Surreal/So Real

October, 2014

I'd returned home knowing that I was going to ask for a divorce, and yet even saying the words out loud felt impossible. It seemed as if every few minutes I'd come up short, startled at our perfectly ordinary life-- at how pedestrian and innocuous J looked-- and I'd think, "Really? I can't handle this?!" Followed immediately by my mind cycling through 15 years of patterns and behaviors, which triggered an immense exhaustion to descend upon me. I'd remember him saying, "I feel prompted by the spirit to tell you that everything is all right.." and suddenly, it would feel like my body was making the decision for me. Every atom within me would resolutely refuse to go forward. I was certain. I was done. 

But the need to go through that washer-machine churning of thought didn't stop. Endlessly, I went from shocked to resigned to determined, over and over again, all day long. One minute the decision would sound ludicrously surreal and the next it would simply be so real. I called lawyers. I made plans. I prayed about how to tell J. 

Amidst this, my mom got a call saying that her father, who was in the final stages of Alzheimer's, was not expected to live to see the end of the week. It was a completely unexpected development, knocking the wind out of us with its swiftness. We scrambled to get her a plane ticket and lodging, which she couldn't afford. My inclination was to put it on my credit card, but morally, I felt I had to talk to J about it first. 

That didn't go well.

"I don't trust your family to pay it back," was his reply. To which I argued that it was my credit card in my name. "You still have a balance on there from helping with your brother's wedding!" he accused. I reminded him that my parents had faithfully made payments and we had never once had to part with our own money, so what was his problem? But he refused. "You can have $200," he said. "It's a gift."

I felt sick. His response seemed incomprehensible to me. If he'd been even remotely noble, he would have said, "Credit card? Don't be silly! We have enough in our account to cover it. Tell your parents we'd be happy to help!" As it was, $200 wasn't enough for a one-way ticket, let alone a hotel room. In all other respects, we were completely debt free-- had just returned from Europe, for %&# sake-- and yet he could sound perfectly justified and reasonable in refusing to help my mother see my grandfather before he died. The selfishness of it astounded me. What was the point of financial security if not to make generosity in these moments possible?! But even worse was the way he could make it sound as if I was the foolish one, throwing good money after bad. I felt helpless to oppose him.

With the assistance of others, mom flew home to see her dad. The plan was for me to follow shortly after for the funeral, using the $200 'gift' since J's 'budget' didn't allow for my flight. However, as the day of my flight drew nearer, Grandpa was still clinging to life. Mom would call me every evening, emotionally shattered and spent. I longed to join her-- to say my own goodbyes, and try to ease the burden and be a comfort-- but J felt I shouldn't leave unless there was a funeral to go to. 

I don't know how to explain what an added stress that was; his obstinate lack of empathy and cold criticism of me. His assertions that I was selfish to plan on leaving without knowing when I would return felt just true enough that I agonized over them. Was I wrong to go? Was I putting too much of a burden on others to care for my children while I was away? On the other hand, could I really live with myself if I passed up the opportunity to support my family? Over money?!

I booked the ticket. 

When I told J about it he immediately offered his condolences, thinking that Grandpa had passed. When I told him otherwise, his silence spoke volumes. 

We had an appointment with our therapist the day before I was to leave. That morning, I went to the Temple, a bundle of nerves after determining that this would be the day I would tell J about the divorce. 

As I sat in the Celestial Room, my thoughts and feelings had a clarity and gentle peacefulness that they hadn't had before. I soaked it in, and as I often do, tried to divine what the future held by running scenarios by God and seeing if any of them produced a warm feeling of confirmation. 

Perhaps You need me to be certain because a looming divorce is the only thing that will snap J out of his addictive thinking? 

Perhaps You know that I would never threaten divorce for that purpose, but You will take advantage of my certainty and bless me with an added capacity for pain in the 11th hour? 

Perhaps our marriage can still be saved in some way I just haven't had the ability to see? 

Nothing. 

Try as I might, the future remained inscrutable. The only thing I felt sure of was that telling J I wanted a divorce was the next right step. 

I won't file until after Christmas, I decided. I'll tell him my decision and we'll move forward as if divorce is inexorable, but I won't file until after Christmas. God has until then to work a miracle.

Weary of Days and Hours

October, 2014

My stomach sank as soon as I pulled into the driveway. The trees in the front yard were perfectly pruned, the bushes were freshly trimmed, and the walkway had recently been swept clean. I knew I was looking at a full Saturday worth of work, which meant that J had spent the weekend at the house even though I'd made it very clear that for the duration of our separation, the house was entirely off limits to him.

A weight seemed to settle on my shoulders before I'd even stepped out of the car. I was so tired of these subtle ways he found of crossing my boundaries while simultaneously putting me in a position of looking either unreasonable or weak. In this case, if I pointed out the violation, he'd accuse me of being unappreciative and critical when {supposedly} all he'd been doing was trying to serve me. But if I let it slide, then I'd send the very clear message that I hadn't truly meant it when I set the boundary in the first place and that I didn't respect myself enough to enforce it now.

I hated this game.

It was disorienting and exhausting when he refused to acknowledge what he'd done, and yet I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. "He isn't self aware," I'd lecture myself. "He isn't malicious." So I would try telling him that his 'unselfishness' was actually hurting me and taking an increasingly large toll on me; but to no avail. He only ever gave me that infuriated victim speech-- the one that said he was doing his part to be in recovery and that I had better do my part to forgive him.

In the end, I would be left feeling shrugged off and unsafe, but unable to really explain it to anyone. After all, how stupid would it sound to say that my husband did yard work for me and it made me feel disrespected?

When I walked through the door, I greeted the children before drawing J aside to speak privately. I felt unsettled as he put on a concerned voice and asked about The Togetherness Project. I opened my mouth, but I couldn't make myself share even the most superficial thing about my trip. I had the strange and disquieting notion that he was nibbling away pieces of me-- prodding for more information and asking for more vulnerability-- but that if I wasn't vigilant, he'd devour me whole. For a long moment, I sat across from him knowing the words I could say and the things I could do to invite intimacy between us, and yet the words were frozen on my tongue. I willed my lips to move but it was as if every molecule of my being rebelled allergically. It simply refused to play along.

Instead, I found myself pointing out the way he'd violated my boundary. He launched into his justifications, but I couldn't seem to listen. My mind was chanting, "counterfeit, counterfeit, counterfeit," too loudly. I stared into the middle distance, remaining blank and unresponsive until he finally stopped talking.

And then flatly, I asked him to leave.

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What Happened?

October, 2014

The period of time leading up to the decision to end my marriage was oddly reminiscent of the time leading up to the decision to start my marriage. It was a twisted and dark version of dating, wherein every behavior, remark, and brief interaction was dissected and analyzed.

I spent hours trying to figure out his motives, his mindset, and his trustworthiness. I fretted. I extrapolated. I prayed. I examined from every angle, all the while gathering evidence like snowflakes, watching as they coalesced, snowballing into a mountain of truth I could no longer deny.

As I drove home from The Togetherness Project, memories surfaced one after another.

We are dating. After a movie one night, I mention I'd like a pair of soft pajama pants. J drags me into Victoria's Secret, oblivious as I blush scarlet, mortified. I grab the first pair I see and pay quickly. They are 3 sizes too big, but I never return them. I feel like a sheltered prude when he teases me later.

We are newly married, as we unpack our things in our first home, we talk of our lives before we met. J shows me pictures of sand dunes, and confides that he was not worthy to attend the temple with his brother the day they were taken. "Why not?" I ask, but he refuses to tell me. "You would look at me differently. It's between me and the Lord and no one else. It isn't your business." I feel scared by his reticence, but eventually I drop it.

 I work full-time to support us while J attempts to start his own business. We never see each other, and I am under the distinct impression that he wants it that way. I am confused and heartbroken. I hate my job, and tearfully confess one evening that I'd like to quit. "Why would you do that to us?" He says, looking at me with an odd mix of wounded contempt, "Why would you be so selfish?" I shrink away, ashamed.

One of our bills arrives in J's name. When I open it, he berates me for violating his privacy. We have an intense debate over boundaries, and though I am firm in my stance that there IS no privacy in marriage, I am disturbed by his argument to the contrary. For the next 15 years, anytime I open a letter addressed to him, it becomes a point of contention between us.

J looks disappointed and disgusted every time he finds that I'm wearing religious garments under my clothes. I take to wearing sexy underwear instead, but one evening as I'm undressing, he shakes his head and says disapprovingly, "I would feel naked if I didn't wear garments." 

"I'm so lucky that you were raised in a poor family," J tells me. "If I'd married a girl from around here, she would have expected me to provide at a higher level." I take this as a compliment, even when my therapist looks at J askance and asks me if it hurts that he doesn't long to give me the moon.

After hours of unmedicated labor, the doctor insists that I'm not progressing fast enough on my own. He wants to start me on pitocin. I begin to cry. "I can't do this anymore," I whimper, turning to J. There is no empathy in his eyes, only excitement. He sees my tears and thinks, "Transition! We're near the end!"  He is right. Within minutes, I am pushing. But I never forget that he was unmoved by my pain and fear. 

I haven't had more than 4 consecutive hours of sleep in the last 9 months. J calls me on the way home from work. My words are dull. Leaden. I feel full of despair as I bathe one child, the other straddling my hip and screaming uncontrollably. "I can't handle it when you're like this," J sighs. He hangs up and doesn't come home. I am a burden. I am alone.

We get a late-night call from J's brother. He's asking all the siblings to gather in support of their mother, who has shown up on his doorstep, battered and bruised after their father became violent. We are in shock. I gather and dress the kids. I wait by the door. J keeps finding things to put off our departure. At last, I ask in frustration, "We're not leaving, are we? This is you're passive-aggressive way of telling me that you don't want to go?" I expect tears. Instead, he is angry. "Why should I have to go fix her problems? I'm not saying that he has a right to hit her, but honestly-- that mouth of hers...." I feel sick, but am silenced when later, his sentiments are echoed by other family members. The incident is rarely talked of again, but I never forgive my father-in-law.

We are having sex when I start to sob. "Do you even love me?" I ask. He turns away and gets that look on his face-- hurt, disbelieving and angry. Before I can stop myself, I'm apologizing. "I'm sorry," I say. "I don't know what's wrong with me. I'm sorry."

I shook myself from my dark rumination and turned to my mother, who had met me in Utah for The Togetherness Project and was now joining me on the ride back home for an extended visit. "Do you think J has always been unfeeling?" I asked. "Was he a cold, critical person when we met and I just didn't want to believe it? Or has addiction turned him into who he is today?"

She looked at me helplessly. "I don't know, honey. We didn't meet him until right before the wedding, and honestly, we didn't see any red flags. Our first impression was simply that he seemed weak. That he didn't have as strong a testimony as we expected, and that surprised us."

I nodded thoughtfully.

"The thing that eats at me," I replied after a stretch of silence, "is that I've always been able to see his potential. He's capable of being so much more; and it's perpetually seemed so close-- this stronger, more tender version of him-- just a hair-breadths away, really; that I've felt that it was my duty to hold up that image of who he could be like a talisman, or a carrot on a stick. After all, isn't that part of loving someone? That you can see past their faults and flaws and focus on who they really are?"

The question hung in the air as I mused for a moment.

"I've always thought that there was something that I could do or say to entice him to be noble and aspire for more," I sighed, both bitter and despondent. "But I'm starting to wonder if he looked at that image-- that he actually saw it, and maybe even strived for it briefly after our first separation-- and then decided it was too much work. I think he saw who I knew he could be and rejected it. Was I left holding up the ideal so high in front of my face that I was completely blind to reality?" 

"I don't know," I breathed. "I don't know." 

I hit the steering wheel, trying to hold back the tears that were stinging my eyes. "This is so stupid! I'm still doing it! I'm still thinking that he could wake up at any moment. That if I just hold on a little longer...." the tears were there now, hot and streaming down my face. "But I can't. I can't do this one minute more." 

I took a deep breath, regaining control. 

"I've tried letting go. I've told myself that I don't need him to be anything more than he is. I stopped expecting him to love me, to be supportive or warm or even kind. I've told myself that I can have all my needs met by the Lord; that anything J contributes is just icing on the cake. But the only way that works is if J does the same and lets go of me as well, and he can't seem to do that. He's like this yawning black hole that keeps demanding that I fill it."

I was venting now, rambling and disjointed, but I couldn't seem to stop.

"It feels like our relationship is an empty banking account. He says he's putting in deposits-- that he's unselfish and loving and changing his ways. But they're all counterfeit. They're hollow and empty and just for show-- but then he demands these outrageous withdrawals. He asks for more and more from me, waving around his counterfeit money and I don't know how else to say that I have nothing left to give."

We drove in silence for a time, each lost in thought, until at last, I was the first to break the stillness. 

"I keep coming back to this image of him walking through the door," I admitted, my voice trembling. "I dread that moment. Every day, he's out there being unfaithful and dishonest, yet he comes home and expects me to shower him with adoration. The weight of that expectation alone is suffocating. I think of him walking through the door and I get sick. I literally feel sick." As I spoke, my voice grew stronger, gaining conviction despite the terror I felt at my own words. "In the end," I said, "it's visceral, this decision I'm making to get a divorce, because I think of staying together and all I can picture is him walking through that door...  and I know that I can't take it."

I shook my head mirthlessly. "That's it, really. I can't imagine being happy to see him walk through that door ever again." 

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