One year ago today I slept in my bed, safe for the first time in over 25 years. One year ago today, my husband moved out of our home.
I never wanted this anniversary. Christian women are supposed to be eternally forgiving. We are supposed to be ridding ourselves from the log in our own eye rather than pointing out the speck in our husband's eye. We vow for better AND WORSE, and we vow until death.
The Bible doesn't say what to do if the person you vowed to spend your entire life with constantly uses you and your body for their wants while blatantly trampling on your own needs and health. It says to pray for those who persecute you. It says to forgive seventy-times-seven times. It says to love unconditionally. And to the best of my ability, that is what I did for decades, constantly re-forgiving and refusing to complain lest I become the quarrelsome wife so hideously described throughout Proverbs.
When you've counted to 490 (that's 70x7, thanks VeggieTales!) literally thousands of times, when you've begged and pleaded for basic needs like clothing and medical care, when the only thing keeping you from being attacked in your bed is becoming a monster yourself and physically threatening another human being, and when you've hidden behind the closet door that is still broken from the first time you dared to say NO and were violently attacked while still healing from childbirth... when you've done all this, continually praying and self-searching for what you did to cause these things to happen, doing anything you can to prevent it from happening again, and begging simply for the abuse to stop... after decades of being abused while not saying a word to anyone for fear of slandering the one who is abusing you, something finally snaps.
I married a narcissist. Out of survival and trauma-bonding, I learned codependency. For decades I stayed silent - and even lied about my happiness & safety - while praying that my husband would become who he vowed to be, and not wanting to damage his reputation. But I am tired of trying to heal on my own, and cannot heal without sharing. So this is the tiniest portion of my story. It is mine to share.
For 25 years I poured my heart, soul, time, attention, and love into someone who only cared about their own wants.
For 21 years I was not allowed access to finances while my name was on bills that went unpaid, and I was lied to whenever I asked about anything concerning money.
For 20 years I begged, pleaded, nagged, and yelled for him to speak with his daughter - to form a basic relationship with the human being he helped to create.
For 11 years I slept on the couch, to keep from being violated while I slept.
For 10 years we lived without health insurance more often than we had it, incapable of being seen for our life-threatening health issues, because financial irresponsibility, secrecy, and lies were more important than basic decency. Not once or twice, but THREE TIMES while being told there was no money to clear our medical bills so we could be seen at the clinic, my husband purchased a vehicle for his sole use.
For 5 years I sought help from multiple outside sources.
After all this, I offered one final plea. Get help to stop hurting your wife, speak with your daughter, and stop lying. If these three basic human needs are not fulfilled, I would leave. I waited an entire year, still praying for change and to save my vows. Literally nothing happened. The day he moved out, he lied to me. He still has not had a single conversation with his 21 year old daughter, and only knows the most basic of details about his 25 year old son.
On our 25th anniversary, I sought help from a crisis center. Two months later, he moved out. Fourteen months later our divorce is still not finalized, because COVID has slowed the court systems to a halt. But my healing has begun.
Thanks to COVID I have had a year to try and heal on my own, while counselors and therapists could not take on new patients. I can train myself to recognize what happened and how I missed the warning signs. I can unlearn codependency.... and some day, I may forgive myself for allowing a quarter-century of abuse rather than breaking a vow that had already been shattered. I am not there yet.
This is my story.
It is mine to share. It is not finished. But there will be a happy ending, someday.
