Staying Took Forever. Leaving An Instant
For years, an essay title mulled around in my mind, “Split Decision: Staying Present in a Fractured Marriage.” The problem was, I didn’t dare write it.
A few close friends picked up on the double meaning. Split decision hinted at the truths behind my life, the veil of happiness, or at least acceptance, that I wore for public viewing. While I had healthy, intelligent children, lived in a pretty home in an enviable neighborhood, and took pride in owning a business with my spouse, I kept a secret.
My husband was mentally unstable, emotionally manipulative, and often scared the crap out of me.
I stayed.
I stayed past the last kiss, last time we had sex, last time I wanted to look him in the eye. I stayed until his presence repulsed me, and even when I no longer cared what might happen to him when he was out late on one of his self-medicating drinking benders to calm the storm in his brain.
I stayed when he flirted with my friends or demeaned me in front of others. I stayed when those who knew what was going on implored me to do something. I stayed when my father said, “that man is after your money,” not knowing that my savings was woefully depleted.
I didn’t stay because I was afraid to leave or doubted my ability to make it on my own.
“In public, I was his ‘better half.’
In private, I was half alive.”
I knew I could live a much better life. I knew I deserved it too.
I stayed for my child. I stayed because had I left, my youngest would have to be alone with her father, and I wouldn’t be there to protect her from the brunt of his manic anger.
Freedom Rang
Then one day freedom came. My husband lost his temper with my son.
The moment it happened I put myself between the two of them. My child sheltered behind me while my husband towered over both of us. I was terrified by what I saw in his eyes, and past threats came to my mind.
I’ll get even.
You won’t see it coming.
I know the laws, I won’t cross them.
I’ll make you miserable...
Dueling Messages
In public, I was his “better half.” In private, I was half alive.
This time, it was different. As I loosened his grip on us, I met his gaze of rage with one of determination, and inside I heard my voice silently celebrating.
“I’m free. I’m free. Thank God, at last, I am free.”
This time, I no longer needed to stay.
The moment a parent assaults a child, the courts take notice. They can’t give lip service to physical abuse like they do to emotional, verbal and psychological harm.
This time I could leave because this time my children were coming with me.
Staying took forever; leaving happened in that instant.
The irony of the night? It was at a Passover Seder, the night that Jews around the world celebrate the Hebrew Exodus from slavery.
Running From Bears
Mental illness and personality disorders aren’t criminal, but the wake of pain that these conditions leave on the loved ones are traumatic.
It is estimated that upwards of 60 million Americans are diagnosed with bipolar disorder. Characterized by extreme mood swings, bipolar disorder is one of several personality disorders identified in the DSM (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual for Psychology). The manifestations and ways to treat the condition are vast and varied.
I thought I’d done my due diligence when we were dating.
With a degree in psychology and biology, I thought I knew more than the average person about mental disorders and even asked medical friends of mine for their advice about getting involved with someone like my ex-husband.
“I stayed past the last kiss, last time we had sex, last time I wanted to look him in the eye.”
What no one said was that medicines are often inadequate. The moment the brain chemistry of a person goes haywire, there’s no predicting what can happen or how long it will take for the person, and those around them, to find their center and calm again.
Here’s how I learned to see it. If I had high blood pressure, I could take medicine to control that. But if I were being chased in the woods by a bear, no amount of drugs could keep my heart rate from racing.
The funny thing is, I used to think of my husband as a bear. In the beginning of our relationship, he could be cuddly. Turns out, he roared and was as unpredictable as a grizzly.
Running from either had as many dangers as playing dead, which was what I’d been doing all those years.
Life After Death
This incident took place in 2016. Once upon a time, I enjoyed writing and did so prolifically until the stress of my relationship took its toll on my creativity.
Only the title of this blog tethered me to my inner muses. By writing this, I’m tapping into my dormant creativity and learning to trust again.
I made it to the other side, intact and stronger for it.
I am my own heroine and the heroine for my children.
I have a new life, one that works for our family of three.
Epilogue
It took years to feel ready to trust. I loved myself and knew I would love again. When I imagined falling in love once more, this is what I hoped for: a man who would love me for my rawness, courage, convictions, and strength. Arms that would hold and caress. Lips that would speak encouragement and freely kiss. A mind worthy of respect and admiration. A heart pulsing with kindness and conviction, bringing out the best in one another.
A few years later, I met him.
Turns out, the woman who wrote those words had finally learned the difference between longing for love and being ready for it. That’s Love Like a Badass.
Author’s note: An earlier version of this essay was originally written during an earlier chapter of my life, before The Badass Arts had a name. I’m republishing it here as part of the evolving body of work exploring what it means to live with more soul, sass, and substance.
