continue to love him as they always have. I also do not want them to turn against me. I do not know how they will react to the news that Mom does not want to live with Daddy anymore. They are too young for me to explain to them the truth about his behavior. All they see is his current display of "affection"...and my reluctance to reciprocate. They don't see the ugliness inside of him. They think that I'm always just angry at him. I am afraid that they will blame me for the pain that a separation will cause and that he will continue to emphasize that it was not his choice.

These are my dragons - named and exposed, not for the purpose of doing anything about them but just for the sake of naming them. I don't know what comes next. Perhaps just seeing these monsters on the page makes them less frightening. For now, I am simply paralyzed by them.

Where are the Other Bozos?

"We're all bozos on the bus,

so we might as well sit back and enjoy the ride."

- Wavy Gravy

I don't know exactly what to write about...just that I need to write. Do I still feel completely exposed writing in this blog? Yes. Yet I require the writing...and I long for the feedback and the support. Yes, I am afraid that my husband will purposely hack into my account and invade all my private thoughts and emotions.

Yet, I feel trapped in my fear. I am surrounded by it, isolating myself within the walls that grow increasingly taller and thicker. It is becoming ever more difficult to reach out, and I feel more and more alone. My family is preoccupied with a bigger problem than mine and although they continue to be attentive to my safety and well-being, I feel that I am only adding to the tremendous burden that has suddenly been laid upon all of us. I call to offer them support, avoiding any reference to my own situation and needs.

...but really, I just want to talk to someone. I want to sit down with someone who gets it and spill my heart out. I want to tell them about everything that scares me and everything that angers me and drives me. I want to hear from them that they feel or have felt the same way...and that things will work out. We will all eventually heal. I want to find the other bozos on the bus.

I suppose I should explain the last sentence. In one of the chapters of her book Broken Open, Elizabeth Lesser talks about the clown and social activist Wavy Gravy and some of his quotes. The one at the beginning of this post refers to the idea that we all, at some point in our lives, have felt the same insecurities and have shared the same imperfections, yet we walk around guarding and holding on to these hurts as if we are the only ones who have ever felt this way and everyone else must have a beautiful golden life. In reality, we are all bozos on the same bus, and as soon as we realize this, we can dispense with the pretenses and open up to the other bozos who may be able to share a part of journey with us.

I just want to know where that bus is, because in this small town where I live, I still feel like I'm the only passenger on this bus.

Thankful

I've got strange feelings tonight. I've been feeling kind of paranoid lately. Paranoid that someone will find this blog and know who I am...paranoid that my anonymity will be revealed and my deepest vulnerabilities will be exposed.

I hate my last post. I hate that I was in that dark place and that I wrote so graphically. I hate that anyone had to read that and see such a raw side of me.

I am glad that I did not hurt myself, and I am grateful for the comments and support that helped me get through the moment.

Thank you all.

I Want to Reach This Hurt

Trigger Warning: Self-Harm

I want to cut. I hurt, and it feels better when I cut. That is the ugly and dysfunctional bottom line. I had a difficult time focusing in therapy today...because I wanted to cut...right there...at that moment. In my mind, I left the room and imagined myself cutting lines into my wrists.

I cut myself shaving yesterday, and at the sight of the drop of blood, I knew I was there...ready to cut again. I want to touch this hurting. I want to cut deep and reach it. I want it to sting, so that I can wear this pain outside, where I can look at it and understand it.

I want to see blood spilling from me like tears that my wrists can't contain. I want to cut slowly and deliberately, inhaling as I feel the blade carve into my skin.

Eventually, my therapist got up and gently handed me the Little Puppies...then I was able to speak and tell him where I was. He let me bring the Puppies home.

I will probably cut today. I will probably buy a new box of blades at work today...but before I cut, I will hold the Puppies and notice the way the Mama Puppy embraces the Baby Puppy, and I will try to envision myself holding the little girl me that way.

It Hurts When I Speak

Excuse me but can I be you for a while
My dog won't bite if you sit real still
I got the anti-Christ in the kitchen yellin' at me again
Yeah I can hear that
Been saved again by the garbage truck
I got something to say you know
But nothing comes
Yes I know what you think of me
You never shut-up
Yeah I can hear that

But what if I'm a mermaid
In these jeans of his
With her name still on it
Hey but I don't care
Cause sometimes
I said sometimes
I hear my voice
And it's been here
Silent All These Years

 

(from Silent All These Years, Tori Amos)

Dear Blogger Friends,

It's only you tonight again. My mother is out of the country...vacationing. My sister...needs a break, my children are too young, and my friends...they mustn't know. So that leaves you to pour my heart out to...to be my collective shoulder to cry on.

We only don't fight when I don't speak up, but I don't want to shut up anymore! It hurts too much to quiet my voice. It hurts...so much. Tonight it's just tears and the choking pain. I'm trying to understand it through writing, but I can't seem to describe it.

This is not helping tonight. This pain is profound and triggered by who knows what. This is a lie in bed, clench my fists, and cry my heart out type of pain.

"You always...", he said.

"Every time..."

It's simply not true. I only spoke up about the matter, but my observation differed from his point of view. There was the crime.

I have a voice now, and it cannot be silenced, but why do I hurt so much tonight?

I am sorry this is so incoherent. I am really trying to figure it all out as I write it down...to no avail. There's nothing left but a good cry.

Unit 927

Unit number 927. It was a 10 X 15 foot space with a clean gray floor and tall ceilings...empty...ready for a new start.

I rushed the forty mile drive back home after work. I got off an hour before my husband and thought it a good opportunity to take care of this business before I expected him in the vicinity.

"How can I help you?", a seasoned but kind-looking woman about five years my senior asked me from behind the counter.

"I'm here to see about a storage space", I said swinging my words as if I had said that a hundred times before.

"What size are you looking for?"

"Umm, well, I've never used a storage unit before", I admitted, "What do they look like?"

...and she went to work explaining the different options available and what each space would hold.

"How long do you think you will need the space?"

"It depends...I'm trying to leave my husband", I confessed.

"Oh. I understand."

She understood...that's what I wanted, someone to understand my urgency and simultaneous secrecy. I wanted someone to understand why I would not answer the persistent ring shouting out of my purse. She understood why I could not use my own home address on the lease and why it was imperative that no correspondence be sent to my home.

She understood when my body language told her I was anxious to complete our transaction. My stolen time was fleeting. She promptly handed me the lock and keys and a map that would lead me to my new space.

Garage door after garage door, endlessly lined up like miniature apartments. Number 927. I inserted the lock and removed the key the way my newfound ally had instructed me.

It's mine now, I thought as I jiggled the lock testing its security. Once again, as when I bought the van, I felt like I had acquired a space of my own...a sanctuary where only I would dwell...a safe haven for my personal belongings. A place that I could populate slowly and inconspicuously.

One more courageous move, but nothing that couldn't be undone...should I decide to proceed differently.

Pride or Pain?

"Don't you miss us?"

"You don't love me anymore..."

"When are you going to find it within your heart?"

"Get over it. Let it go!"

"All this pride..."

These are all the things he just said to me. This is how I replied.

"I can't make myself feel a certain way any more than you can."

"Do you really think this is just about my pride?"

"It must be so easy for you to say that I should just 'find it within my heart'."

"How do you think I should feel if every time you come near me all I remember is the last night we were together?"

He dismissed me with, "You're never going to get over it; you're never going to work through it."

"No, I'm never going to get over it", I said as I got up and walked away.

What the fuck?? Do I even have to get over it? Why do I have to move at his pace? Can't I heal in my own time? He certainly does not do anything to help my process along. On the contrary!

Yes, this is over...this has been over. Wasn't he the one who begged me not to give up on us? How can he think that my feelings can change just because he wills it?

I suppose I need to just shit or get off the pot. Christmas has passed, and it's time to move in one direction or another. God grant me the courage to proceed.

Drive

Who's gonna tell you when
It's too late?
Who's gonna tell you things
Aren't so great?

 

You can't go on
Thinkin' nothing's wrong, ohh no
Who's gonna drive you home
Tonight?
(from Drive, The Cars)



My husband and I drove home in silence from the continuing education seminar that we had attended together. The entire day had been anything but silent. We whispered occasional comments to each other and talked freely and naturally over lunch. We chatted as we exited the building at the end of the seminar, but a short while into our drive home, he became silent and distant. I do not care about this behavior as much as I used to. In fact, I allowed myself to believe that maybe he was just tired and perhaps was taking a short nap while I drove.

Later in the evening, we took the kids to a school event at a local pizza restaurant. Once again, we hardly spoke. Ironically, one of the teachers came by our table while our girls were playing in the game room and commented that it is nice that our children are at an age where we are able to have a little time with each other while they entertain themselves...we had absolutely nothing to say to each other. We did not even make eye contact, although we were sitting across a very small table from one another.

As he drove us home in his car, I became apprehensive. Suddenly, I remembered rides with my stepfather...alone and afraid in his car. I never knew where he was taking me. Silently, I prayed that my husband would not turn off anywhere unexpectedly. I was fearful of him and what he might be capable of...but it was really my stepfather who could have hurt me. Why did this drive turn into such a flashback scene? Perhaps it was the tension of the afternoon drive home and of the evening. When we finally arrived home, I could not get out of the car fast enough.

Later on during the girls' bedtime, I cuddled my youngest in my arms and read her a story, while my older daughter laid on my bed making bracelets for her friends. He came into my room and tenderly kissed each child goodnight...and ignored me. This is the same man who for the past few weeks has continuously asked me for kisses, never desisting until I agreed, even to just a few small pop kisses.

...I almost believed him.

Taking Down Christmas

"Would you like a little reward for your efforts?", he asked me from the doorway.

"I've already had a piece of chocolate", I replied suspecting the usual...that his "reward" entailed something sexual. He continued to repeat the question, until I finally said yes, because I did not want him to think that I assumed anything. At this point he presented me with his erection.

"I don't want that", I said as I moved past him and disappeared upstairs.

I was taking down Christmas. This is a job that is usually difficult for me even on the years that I enjoyed putting up Christmas. It is tedious and messy and always falls on me. This year, the task was made even more unpleasant by the fact that I had not wanted to put all those ornaments and decorations out in the first place! But, alas, the job had to be done, and my reward would be to see the cleanliness and tidiness of the place once the last box had been put away.

I did not bargain for the incessant hammering that I endured during the last leg of my work.

"The girls seem to be pretty occupied."

"Yes, they are", I agreed.

"You've done a pretty good job down here."

"Thank you."

Then he repeated himself over and over with random intervals in between. After about the second or third time, I realized that he was inviting me to join him privately. I asked him why he kept repeating himself. "I'm just stating something. Make of it what you want." This translated to me as "Take the bait if you want." Well, I didn't want to, so I remained quiet while he continued to repeat himself. It was maddening. As I previously mentioned, the work was hard enough, but to do it under these exasperating conditions was a battle uncalled for.

I did not understand why a grown man would purposely engage in such irritating behavior. I wanted to hit him. I wanted to rage and scream at him that I never want to have sex with him again, but I also understood that he was trying to wear me down and provoke me. I knew that the minute I reacted, his alibi would be that he never mentioned anything about having sex.

"What is his power?", I heard my therapist ask me in the back of my mind. I realized that his only power would be the power that I give him, so I remained silent with that thought in my head.

"You forgot one", he yelled from the kitchen. "Would you like for me to bring it to you?"

"Yes, please. What did I forget?", I replied, grateful that he changed his script.

In minutes, he appeared in the living room in his underwear with the mistletoe that I had forgotten to take down taped just above his penis. He stood there waiting for my reaction. Just to be perfectly clear, I looked at him straight in the eye and told him, "No, I don't want to kiss you under the mistletoe."

This is the same man who just weeks ago got down on his knees and begged me not to walk away from our marriage. This is the same man who also said that he loved me so much that he would be willing to forgo the sexual aspect of our relationship if it meant we would still remain together. The same one who said he wanted to be the man in my life who made me happy. The one who said he loved me, who called me beautiful and amazing.

...I almost believed him.

The Year of the Brave

Innocence, your history of silence
Won’t do you any good
Did you think it would?
Let your words be anything but empty
Why don’t you tell them the truth?

Say what you wanna say
And let the words fall out
Honestly, I wanna see you be brave

(from Brave, Sara Bareilles)

I don't usually make a big to do about new year's resolutions. I think about a few things that I may want to do differently during the new year, I keep them to myself, and I try as best as I can to accomplish them. Usually I do not, but I celebrate whatever portion of that goal I did meet.

This New Year's Eve, as I watched the Times Square Ball Drop on television with my husband and my daughters, there seemed to be a thread of courageous or accomplished women. First, there was segment on the 30 Greatest Women in Music, and of course there was Supreme Court Justice Sonia Sotomayor being chosen to trigger the ball drop itself.

Most impacting for me, though, was a particular commercial that aired several times during the program. It presented various women throughout history who have been incredibly courageous and have had a very positive presence in the world. Each of these women was shown speaking publicly, as Sara Bareilles' song Brave played in the background.

I was moved by the ad each and every time that I watched it. It was as though someone was looking straight at me and telling me, "I'm talking to you. This will be your year to be brave."

To be courageous is magnificently frightening, but to watch the women on that ad was also inspiring. There are things that I feel I must do this year that will require and enormous amount of courage. I am scared out of my mind and my knees may buckle at times, but I hope that I will be able to inhale deeply, stand tall and be brave.