Fears of leaving:
1. He will catch me and...what? He will catch me and something bad will happen;
2. He will be right, and I will fall flat on my face "out there" in the world without his support.
3. I won't be able to support myself and my kids;
4. I won't be happy (Not happy now, soooooo....???);
5. My children will hate me later for taking their daddy away;
6. My daughter won't have her father to walk her down the isle one day (I know, I know);
7. People will see me as a failure and I won't be able to pull this off;
8. I'll never find a job again, or worse I'll never find a job I like again and I'll have to do something I hate;
9. He's right, I really am useless, lazy, unorganized, stupid and clutzy, and it will all come out even more;
10. I won't be finacially secure.
Fears of staying:
1. I will never be "ME" again;
2. The sparkle will one day leave my eyes forever and I won't care anymore;
3. I will give up on my own dreams;
4. My children will hate thier lives and worse they will hate themselves;
5. My children will become just like their father and be horrible, nasty people;
6. My children will learn that this is just how you treat women; including of course their mother;
7. I will have lost the chance to give my children a loving, fun and magical childhood;
8. My relationship with my children as adults will be strained;
9. We will all live lives of isolation, as we are training them to do now;
10. I will always wonder what could have been had I just been brave and done what is right.
The fears of staying outweigh the fears of leaving, and I defy anyone else who is in this situation to find a different outcome. The fears of staying will always outweigh the fears of leaving. But they're still fears, aren't they. I know I have to go. And I know I have to set a definate time to do it.
And talking to all of you helps keep me accountable. Thank you for the support. I hope it is somehow reciprocal and we will share our success stories here as well.
Nite nite, dear friends, until next time...
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Monday, March 29, 2010
Wisdom knows no age...
He called me a cheap whore today.
My husband, who has said before that he loves me more than anything in this world, called me a cheap whore for “living off of his money.” “But I don’t have a job,” I said, “because when we got married we agreed that I wouldn’t renew my contract in Afghanistan, and I have since given birth and raised our two beautiful children. How can you attack me for not having my own money?”
But as I leaned against the kitchen counter and our kids ate their yogurt, he was on a roll: “You have the life, Mrs., let me tell you! You don’t know how great you have it! What do you do around here?” Just for the heck of it, I answer: “Oh, cook, shop, do laundry, clean the house, do your secretarial work, take car of the kids –“ “Bullshit!” he counters. “And just by the way,” I add, “I suggested that I get a job a few times and you said ‘no.’” “Bullshit again!” he shouted, incredulous, “You never listen, do you?! It’s like talking to a child! I said it’s not the right time for you to get a job! And it’s not!”
Meanwhile my poor son calculates every bite he takes, hoping that if he’s just still enough he can avoid attracting attention, but no such luck: “Sit up straight, damnit!! Maybe your mother has no manners, but you damn well will or I will take you out, Dillon, do you hear me?!!!!” “Yes, daddy,” he mumbles in a tiny, high voice. Now I shout back, telling him to go back upstairs to his cave and leave poor Dillon alone. He stays, of course, slamming things and mumbling obscenities about me as he walks around.
“Come on, my babies, let’s finish eating and go,” I say, “We have to get out of here.” Derek keeps on ranting as I quickly clean up their half-eaten breakfasts, hoist Dillon down from his chair and scoop Ella into my arms and out the door with a quickness that would have been envied in several professional sports.
I’m so pissed off; this monster attacked my babies. And I’m so angry and frustrated. I didn’t protect them. I’m their mother, and I’m responsible. They need me. And I didn’t spare them from another episode.
Distracted in thought, I drive a bit too fast towards the kids’ school, rehearsing in my mind the glorious day when we will leave this hell forever. Just like every morning, I sit at the intersection, waiting to make my turn, but the van in front of me won’t go. Okay, now, nope…NOW, nope…go NOW! Nope. Ugh! “Go! Go!” I shout, “Just go, finally, jeez!” Exasperated, I lay on the horn and like startled rabbits they gun it through the intersection. “Finally…” I mutter to myself.
Then as I make the turn and pass them I see the white habit. Behind the wheel is a nun, clenching the steering wheel for dear life. Great. That’s just great. I’ve just terrorized a nun. I’m a bad girl. I’m a bad, bad, girl, and not in a, ‘spank my ass with a leather whip’ kind of way, but in a, ‘you just terrorized a nun and you’re going to hell’ kind of way.
Ugh. I’ve got to get a grip. As I take a deep breath I hear the familiar, high voice from the back. It’s Dillon. “Mommy?” he says, concerned, “What is it?” Jeez. Now I’m a bad example, too. That’s just great. “Nothing,” I try, “No, mommy – what is it??” he presses, “Oh,” I say casually, “There was just a car that wasn’t going fast enough, and mommy wanted to go, that’s all.” “Oh,” he said knowingly, and then very sweetly, like he was talking to a mental patient, he said, “Mommy? I think you should stop yellin’ at da cars and calm down a little bit, okay?”
The smile invades my whole face. I’ve been busted by a three year old. “You’re absolutely right, my boy,” I said beaming, “Sometimes even grown-ups don’t behave right, do they?” I added. We drove for a few seconds in silence, and then as we rounded the corner to his school he said, “Mommy?” “Yes?” “I love you, but you have to be very good if you want to go to da playground.” “Okay,” I said with tears of joy welling in my eyes, “I will.”
My husband, who has said before that he loves me more than anything in this world, called me a cheap whore for “living off of his money.” “But I don’t have a job,” I said, “because when we got married we agreed that I wouldn’t renew my contract in Afghanistan, and I have since given birth and raised our two beautiful children. How can you attack me for not having my own money?”
But as I leaned against the kitchen counter and our kids ate their yogurt, he was on a roll: “You have the life, Mrs., let me tell you! You don’t know how great you have it! What do you do around here?” Just for the heck of it, I answer: “Oh, cook, shop, do laundry, clean the house, do your secretarial work, take car of the kids –“ “Bullshit!” he counters. “And just by the way,” I add, “I suggested that I get a job a few times and you said ‘no.’” “Bullshit again!” he shouted, incredulous, “You never listen, do you?! It’s like talking to a child! I said it’s not the right time for you to get a job! And it’s not!”
Meanwhile my poor son calculates every bite he takes, hoping that if he’s just still enough he can avoid attracting attention, but no such luck: “Sit up straight, damnit!! Maybe your mother has no manners, but you damn well will or I will take you out, Dillon, do you hear me?!!!!” “Yes, daddy,” he mumbles in a tiny, high voice. Now I shout back, telling him to go back upstairs to his cave and leave poor Dillon alone. He stays, of course, slamming things and mumbling obscenities about me as he walks around.
“Come on, my babies, let’s finish eating and go,” I say, “We have to get out of here.” Derek keeps on ranting as I quickly clean up their half-eaten breakfasts, hoist Dillon down from his chair and scoop Ella into my arms and out the door with a quickness that would have been envied in several professional sports.
I’m so pissed off; this monster attacked my babies. And I’m so angry and frustrated. I didn’t protect them. I’m their mother, and I’m responsible. They need me. And I didn’t spare them from another episode.
Distracted in thought, I drive a bit too fast towards the kids’ school, rehearsing in my mind the glorious day when we will leave this hell forever. Just like every morning, I sit at the intersection, waiting to make my turn, but the van in front of me won’t go. Okay, now, nope…NOW, nope…go NOW! Nope. Ugh! “Go! Go!” I shout, “Just go, finally, jeez!” Exasperated, I lay on the horn and like startled rabbits they gun it through the intersection. “Finally…” I mutter to myself.
Then as I make the turn and pass them I see the white habit. Behind the wheel is a nun, clenching the steering wheel for dear life. Great. That’s just great. I’ve just terrorized a nun. I’m a bad girl. I’m a bad, bad, girl, and not in a, ‘spank my ass with a leather whip’ kind of way, but in a, ‘you just terrorized a nun and you’re going to hell’ kind of way.
Ugh. I’ve got to get a grip. As I take a deep breath I hear the familiar, high voice from the back. It’s Dillon. “Mommy?” he says, concerned, “What is it?” Jeez. Now I’m a bad example, too. That’s just great. “Nothing,” I try, “No, mommy – what is it??” he presses, “Oh,” I say casually, “There was just a car that wasn’t going fast enough, and mommy wanted to go, that’s all.” “Oh,” he said knowingly, and then very sweetly, like he was talking to a mental patient, he said, “Mommy? I think you should stop yellin’ at da cars and calm down a little bit, okay?”
The smile invades my whole face. I’ve been busted by a three year old. “You’re absolutely right, my boy,” I said beaming, “Sometimes even grown-ups don’t behave right, do they?” I added. We drove for a few seconds in silence, and then as we rounded the corner to his school he said, “Mommy?” “Yes?” “I love you, but you have to be very good if you want to go to da playground.” “Okay,” I said with tears of joy welling in my eyes, “I will.”
Sunday, March 28, 2010
The sole protector of the soul...
Twenty-three weeks into an otherwise perfect pregnancy, my son was diagnosed with a congenital heart condition (I'll tell you now that although he was indeed born with the condition, it is described as "trivial;" he's living a perfectly symptom-free and unrestricted life and is expected to need no intervention whatsoever). At the time, however, the doctors couldn't know that. They also suspected hydrocephilus, which, thank God, turned out to be completely false. In reading the tea leaves, they said that our son would either be born perfectly fine, or he could be born mentally retarded, need a lifetime of care and possibly even go into cardiac arrest upon birth, they just had know way of knowing. In a clinical effort to be thorough, the doctors then said that we should watch the condition, but in the coming weeks we would need to decide relatively quickly if we wanted to abort.
Obviously you know the outcome, and my son is beautiful, healthy, smart and the joy of my life. But when that meeting took place and during the days that followed, it hit me like never before that as the mother, I was the only person on the planet that could protect this baby. No one else could decide his fate but me, and that protector role had begun the moment I knew I was pregnant, and it would never end in my lifetime. That realization changed me forever, and from then on, I would understand the role of mother as I never had before. It may not sound fair, or equal, but that's just the way nature made it.
Regarding this issue, Derek was supportive of that particular decision to have our baby whatever the outcome. The point of my sharing this is to express that as mothers, there is an inherent responsibility to protect our babies, and that plays directly to this issue of living in an abusive home.
As human beings, we are all entitled to our own personal dignity. Women can be very forgiving creatures, and for the first year or so, I rationalized the episodes, and so did he, blaming them on his period of unemployment, then it was the pressures of the new job, then it was when we finally owned a home we could be happy, and on and on. At first I bought into the excuses until there were so many and over so long that it dawned on me: "Hey wait a minute, there's always something with this guy, when will he ever just be happy?" And the answer is, NEVER!
With children in the picture, there is no other advocate for them, and we have to be brutally honest in seeing early that the behaviors WILL NEVER CHANGE. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. And more likely, the behaviors may even escalate and worsen over time, leading to physical abuse. That's what's happening in my case. Throwing things at me, pinching, pulling, a knock to the head, it's all foreplay leading up to what would one day be full on physical damage, and there is no way that as a mother, any of us can stick around to prove that theory right. We can't change them. We can't fix them. But we can change the fate of our children's entire lives; the way they will see themselves, you and everyone else in the world.
As someone who's endured four years of this and has been planning to leave for the last year and a half, I would plead with anyone who has children or who is pregnant to get a plan and get out. There is no other person on the earth who can make the difference for your children.
As it is, I will have to deal with the guilt I already feel for keeping them in this house for the months that I have, but I'm doing what I think is best for our security and future, and I'm setting deadlines for myself. I urge anyone else to do the same.
Just remember: it's not "What's the matter with me?" It's, "What's the matter with him?!" But don't stick around to find out. Get real. Get a plan. And get out.
As for me, today was no better than yesterday, but I carved out the beauty nonetheless. I think that's the challenge, to rise above it.
Nite, nite, dear friend, until tomorrow...
Obviously you know the outcome, and my son is beautiful, healthy, smart and the joy of my life. But when that meeting took place and during the days that followed, it hit me like never before that as the mother, I was the only person on the planet that could protect this baby. No one else could decide his fate but me, and that protector role had begun the moment I knew I was pregnant, and it would never end in my lifetime. That realization changed me forever, and from then on, I would understand the role of mother as I never had before. It may not sound fair, or equal, but that's just the way nature made it.
Regarding this issue, Derek was supportive of that particular decision to have our baby whatever the outcome. The point of my sharing this is to express that as mothers, there is an inherent responsibility to protect our babies, and that plays directly to this issue of living in an abusive home.
As human beings, we are all entitled to our own personal dignity. Women can be very forgiving creatures, and for the first year or so, I rationalized the episodes, and so did he, blaming them on his period of unemployment, then it was the pressures of the new job, then it was when we finally owned a home we could be happy, and on and on. At first I bought into the excuses until there were so many and over so long that it dawned on me: "Hey wait a minute, there's always something with this guy, when will he ever just be happy?" And the answer is, NEVER!
With children in the picture, there is no other advocate for them, and we have to be brutally honest in seeing early that the behaviors WILL NEVER CHANGE. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. And more likely, the behaviors may even escalate and worsen over time, leading to physical abuse. That's what's happening in my case. Throwing things at me, pinching, pulling, a knock to the head, it's all foreplay leading up to what would one day be full on physical damage, and there is no way that as a mother, any of us can stick around to prove that theory right. We can't change them. We can't fix them. But we can change the fate of our children's entire lives; the way they will see themselves, you and everyone else in the world.
As someone who's endured four years of this and has been planning to leave for the last year and a half, I would plead with anyone who has children or who is pregnant to get a plan and get out. There is no other person on the earth who can make the difference for your children.
As it is, I will have to deal with the guilt I already feel for keeping them in this house for the months that I have, but I'm doing what I think is best for our security and future, and I'm setting deadlines for myself. I urge anyone else to do the same.
Just remember: it's not "What's the matter with me?" It's, "What's the matter with him?!" But don't stick around to find out. Get real. Get a plan. And get out.
As for me, today was no better than yesterday, but I carved out the beauty nonetheless. I think that's the challenge, to rise above it.
Nite, nite, dear friend, until tomorrow...
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Some kind of crazy...
Arrived early this morning at The Bay Club, where the kids and I meet Derek every weekend morning for breakfast. We don’t drive together anymore because it’s a special form of torture hearing him curse in two languages at all the other drivers while simultaneously going over whatever tasks he has assigned for me that day.
As usual, the kids and I arrive first to get “the” table – it always has to be the same table – a control issue that, early in our marriage, I learned would be only one of hundreds. In an unusual rush, today the table was taken. Ursula looked at me with raised eyebrows: what to do? She knew, as did the rest of the staff who’d been serving us for three years, that this would not be received well by His Lordship. I found a four-top, commenting that I knew we would probably have to move when Derek arrived, but having absolutely no idea where he would prefer, I would sit down now and let him choose.
So with Ursula’s help we went through the whole rigmarole of settling down with the two kiddies: getting the booster chair (removing the cushion first), getting the high chair (cleaning it off), retrieving the supplies: bib, baby-sized spoon, phone in case he texts me, then filling the water glasses, ordering the coffee and tea, hot milk for him and cold for me, and finally, getting the toast, croissants, jam and butter from the buffet. Whew. All was finally done and I sat back to enjoy the ocean breeze as it swept over the balcony. Dillon was proudly singing a new song he had learned in school about five little ducks, and Ella and I were busy being impressed by his performance. Ursula and another server smiled with us, and chatted to Ella, who babbled her responses.
When Derek finally arrived, he immediately saw the change in tables and made certain that no one from that moment on would enjoy breakfast. With no “Hello” to anyone, he started in on me: “What the hell is going on here? What’s this? I’m not sitting here, what a bullshit!” Already knowing it’s futile, I attempted to explain myself anyway: “I knew you would want to move, but God knows where so I thought it best to leave it up to you.” But as always, my response apparently only registered my willingness to participate in this ludicrous discussion. “Please, you’re such an idiot. You can’t even get it managed to find a decent table? Who can sit here? My god, are you incompetent, what a moron, nobody could sit here! How stupid can you be! Do you think it’s fine to sit here?” “Yes, actually,” I said, “It’s a four-top and there are four of us and I’m perfectly happy—“ “Of course you are, because you have no feeling whatsoever for decency and manners, you’re just white trash, like you’re whole family, my god…” For whatever reason -- the alignment of the cosmos, the high of the sea air, or just that time of the month -- I chose to respond: “Look, why don’t you just pick a table and we’ll move, okay? We’re all here to serve you, god knows, but you will stop your childish temper tantrum and stop calling me an idiot; your behavior is totally unacceptable!” “Oh shut up,” he said, waving his hand dismissively.
As the coffee was poured, the comments continued, in a more mumbled fashion, and he made sure to berate the staff for their lack of having “the” table ready for us. As the eggs were served, he channeled his anger towards other diners, observing that that family over there is just “horrible” and those women on the beach are most certainly all dikes and man haters. As a matter of course, Dillon kept his mouth shut and his eyes on his food, but it never spared him from the constant and venomous nagging: “Damnit, Dillon, keep your mouth shut! Pig!” Then a knock to the head, “Keep your eyes over here, not looking around!” And a pinch to the ear: “Be quiet! It’s eating time!” Then to Ella: “Ella! Look at the mess you made! My god! What a pig! And she sits right next to her and can’t even watch her own daughter, unbelievable…” Then back to Dillon: “Would you hurry up and eat, what are you doing!” and literally seconds later, “My god, slow down! You idiot! Chew your food!” I point out that poor Dillon is only three and doesn’t know how on earth you can hurry up and eat and also slow down! And as always, I’m interjecting for him to stop pinching, and don’t do that! And leave him alone! Etc. It’s just exhausting and quite frankly, beneath me.
And this sets the tone for the whole day with this man, as every interaction with him will be like this, every single day, all day long. If we’re not together, then he makes sure to text me complaints and insults, complete with lots of exclamation points. And of course, our children are witness and victim to all of this. If I were to stay (which I will not) my son would either be a complete mess or he would learn to be just like his father, and neither fate is acceptable.
Of course there’s much more. But this is just a slice of any “ordinary” day in our lives. There’s almost always a honeymoon period after these attacks, where he acts like nothing ever happened. And so do I, because it’s the only way to have any kind of peace at all. And so it goes on his emotional roller coaster, up and down all day.
Tonight’s boring routine of tv flipping was going smoothly until he got up and noticed that I had left one of Ella’s bibs by my purse. That triggered another episode of insults, threats and yelling, and now he’s upstairs in disgust at what a “pig” and a “lazy” and “useless person” I am. He’s upstairs, and I will have to go up there soon, and sleep next to this man. Now he’s just opened the door and told me about some great movie on 50 that I absolutely have to watch. He’s crazy.
Well, peace comes from within, and I will not let this very ill “person” control my spiritual harmony. Let him yell at me. It only makes it easier to leave. Let him berate and control things, it only strengthens my resolve. And let him think I’m an idiot. Because I am stronger than he knows.
Goodnight, dear friend, and thanks for listening; it really means the world to me. Until next time…
As usual, the kids and I arrive first to get “the” table – it always has to be the same table – a control issue that, early in our marriage, I learned would be only one of hundreds. In an unusual rush, today the table was taken. Ursula looked at me with raised eyebrows: what to do? She knew, as did the rest of the staff who’d been serving us for three years, that this would not be received well by His Lordship. I found a four-top, commenting that I knew we would probably have to move when Derek arrived, but having absolutely no idea where he would prefer, I would sit down now and let him choose.
So with Ursula’s help we went through the whole rigmarole of settling down with the two kiddies: getting the booster chair (removing the cushion first), getting the high chair (cleaning it off), retrieving the supplies: bib, baby-sized spoon, phone in case he texts me, then filling the water glasses, ordering the coffee and tea, hot milk for him and cold for me, and finally, getting the toast, croissants, jam and butter from the buffet. Whew. All was finally done and I sat back to enjoy the ocean breeze as it swept over the balcony. Dillon was proudly singing a new song he had learned in school about five little ducks, and Ella and I were busy being impressed by his performance. Ursula and another server smiled with us, and chatted to Ella, who babbled her responses.
When Derek finally arrived, he immediately saw the change in tables and made certain that no one from that moment on would enjoy breakfast. With no “Hello” to anyone, he started in on me: “What the hell is going on here? What’s this? I’m not sitting here, what a bullshit!” Already knowing it’s futile, I attempted to explain myself anyway: “I knew you would want to move, but God knows where so I thought it best to leave it up to you.” But as always, my response apparently only registered my willingness to participate in this ludicrous discussion. “Please, you’re such an idiot. You can’t even get it managed to find a decent table? Who can sit here? My god, are you incompetent, what a moron, nobody could sit here! How stupid can you be! Do you think it’s fine to sit here?” “Yes, actually,” I said, “It’s a four-top and there are four of us and I’m perfectly happy—“ “Of course you are, because you have no feeling whatsoever for decency and manners, you’re just white trash, like you’re whole family, my god…” For whatever reason -- the alignment of the cosmos, the high of the sea air, or just that time of the month -- I chose to respond: “Look, why don’t you just pick a table and we’ll move, okay? We’re all here to serve you, god knows, but you will stop your childish temper tantrum and stop calling me an idiot; your behavior is totally unacceptable!” “Oh shut up,” he said, waving his hand dismissively.
As the coffee was poured, the comments continued, in a more mumbled fashion, and he made sure to berate the staff for their lack of having “the” table ready for us. As the eggs were served, he channeled his anger towards other diners, observing that that family over there is just “horrible” and those women on the beach are most certainly all dikes and man haters. As a matter of course, Dillon kept his mouth shut and his eyes on his food, but it never spared him from the constant and venomous nagging: “Damnit, Dillon, keep your mouth shut! Pig!” Then a knock to the head, “Keep your eyes over here, not looking around!” And a pinch to the ear: “Be quiet! It’s eating time!” Then to Ella: “Ella! Look at the mess you made! My god! What a pig! And she sits right next to her and can’t even watch her own daughter, unbelievable…” Then back to Dillon: “Would you hurry up and eat, what are you doing!” and literally seconds later, “My god, slow down! You idiot! Chew your food!” I point out that poor Dillon is only three and doesn’t know how on earth you can hurry up and eat and also slow down! And as always, I’m interjecting for him to stop pinching, and don’t do that! And leave him alone! Etc. It’s just exhausting and quite frankly, beneath me.
And this sets the tone for the whole day with this man, as every interaction with him will be like this, every single day, all day long. If we’re not together, then he makes sure to text me complaints and insults, complete with lots of exclamation points. And of course, our children are witness and victim to all of this. If I were to stay (which I will not) my son would either be a complete mess or he would learn to be just like his father, and neither fate is acceptable.
Of course there’s much more. But this is just a slice of any “ordinary” day in our lives. There’s almost always a honeymoon period after these attacks, where he acts like nothing ever happened. And so do I, because it’s the only way to have any kind of peace at all. And so it goes on his emotional roller coaster, up and down all day.
Tonight’s boring routine of tv flipping was going smoothly until he got up and noticed that I had left one of Ella’s bibs by my purse. That triggered another episode of insults, threats and yelling, and now he’s upstairs in disgust at what a “pig” and a “lazy” and “useless person” I am. He’s upstairs, and I will have to go up there soon, and sleep next to this man. Now he’s just opened the door and told me about some great movie on 50 that I absolutely have to watch. He’s crazy.
Well, peace comes from within, and I will not let this very ill “person” control my spiritual harmony. Let him yell at me. It only makes it easier to leave. Let him berate and control things, it only strengthens my resolve. And let him think I’m an idiot. Because I am stronger than he knows.
Goodnight, dear friend, and thanks for listening; it really means the world to me. Until next time…
Friday, March 26, 2010
Wine and Cheerios
There was no school today, and for a time, our day was bliss. I took the kids to my favorite cafe, we sat outside and the breeze was just heaven. Dillon ran laps around the fountain, chasing a beach ball and little Ella chased after her big brother.
You know you've changed forever when you think that wine and Cheerios is a perfectly lovely afternoon snack. But once you're a mommy, you understand how that can happen. My husband, Derek, is home, having an afternoon nap, and I know I have two hours of freedom before the accounting of my whereabouts will begin. Two hours of peace, just to live in the moment. Ella toddles up and hands me a tiny fist of scrunched up flowers, so proud of her discovery. Then she leaves, exploring. She's happy. We're happy. We're happy just being.
Moments like this have become so precious that it's like I have a heightened sense of awareness. I'm aware of the music quietly playing, of the cool breeze on my skin, the tartness of the wine on my tongue, the sweet smell of Ella's hair when she hugs me, and of Dillon's giggles as he runs by. All of these things, are life, and they're wonderful. And I never forget that.
After a stop by the playground swings and the store, we arrive home at 6 and the "wonderful" is over. The house is dark and absolutely silent, and Derek is standing on the balcony overlooking the front door, just waiting. As I always do, I've prepped Dillon before we come in: "Okay, sweetie, when we go inside please go straight to your room and take your clothes off for a bath, then I'll come in and get you," etc. As I usher the kids to their rooms, it starts: "Where the hell have you been! Where the hell have you taken my kids for three hours! Answer me, Stacey! You stupid, selfish bitch! What do you think? You can just do whatever you want? Don't ever keep my kids out this late again, do you hear me? DO YOU HEAR ME?!!!"
And of course, there is no response that will satisfy him; someone who wants to set you up and pick a fight. And then came the threats: "I've just had it! Damnit! Don't ask me for any money, ever again! I'll cut you off, you idiot! What a dumb bitch, my God!"
Needless to say, there has been silence the rest of the night. When he punishes me with silence, it's a strange kind of blessing. And at least I had my wine and Cheerios. And my moment with my babies.
So cyber hugs to you, dear friend, until tomorrow..nite nite
You know you've changed forever when you think that wine and Cheerios is a perfectly lovely afternoon snack. But once you're a mommy, you understand how that can happen. My husband, Derek, is home, having an afternoon nap, and I know I have two hours of freedom before the accounting of my whereabouts will begin. Two hours of peace, just to live in the moment. Ella toddles up and hands me a tiny fist of scrunched up flowers, so proud of her discovery. Then she leaves, exploring. She's happy. We're happy. We're happy just being.
Moments like this have become so precious that it's like I have a heightened sense of awareness. I'm aware of the music quietly playing, of the cool breeze on my skin, the tartness of the wine on my tongue, the sweet smell of Ella's hair when she hugs me, and of Dillon's giggles as he runs by. All of these things, are life, and they're wonderful. And I never forget that.
After a stop by the playground swings and the store, we arrive home at 6 and the "wonderful" is over. The house is dark and absolutely silent, and Derek is standing on the balcony overlooking the front door, just waiting. As I always do, I've prepped Dillon before we come in: "Okay, sweetie, when we go inside please go straight to your room and take your clothes off for a bath, then I'll come in and get you," etc. As I usher the kids to their rooms, it starts: "Where the hell have you been! Where the hell have you taken my kids for three hours! Answer me, Stacey! You stupid, selfish bitch! What do you think? You can just do whatever you want? Don't ever keep my kids out this late again, do you hear me? DO YOU HEAR ME?!!!"
And of course, there is no response that will satisfy him; someone who wants to set you up and pick a fight. And then came the threats: "I've just had it! Damnit! Don't ask me for any money, ever again! I'll cut you off, you idiot! What a dumb bitch, my God!"
Needless to say, there has been silence the rest of the night. When he punishes me with silence, it's a strange kind of blessing. And at least I had my wine and Cheerios. And my moment with my babies.
So cyber hugs to you, dear friend, until tomorrow..nite nite
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
How I wonder what you are…
I always wait until five to pick my son up from pre-school. I don’t have to; I don’t work, but when HE is home (my husband – we’ll call him Derek), I dread coming home. Sometimes I just drive around with my two kids in the car: Dillon, 3 ½ and Ella, 18 months, listening to music and meditating on what our lives will be like one day when we finally get away from this person.
As the children ate, things were okay and then He came down, in a mood triggered by I don’t know what. I never know what. It could be anything or nothing, but one thing is for sure, it’s always something. Tonight it was a tomato. “Sit up straight, you bum!” he yelled at Dillon, “What’s the matter with you! It’s like you’re in a lounge chair!” I was making some chicken for Dillon’s Easter picnic at school the next day. Derek peered into the fridge and snapped: “So you’re just wasting money, is that it? Hmmm? Just wasting money like it’s water, you stupid, idiotic person!”
As I learned to do a long time ago, I tried to play dumb and keep my eyes on my work, but when he’s on the attack, there’s nothing that will stop it. “I demand an answer, Stacey!” he bellowed, startling Dillon. “You are the most selfish, decadent, useless person I’ve ever met!” The yelling continued and it eventually became clear to me that he was angry because I used a tomato that had a later date on it than another tomato in the fridge. He knew this because he had surveyed all the tomatoes, checked the dates, and had discovered this terrible and unforgivable infraction. As he yelled, he worked himself into a greater and greater frenzy, screaming that I was a “useless bitch” and that I “ruin his health.” “Don’t ask me for any more money, Stacey, never again, because I’m not giving you any! You can rot like you deserve!”
And on and on he went. With Ella on my hip and Dillon clutching my leg, we stood in the kitchen as Derek screamed at the top of his lungs from the living room: “Just leave, Stacey! Get out of my site! You’re useless! You’re a useless, stupid, selfish person who is ruining our kids!” “Okay,” I said, trying to usher the kids away from this scene, “Come on, Dillon, let’s go to bed, sweetie.” But Derek was unstoppable, still screaming: “Get your hands off of him! Dillon, go! GO!!!!! You stupid person! You just baby them! You don’t know anything!” Dillon clung to my leg and like dodging bullets, Dillon, Ella and I made the dash to his room to seek cover. As I do every, single day, I tried to put on a smile and get on with it. But even at three, Dillon isn’t stupid. “Mommy,” he said, “Daddy’s yellin’ again.” “I know, sweetheart,” I countered, “but you know what, the way daddy acts is not okay. We don’t yell at each other like that, do we.” “No,” he said, “it’s not nice.” “That’s right,” I added, “are you okay?” “Yes, he nodded, his huge eyes fixed on me.
With a hug, I left Dillon to watch tv in his room, the safest activity he can do, sadly, while I put Ella to bed. But even now, with all of us gone from the room, Derek’s rant was far from over. As I turned out the lights in Ella’s room and tried to relax her, we could hear Derek’s screams in the background to everything else. “What a stupid, stupid person!” he yelled, “Never, never am I taking this anymore! What a shit life! Bullshit!” and on and on and on, all directed at me and my inadequacies as a wife, as a mother, and as a human being in general.
Still, I got on with it, holding little Ella in my arms: “Should we sing our song now?” I asked, “Yeah,” she whispered, “Song,” So as we did every night, we went to the window and stepped inside the curtains, looking out at the giant, white moon hovering over the banana trees. His shouting in the background never ceased as he worked himself into a bigger and bigger frenzy.
But the night was beautiful, my baby was in my arms, and even though I can’t sing well, I sang anyway: “Twin-kle, twin-kle, lit-tle star, how I won-der what you are…” “No way am I taking this bullshit from this stupid bitch anymore! I just had it!” “Up a-bove the world so high..." “Wasting food like some Queen! From now on you get nothing! Do you here me?! You can starve!” "...like a di-amond in the sky…” “What a selfish, disgusting pig! Just a total piece of trash, this bitch!” “...twin-kle, twin-kle lit-tle star..." “Just a useless, money-grubbing piece of shit! No more! That’s for sure!” “...how I won-der what you are…” “Nice,” Ella sighed when we were finished, “Bitch!” crash, clang… “Mommy?” Ella said, pointing toward the door, “dad a da daddy??” “Yes, Ella,” I sighed, “That’s daddy. Now it’s night-night time.”
With Ella down I checked on Dillon and made sure he was okay, and then tip-toed past Derek back into the kitchen. He was silent now, beginning the next phase of punishment; the phase after he’s shot his full load of ammunition and he’s spent. I’m only able to write any of this now because he’s so angry at me that he’s ignoring my existence. But believe me, there will be a price to pay for that later.
Words don’t translate the pain and terror that such a scene makes me feel. This monster thinks it’s okay to just unleash his poisonous venom on me and my babies and then leave us to feel like pieces of garbage, which is what he thinks of us. To him, we’re just objects to own and control. I’m strong, but even so I feel shaken, like I’ve just been slapped across the face over and over and couldn’t do anything about it.
Twinkle, twinkle, little star, how I truly wonder what you are. Goodnight, little star, and goodnight, dear friend…
As the children ate, things were okay and then He came down, in a mood triggered by I don’t know what. I never know what. It could be anything or nothing, but one thing is for sure, it’s always something. Tonight it was a tomato. “Sit up straight, you bum!” he yelled at Dillon, “What’s the matter with you! It’s like you’re in a lounge chair!” I was making some chicken for Dillon’s Easter picnic at school the next day. Derek peered into the fridge and snapped: “So you’re just wasting money, is that it? Hmmm? Just wasting money like it’s water, you stupid, idiotic person!”
As I learned to do a long time ago, I tried to play dumb and keep my eyes on my work, but when he’s on the attack, there’s nothing that will stop it. “I demand an answer, Stacey!” he bellowed, startling Dillon. “You are the most selfish, decadent, useless person I’ve ever met!” The yelling continued and it eventually became clear to me that he was angry because I used a tomato that had a later date on it than another tomato in the fridge. He knew this because he had surveyed all the tomatoes, checked the dates, and had discovered this terrible and unforgivable infraction. As he yelled, he worked himself into a greater and greater frenzy, screaming that I was a “useless bitch” and that I “ruin his health.” “Don’t ask me for any more money, Stacey, never again, because I’m not giving you any! You can rot like you deserve!”
And on and on he went. With Ella on my hip and Dillon clutching my leg, we stood in the kitchen as Derek screamed at the top of his lungs from the living room: “Just leave, Stacey! Get out of my site! You’re useless! You’re a useless, stupid, selfish person who is ruining our kids!” “Okay,” I said, trying to usher the kids away from this scene, “Come on, Dillon, let’s go to bed, sweetie.” But Derek was unstoppable, still screaming: “Get your hands off of him! Dillon, go! GO!!!!! You stupid person! You just baby them! You don’t know anything!” Dillon clung to my leg and like dodging bullets, Dillon, Ella and I made the dash to his room to seek cover. As I do every, single day, I tried to put on a smile and get on with it. But even at three, Dillon isn’t stupid. “Mommy,” he said, “Daddy’s yellin’ again.” “I know, sweetheart,” I countered, “but you know what, the way daddy acts is not okay. We don’t yell at each other like that, do we.” “No,” he said, “it’s not nice.” “That’s right,” I added, “are you okay?” “Yes, he nodded, his huge eyes fixed on me.
With a hug, I left Dillon to watch tv in his room, the safest activity he can do, sadly, while I put Ella to bed. But even now, with all of us gone from the room, Derek’s rant was far from over. As I turned out the lights in Ella’s room and tried to relax her, we could hear Derek’s screams in the background to everything else. “What a stupid, stupid person!” he yelled, “Never, never am I taking this anymore! What a shit life! Bullshit!” and on and on and on, all directed at me and my inadequacies as a wife, as a mother, and as a human being in general.
Still, I got on with it, holding little Ella in my arms: “Should we sing our song now?” I asked, “Yeah,” she whispered, “Song,” So as we did every night, we went to the window and stepped inside the curtains, looking out at the giant, white moon hovering over the banana trees. His shouting in the background never ceased as he worked himself into a bigger and bigger frenzy.
But the night was beautiful, my baby was in my arms, and even though I can’t sing well, I sang anyway: “Twin-kle, twin-kle, lit-tle star, how I won-der what you are…” “No way am I taking this bullshit from this stupid bitch anymore! I just had it!” “Up a-bove the world so high..." “Wasting food like some Queen! From now on you get nothing! Do you here me?! You can starve!” "...like a di-amond in the sky…” “What a selfish, disgusting pig! Just a total piece of trash, this bitch!” “...twin-kle, twin-kle lit-tle star..." “Just a useless, money-grubbing piece of shit! No more! That’s for sure!” “...how I won-der what you are…” “Nice,” Ella sighed when we were finished, “Bitch!” crash, clang… “Mommy?” Ella said, pointing toward the door, “dad a da daddy??” “Yes, Ella,” I sighed, “That’s daddy. Now it’s night-night time.”
With Ella down I checked on Dillon and made sure he was okay, and then tip-toed past Derek back into the kitchen. He was silent now, beginning the next phase of punishment; the phase after he’s shot his full load of ammunition and he’s spent. I’m only able to write any of this now because he’s so angry at me that he’s ignoring my existence. But believe me, there will be a price to pay for that later.
Words don’t translate the pain and terror that such a scene makes me feel. This monster thinks it’s okay to just unleash his poisonous venom on me and my babies and then leave us to feel like pieces of garbage, which is what he thinks of us. To him, we’re just objects to own and control. I’m strong, but even so I feel shaken, like I’ve just been slapped across the face over and over and couldn’t do anything about it.
Twinkle, twinkle, little star, how I truly wonder what you are. Goodnight, little star, and goodnight, dear friend…
Hello, dear friend...
Thanks for coming. I really needed someone to talk to, to vent to; someone who will just listen. I can’t talk to anyone I know, as we live in a very small community and if word got around, he would “destroy me” like he has threatened to so many times. I can’t talk to my family, at least not in detail, because visiting them at holidays is the only relief I have from this ever-tightening noose, and if I were to tell them just how bad it is, it would make our visits awkward. I mean, how could you sit across the dinner table from someone who treats your daughter and your grandchildren like that? They know he’s controlling, yes. And they know he’s disrespectful, emotional and stressful to be around. They’ve seen glimpses. But they don’t really know how bad he is when no one is around, do they. That’s how they operate; these abusive types. And knowing me, who would have ever guessed that I would be in this hell?
You see this was never supposed to happen to me. I am strong, outgoing, outspoken, and not easily intimidated. I speak my mind. I’m independent and goal-oriented, educated, and not to brag, but prior to my marriage I had a very lucrative and successful international career. I was dreaming, achieving, and living life on a big scale. And somehow I still do, because I’m a fighter. Five short years ago I never would have imagined the countless times I would be called a “stupid bitch,” a “dumb whore,” an “idiot,” “moron,” “horrible person,” and so much more labels on a daily basis. I think “useless” gets to me the most. I know it’s not true. But there is such a thing as “death by a thousand cuts.” The anger, in all its forms, has a way, over time, of crushing your soul until one day you look in the mirror and you’re just dead inside. I see it in people every day; someone just standing in a line or eating with their spouse, but their eyes are empty; just going through the motions. I see it every day, but I never recognized it until now.
So okay, this wasn’t supposed to happen to me. Well hey, this isn’t supposed to happen to anyone! But it does, and it has. So now what. One thing is for certain: I WILL NOT LET THIS BEAT ME. I will survive, and thrive. And I will protect my beautiful babies from a life like this. The control, the insults, the disrespect, the hurt, and confusion, the complete and utter breaking of spirit. No. That will not be their future.
But until I can leave, until I can deliver us into a better, a safer and happier life, I have you to talk to, and I really need that. I like to pretend that we’re sitting in a nice café’ somewhere; your favorite. And I’m so glad to know that you’re there, listening. I’ll keep you posted and let you know all that’s been going on and all that is to come. Thanks for being there. So until next time, see you later, dear friend.
You see this was never supposed to happen to me. I am strong, outgoing, outspoken, and not easily intimidated. I speak my mind. I’m independent and goal-oriented, educated, and not to brag, but prior to my marriage I had a very lucrative and successful international career. I was dreaming, achieving, and living life on a big scale. And somehow I still do, because I’m a fighter. Five short years ago I never would have imagined the countless times I would be called a “stupid bitch,” a “dumb whore,” an “idiot,” “moron,” “horrible person,” and so much more labels on a daily basis. I think “useless” gets to me the most. I know it’s not true. But there is such a thing as “death by a thousand cuts.” The anger, in all its forms, has a way, over time, of crushing your soul until one day you look in the mirror and you’re just dead inside. I see it in people every day; someone just standing in a line or eating with their spouse, but their eyes are empty; just going through the motions. I see it every day, but I never recognized it until now.
So okay, this wasn’t supposed to happen to me. Well hey, this isn’t supposed to happen to anyone! But it does, and it has. So now what. One thing is for certain: I WILL NOT LET THIS BEAT ME. I will survive, and thrive. And I will protect my beautiful babies from a life like this. The control, the insults, the disrespect, the hurt, and confusion, the complete and utter breaking of spirit. No. That will not be their future.
But until I can leave, until I can deliver us into a better, a safer and happier life, I have you to talk to, and I really need that. I like to pretend that we’re sitting in a nice café’ somewhere; your favorite. And I’m so glad to know that you’re there, listening. I’ll keep you posted and let you know all that’s been going on and all that is to come. Thanks for being there. So until next time, see you later, dear friend.
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