Truth-telling

October 30, 2014

I woke up knowing I had to tell the kids.

Too many people knew. Their aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents, home teachers, and bishop-- J had spread the word of our divorce, hoping to build a wall of dissenting voices that would tell me how foolish I was and convince me to stay. Instead, I was certain that at any moment, my children were going to discover the demise of our marriage from someone other than me. 

Or worse-- they would notice the piles of papers I was filling out or they would catch a glimpse of the google searches I was doing for divorce lawyers or they would see the haunted look on my face or maybe they would just feel it in the air and know that SOMETHING was off-- the same way I had always known when something was off in my marriage-- and they'd walk around quietly feeling crazy, blaming themselves for an uneasiness and tension they couldn't articulate. 

I had to tell them. 

I woke up with the conviction growing within me; a whisper of peace in my ear nudging, "now, now, now," despite the fear lodged firmly in my belly. I was terrified, for although I knew I had to tell them, I couldn't fathom having J at my side when I did. 

I tried to convince myself that if I were a mature adult acting in the best interests of my children, I'd put aside my own feelings long enough to present a united front for them. I told myself that it was my job to allay J's fury, to brush off the stomach-twisting terror I felt at the thought of his presence in order to preserve our ability to parent together. But no matter how my mind framed my intentions to 'do divorce differently', my body was having absolutely no part of it. 

My physical reaction was both shocking and confusing. I shook uncontrollably--my hands numb, my teeth chattering--and merely speaking of J left me curled in a ball, sick with dread. Once again, I watched helplessly as my body made uncompromising, instinctual decisions for me. I simply would not and could not be in the same room with J.

What I now know is that I was in trauma; but at the time, I was ashamed of the fear I felt. I mistakenly believed that my inability to ignore my feelings about the man that had yelled at, belittled, and blamed me must mean that I was weak and doing something wrong. After all, I was certain that there would be hell to pay if I told the kids without J. I could see the backlash coming, and even so, I couldn't make myself conform to his wishes in order to prevent it. I had been mitigating J's tantrums for years and now when it mattered most, my body was betraying me. I felt like a failure.

But I knew-- I knew-- I had to tell them. That knowledge was the only bright and sure thing in my storm of doubt and chaos. 

So I did what I thought was only respectful-- I emailed J to let him know of my intentions. At least that way, he wouldn't be able to say I'd blindsided him, and perhaps my fears would prove to be completely unfounded. Maybe he would be gentle and empathetic, saying, "I understand. Of course I wish I could be there, but I trust you to do what is best. I'll talk to them later and let them know that I love them." 

I held my breath and pushed send.

Almost instantly, I was barraged by a hailstorm of phone calls and shaming, angry text messages. "That is unfair and mean!" "Stop doing this for you!" and "Now forever they will think of this news every Halloween. Not cool." 

Again, I was overtaken by a massive, physical response to his fury. I began to panic and started to pray, doubting whether I was doing the right thing, but before the words even formed in my mouth I was flooded with a feeling of, "Yes, now." So I left the phone off the hook, silenced my cell, and took a moment to speak to each child individually. 

It was like skydiving with only the promise of a parachute. 

I had hoped that if God ever asked me to announce such a thing to my kids, He'd also put the perfect words in my mouth to soften the blow. But He didn't. My kids were left with just me-- trembling with fear, but speaking with as much faith as I could muster as I testified to them that they were deeply loved by both earthly and heavenly parents and that we would all be okay. Some of the conversations involved questions, others tears, but all were simple and sacred despite how inadequate I felt. 

When at last it was over, I felt relieved and drained. 

I let J know how things had gone; what I'd said, how they'd reacted, and what had concerned them the most. I invited him to come speak with each of the children himself that evening, then left my mom to answer the door while I sought safety outside of the house. It wasn't until that moment, while I sat trembling in a parking lot around the corner, that it occurred to me that it was not my fault that I was afraid of him. He had taught me to fear him. He had earned my inability to trust him. This-- the fact that we couldn't even be in the same room while announcing our divorce-- was a consequence of his choices, not mine. That sudden clarity did not remove my fear, but it did take away my shame.

The next day J took the kids trick-or-treating. 

It was surreal-- several times he approached me, loudly confident and overly charming, trying to strike up casual conversation. His demeanor was arrogant-- it reminded me of the look in his eyes after he'd watched me cry, and as soon as he left, I was in the throes of trauma once more. Mom held me and tried to make sense of it. "If you aren't afraid that he'll hit you, what are you so scared of?" She asked. 

The answer came unbidden from my lips and surprised both of us. "Without sex, I no longer have anything to bargain with. He doesn't love me. There's nothing left to stop him. He has no reason to hold himself back."

"But what does that mean?" She asked, perplexed. "What could he possibly do?"

I shrugged helplessly, certain that punishment was coming, but unable to vocalize the dread I felt. 

The next morning, I found that he'd drained every last penny from our banking accounts.

October 25, 2014

October 25, 2014 was the day that I knew my marriage was unequivocally and irretrievably broken.

I've been attempting to write about it for the last several weeks, discarding drafts and hoping to make sense of it all, but it's a difficult head space to dwell in. I find that most times, it's so raw and confusing that my mind is only able to skim along the surface of it.

I know there's more.

Something in the center means something; it's important. But excavating and examining are slow tasks. Thus, I have a feeling that I will be re-visiting this day often as I continue to process.

For now, here is an initial, unpolished overview. 

*****

The text was ominous. "We need to talk when you get back," J wrote.  After spending the flight home steeling myself, I walked into the conversation certain of four things: 

1) That J was going to be highly critical. He would mercilessly attempt to find fault with and place blame on me. 

2) That he would be self pitying and make a bid for sympathy. He would try to have me accept responsibility for his misery. 

3) That I needed to be calm, firm, and resist being sucked into the drama triangle because above all, I knew that: 

4) J was not malicious. He was immature and destructive, but he would never intentionally hurt me. 

He started out by asking how I felt about the letters my family had sent. By that time, both my parents had joined my brother C in bluntly voicing their intolerance for J's minimizing and blame shifting. "You choose to sin," my father said plainly. "You have grown to love it, and you have done it so much that you can no longer be trusted. Rise up and be a man- a priesthood man. Then you won't need words; we'll hear them in your actions." 

"Do you agree with them?" J asked, his eyes wide and hurt. "Don't you think they're harsh for calling me manipulative?" 

"I could have written every word of those letters myself," I answered, unblinking. 

He nodded, tight lipped. 

He brought up therapy and tried to convince me that I'd wasted our therapist's time by using the previous week's hour to announce the divorce. "Did you see him?" J scoffed, his lip curling at me. "He was helpless. There was nothing he could do. It was completely inappropriate of you to put him in such an awkward position. We can never go back now!"

I shook my head, baffled at his bizarre logic. "Discussing divorce was anything but inappropriate," I said patiently. "He's a neutral party who provides a place where I feel safe to bring up sensitive topics. I don't feel guilty for using our time there to do just that." 

J moved on to bemoaning the fact that I wasn't confiding in him, saying that we didn't stand a chance of reigniting our relationship if I continued to shut him out. "I write to you every night," he said plaintively, "but you won't even tell me about your day. You haven't even mentioned how the funeral went." 

I tamped down my fury at his bald-faced insensitivity and reminded him that he was not safe for me. That I would only consider engaging in such vulnerable activities after he clearly displayed mastery of the 6 Behaviors I'd written as my signs that he was in recovery.  

"You can't be serious," he deadpanned, fixing me with a look that said I was utterly unreasonable. "Those are lifetime goals! You don't honestly expect me to do those things by Christmas, do you?" 

I watched him silently instead of replying. 

After a beat, the tears in his eyes dried and his face hardened into an angry mask. "If you aren't talking to me, who are you talking to?" he asked in a low, menacing tone. I gawped at him briefly and couldn't contain a sharp laugh of incredulity. He was implying that I was having an affair? 

"My mother," I replied sternly, brooking no argument. 

He did not appear to believe me, but moved on to inform me that he wished to discuss the upcoming holidays. "If this is to be our last Thanksgiving and Christmas as a family, then I want to spend every minute of them together," he stated proudly. I clenched my teeth, increasingly frustrated by his stubborn refusal to accept what I had already plainly told him. 

"We will not be spending time together! You are not safe for me!" I asserted once more. "You are not in recovery. You aren't even working toward it! I can hardly stand to be in the same room with you, let alone spend holidays together!"

"So you're just going to quit, is that it?" he needled. "You won't even join me in fighting for our family?"

"We have very different ideas of what it means to fight for our family," I sighed. "You seem to think that it means ignoring reality and hoping for a miracle to come wipe away all my pain so that you can go back to life as usual without actually having to change."

"You expect me to give up," he huffed, throwing his hands up dramatically. "You're telling me to curse God and die?!" 

"I never said to give up," I corrected him. "I said that instead of insisting I give you one more chance, you should take the chance you've already been given and do something real."

"But I am in real recovery," he started. 

"No," I said firmly. "You're not."

I leaned back and opened my calendar. "We should decide how to split the holidays now, " I said. "I already have plans to spend Thanksgiving with family, so it would be nice to have the kids with me, but that leaves Christmas Eve and Christmas Day." 

He glowered at me. "You aren't taking my kids out of town without my permission." He stated flatly. 

"I won't be," I said breezily. "My brother C and his family are coming to stay here for a few weeks. My parents and brothers will join them in November."

There was a long moment of silence. J was sitting across the room from me, his head down, his form deathly still when, without warning, he looked up, his face red and contorted, and yelled, "Are you kidding me?"

He bellowed it with such force and such fury that I jumped in my seat and actually looked over my shoulder to see who he was shouting at. He leapt suddenly to his feet, pacing the floor while glaring at me, seething. 

"That man?" He spat. "You expect me to allow that man into my house? He tells me that his Christmas wish is that I feel the pains of hell, and you turn around and invite him to mooch off of my resources?" I sat, paralyzed with fear as he leaned close, his finger inches from my face. "You didn't even ask me!" He thundered. "This is still my house! You are still my wife! As long as we're married, you have no right to go behind my back like that!" 

Now, when I reflect on the way I reacted to his outrage, I continue to feel equal parts confusion, hurt and shame. His tactics were so simple- like a shotgun blast, he struck out in all directions and hoped that something would hit home. So why, I ask myself now, Why, when I had been strong and self possessed through all of his previous assertions that I was the guilty party, WHY did it work? Why did I suddenly crumple? Why didn't I stand up to him? Why was I so afraid? 

And make no mistake, I was afraid-- I was terrified. I remember trembling as he yelled at me, my mind and heart racing as he insisted that if I needed support, I should stop being so snobbish and accept the help of his family. I remember clenching my teeth to keep them from chattering and thinking frantically to myself, "don't cry, don't cry, don't cry," to no avail. But what stands out in my memory most starkly of all was the look in his eyes when he finally saw me break. It was triumph. 

He saw my pain and he enjoyed it. 

The minute he knew I was defeated, he got quiet and relaxed-- cocky, even. "I'm going to fast and pray about it," he told me condescendingly. "I'll let you know tomorrow whether they can come visit or not." I didn't respond, and he smiled. "Is there anything I can do for you?" He asked. 

"You can leave," I whispered. 

He smirked and walked out the door. 

It took hours for me to stop shaking. I cried, apologizing over and over to my mom, saying, "I didn't think," and "I should have seen," and "I'm so sorry." She was bewildered. 

"What do you have to be sorry for?" She kept asking, waiting for my tears to turn to indignation. 

"I told them they could come," I said, thinking of C&P already on their way, "but J says as long as we're married, this is his house..." I dissolved into tears once more, horrified at the thought of turning my brother away and ashamed that I was incapable of defying J. Mom stared at me, her brows knit in confusion and alarm.

"Well then," she said firmly. "Divorce him tomorrow."

That evening, J sent me his nightly 'check in'. It was a copy of the journal entry that he sent his sponsor. In reference to our conversation, he wrote, "I felt heard and listened to. We both had a patient way of listening to each other."

I read his words and as the day concluded, was certain of four things:

1) That J was malicious. He'd set out to hurt me and felt powerful when he succeeded.

2) That my reaction hinted at a greater depth of trauma than I'd previously acknowledged. It was the first time I allowed myself to wonder if J was actually abusive.

3) That he wanted to isolate me from my family.

4) That I never, ever wanted to see him again.

A Widening Cravasse

June 2014

"For the first time in my life, I think I can relate to the pioneers," J said as he finished editing a video for our Stake Pioneer Trek. 

I was surprised. I could not remember a time when I didn't feel keenly for my ancestors. Their struggles mirrored my own in ways, and I said as much to J. 

"Of course," he said dismissively. "You lived in a tent. You didn't grow up like everybody else." 

His comment bothered me. 

Yes, I had spend my childhood living in some unusual places, but camping {which we only did for a few months!) had very little to do with my identifying with the pioneers. As a kid, I had been very aware that my family's life looked unstable. We moved 29 times in 19 years, and while I knew my parents to be intelligent, hard working people of character and testimony, they were, above all, dedicated to following the spirit-- and sometimes it led us into financially precarious situations. At an early age, I found myself wrestling with the dichotomy of that: the comfort of feeling deep in my soul that we were being blessed, directed and guided, and the fear that God might lead us to the edge of a cliff and ask us to jump off of it. God's version of fine wasn't necessarily my version of fine.  

"I thought that they would understand how I felt," I told him. "The Mormon Pioneers were asked to leave all they knew to set out for Zion. They weren't just blindly obedient. They received promptings and comforting feelings from the spirit, and yet life was hard for them. They were persecuted and called crazy, then driven from each place they attempted to settle. More often than not, their reward for remaining true to the faith was hunger, sickness and death along the trail. All of that felt so familiar to me. I recognized the mental reckoning that has to be made when a person knows that what they are doing is right but all visible evidence in their life seems to point to the contrary. I knew our life and decisions looked crazy from the outside, but I also could see the Lord's hand in all of it. The pioneers would have gotten that." 

J had a distasteful look on his face that often appeared when I talked about such things. "Yes, but your family was unusual," he asserted, as if to comfort himself. 

"Maybe the particulars of our situation were unique, but the principle is the same," I countered. "I was learning that righteousness isn't a mathematical formula; that if I know what is right, and then I do what is right, it doesn't necessarily mean that things will turn out the way I believe is right. When God asks me to stand in a fire, sometimes I'm Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego, but just as often, I find that I'm Abinidi-- and that that isn't a bad thing." I leaned forward, warming to the subject. "I learned, and am still learning, that I can't become invested in an outcome," I said earnestly, "because I rarely know until after the fact the true value of a trial; the way it shapes me, changes me, or allows me to be an instrument in someone else's life. None of those things are ever visible from the outside looking in." 

J looked at me patiently, but without comprehension. I struggled to find common ground.

"It's like when we almost lost the house!" I exclaimed. "Remember? We both kept feeling comforted when we prayed about the type of job you were pursuing, but for a long time, that didn't mean that we suddenly had work or our problems were solved. In fact, for a long while, things got worse."

He looked confused. "But I did get work," he said. 

"Yes, eventually, but it could have just as easily gone the other way," I explained. "We could have lost the house and filed for bankruptcy and it wouldn't have meant that we were wrong to feel comforted or to follow those promptings as best we could." 

It was obvious from his expression that he didn't get my point at all. I started to feel a small flutter of panic in my chest that appeared whenever it seemed that J and I weren't speaking the same language. 

"We could've been like my brother C," I tried again. "He and his wife have felt just as many promptings and have been just as comforted, but from the outside, their results have been polar opposite. That doesn't mean that they're less faithful or that--"

"That would never have been us," J cut me off, his expression still and inscrutable. I was silent for a moment, confused at how the force of his words didn't match the calm of his face. 

"It almost was us," I countered hesitantly. 

"No," he dismissed again. "We never really would have lost the house. I would have got a job-- any job-- if losing the house had been a real possibility."

The panic in my chest turned up a notch.

"What are you talking about?" I asked, utterly confused. "It was already a real possibility! We were living off of church and state assistance! We couldn't pay the mortgage! We had drained all available resources, were completely on the brink, and you didn't once waver about looking for a job in your field--"

"We were never even close," he interrupted once more, rewriting history with a wave of his hand. "You keep talking about promptings, assuming your brother is in the position he's in because he was led there, but what about agency? Don't you believe that some bad things happen because people make really bad choices?"

My mind reeled. I couldn't believe he would bring up bad choices in light of how devastating his own choices had been in our life. Was he that oblivious? Was he that incapable of being self-aware? 

"Of course bad things follow bad choices. But my whole point is that bad things also happen to good people, and that only the Lord knows the deeper purpose for suffering. It's impossible for someone on the outside to judge, because we don't see what the Lord sees."

"I'm not being judgmental," he assured. "I'm just saying that we would never make the choices that your brother is making, and I would hope we would never be like your parents and enable those kinds of choices. If it were our child," he continued, "we wouldn't allow him to live with us. We'd tell him to get a job at 7-11 if he had to-- anything but mooch off of another person's resources just because of a stubborn belief that he's been called to something else.

"Promptings can be followed to a point," he concluded, "but when your life starts to look like that, you know you're doing something wrong. You're following your own desires, not the spirit. That's why our life would never look like that. We would never go that far."

I was stunned. I couldn't even think of where to start in dissembling his logic. By his own reasoning, we had been 'enabled' countless times. We'd even lived with his own parents--twice-- while HE pursued an unlikely career. Honestly, 'following his own desires'? Could he not see the hypocrisy in his words? The beam in his own eye? I sat for a moment considering how to respond.

"You know," I attmepted, "to many people, our life and our story wouldn't make any sense either. I remember back when I first found out about the porn and you were adamant that it wasn't a problem-- I was so full of despair. I logged onto a bulletin board for wives and read a post from a woman who had known about her husband's addiction for 10 years; and in those years she'd had 3 kids. I couldn't understand why she did that. Why didn't she leave? Why would she bring children into such an ugly situation?"

J watched me cautiously, not seeming to see where I was going with this.

"I wrote to her. I said, Please don't be offended, but how could you possibly get pregnant by that man? How do you survive?" I shook my head ruefully, "And of course she was offended. But she wrote back and answered, All I can tell you is that I felt prompted to have each one of them." I paused and looked across the table at him searchingly. "If my 21 year old self could see me now, she'd be asking the same questions. She'd see that I stayed, that I had more children, and that you'd still never been sober for longer than a year and she would think that I must not have any self-respect. She would feel horrified, disgusted and trapped, and there wouldn't be any way I could explain to her the spiritual experiences I've had, or the growth I've gone through or the ways I've felt carried after being told again and again to wait and be patient and fear not. All she would see is that I felt prompted to stay but things got worse, not better. And she would feel completely justified in declaring that I had made a mistake; that the spirit couldn't possibly prompt me in such a way without God being a cruel and manipulative God, and I would be unable to dissuade her because some things are just impossible to perceive from the outside looking in. That's why we can't judge anyone else's life or choices." 

I leaned back, satisfied that I'd expressed myself properly, but he just shook his head. "That isn't the same thing. Of course you were prompted to stay in our marriage-- Heavenly Father isn't going to tell you to break up an eternal family. God wants families to stay together, just like He wants fathers to provide a good living. He would never prompt your brother to do something that makes it impossible for him to support his wife and kids, and that's how I know that he's chasing his own dreams, not listening to the spirit." 

"That's not knowing, that's judging," I retorted sharply. "Eternal families, a good living, healthy children-- those are all ideals, but none of them are guaranteed in this life no matter how righteous you are. You can't know what God wants! " I was both alarmed and angry, speaking forcefully now. "You think the Lord never leads people in ways that seem contrary? Then he couldn't possibly have asked Abraham to sacrifice his only son, Isaac; or told Nephi to murder Laban, but spare Laman and Lemuel despite the fact that they would lead to his people's demise; or allow Joseph Smith to be taken into custody so he could be killed by a mob and leave his children fatherless! In fact, why tell His people to build a temple only to have it burned to the ground? Those prophets must have made a mistake!" I said sarcastically, "They must have been following their own crazy desires because we all know that God would never ask them to do something that didn't lead to a picture perfect outcome!"

"I'm allowed to have an opinion about your brother," J began.  

"You're not being opinionated, you're being judgmental," I snapped. 

"And," he continued, "I don't want to fight with you. I think you're getting all worked up because you feel like I'm attacking your father and the way you were raised, but that's not the case." 

"I'm not fighting," I said stiffly. "But we're talking about fundamental approaches to life--the very basic aspects of faith--and yet we don't agree on any of it! This is important to me." I took a deep breath, then let it out shakily. "These hard things we go through in life; these times we're asked to step into the dark; that's the price we pay to become acquainted with God. It sounds to me that you're saying you have a limit on the price you're willing to pay, and that scares me. I'm afraid that if we were in the same position as my brother, you wouldn't make the same choices."

He nodded, his mouth a hard line. "And I'm afraid that you would." 

Death and Insincerity

October, 2014

I boarded the plane with relief. The last 24 hours had been trying. 

J's reaction in therapy had been an angry, "Wrap up the divorce papers and give them to me for Christmas for all I care. Obviously, I can't stop you." I had felt hurt by the contempt in his tone. After all that we'd been through and seeing how visibly difficult it was for me to come to this decision, I'd thought there'd be a moment of sorrow or mourning. But he simply sat through the session with his jaw locked in anger then stormed out without another word. 

Then, when the kids learned that I'd be out of town for the weekend, they'd begged to remain in the house-- with J-- rather than stay with him at his parent's place.  After praying about it, I'd finally relented, though I drew J aside and told him through furious tears that this was MY house, MY sacred place, and I was sick and tired of him violating it. "You've promised not to act out here, but your word is worth nothing. I want to make it clear that I'm doing this for the kids and not because I have even a fraction of trust in you." Even though I felt confident of my choice, the mere thought of his presence in my home made me nauseous. 

Finally, I'd had to endure the drive to the airport with J, who took the opportunity to tell me how selfish and entitled I was for going on the trip to Europe. "It was a work trip!" He complained bitterly, "there was no real reason for you to go!" 

"I know," I replied. "That's why I told you for weeks that we should cancel. You're the one who kept saying I should go."

"Now I have to edit all the footage," he ignored me, "and get reminded of how you were off having fun while I was miserable and alone! I'm stuck paying for your trip and I didn't get any benefit out of it!" 

'Benefit' meaning sex? So that's the only reason he could imagine I'd 'deserve' to go on vacation? He didn't have even an ounce of desire to give me the gift of travel simply because I was the woman he'd promised to cherish-- unless it involved 'benefits' for him? And he was calling ME selfish and entitled? 

As he pulled up to the drop-off curb, I rolled my eyes, grabbed my slim carry-on and slammed the door without a goodbye. 

Now, sitting on the tiny plane, I couldn't believe that I was feeling relief when I was on my way to my grandpa's deathbed. Lately, I felt relief whenever I was anywhere that J wasn't. 

As it turned out, my visit stretched from a few days to a whole week.

While so many aspects of watching a loved one slowly die and being in a household of people who handle stress and grief differently proved emotionally harrowing, overarching all of it was the weight of J's discontent and resentment.  It was subtle-- on one hand, he organized his extended family to help take care of the kids and had each of the children write notes of comfort to my grandma, mom and I-- but on the other, his self-righteousness and disdain was barely contained. He didn't want me to be there. He felt I was being arrogant and selfish for going against his wishes. The strength of his censure cast a pall over everything, and yet I was all too aware that to an outsider, his argument could seem valid. He'd been telling me for years that I was bad with money and that I had no respect for him. This could be seen as proof of that.

He wrote me daily, supposedly to check-in about his sobriety and practice empathy (therapist's orders) but I dreaded those emails. I've since come to call them J Propaganda, but at the time, I couldn't put a finger on why I found them so disturbing. All I knew was that when I read them, I felt sick. My teeth would chatter uncontrollably and my hands would go numb. I was intolerably weary of him inserting himself into my life and the sacred time I was spending with the people I loved. But I also felt crazy for feeling that way. On paper, he was doing everything right, wasn't he? I couldn't make sense of my own feelings.

The days felt like weeks.We were litterally watching Grandpa waste away. When he'd stopped eating, we thought he couldn't possibly live long-- he was already so frail-- so with each passing day as he continued to linger with labored breath, we stood vigil. Mealtimes were simultaneously a source of comfort and guilt. With every bite, we were vividly aware of him in the next room, starving to death. Periodically, Grandma would cradle his head in her hands and plead with him to let go, whispering and kissing him in a way that broke my heart. Everyone was trying their utmost to be strong, but there were fractures everywhere. It was beautiful in a way, to watch so many different personalities come together and put aside their differences and fear in order to support each other as best they could. It wasn't perfect, but it was tender and I felt honored to be part of it.

And yet for me, there it was-- inescapable. Hanging over everything like a noxious cloud was the fact that despite his facade of support, I knew that J did not want me to be there. He refused to assist financially. I was staying in my parent's hotel, eating their food, forbidden to spend any money because J did not think I had a right to be there unless it was for a funeral. I found it debilitating.

The night before I was scheduled to return home also turned out to be the night before Grandpa died. I spent my last hours with him thinking not about his life and legacy, but instead worrying over whether I should reschedule my flight and then feeling ill over how I was going to tell J that I would be staying longer. I hated J for hijacking those last precious moments; for being an added source of pain when what I needed was understanding. Concurrently, I wondered what was so wrong with me that I was unable to function under his dissaproval. 

That's when I began to see what it was that bothered me about his emails. He had a tone that communicated very clearly that he was in the right, that he was going above and beyond to placate my unreasonableness, and that I should be abundantly grateful to him for it. When he used that tone, I knew that his show of humility and change was just that: a show. And that if I didn't play along, I would be made to pay for it eventually. I'd often told him that I felt like he had a scorecard in his head, keeping track of all the times he did something 'nice' for me or used my 'love language'. Somehow, I was always in his debt according to that scorecard, feeling pressured into sex for not doing 'my part'. This felt like an extension of that. He was making a show of being a supportive, perfect husband and father, yet I was ill with fear and dread over what I'd really go home to. It made it plain to me that he was as far from recovery as he could get, regardless of his assertion that he was sober. There was an absence of genuine empathy, remorse and love that I didn't know how to articulate to anyone else without sounding like a paranoid, bitter woman. Feeling alone in it made it all worse. 

Then, as if to solidify his unimpeachablility, he sent out a mass email to both my family and his. {It's long, but I'm including it here --spelling/grammar mistakes and all-- for reasons that will become clear.}

Hello family! 

I have a testimony in prayer and fasting. I know it works! The scriptures have many wonderful experiences of praying and the miracle that comes from the faith of those who pray. One of my favorite stories from the scriptures is Mosiah chapter 27 (please read this chapter) about Alma the younger and the sons of Mosiah who had righteous fathers. Mosiah was the king and the Alma was the leader of the church. These were powerful yet righteous men and they had the most slothful and rebellious sons. So much that these sons where on a mission to destroy the people who belong to the Church. So they are secretly destroying people and causing chaos and then an angel spoke to them as a voice of thunder. The angel then tells him that his father Alma has prayed with much faith that he would be brought to the truth and for this purpose the angel had come that the prayers of his servants might be answered according to their faith. So Alma the younger is struck dumb and is brought before his father Alma and Alma is rejoiced for he knows it is an answer to his prayer. He then gathers all the priest and people so they can participate in the further miracle and they all fast and pray for 2 days and 2 nights. Alma the younger then recovers and we read of the greatest mercy of God that this rebellious man who had sinned so much was forgiven and redeemed. "My soul was racked with eternal torment; but I am snatched, and my soul is pained no more." Alma the younger is changed and becomes a mighty leader and great missionary. The sons of Mosiah go a serve life missions to their enemies the Lamanites. 

Why I share this lengthy "Papa Dad" message is because like Alma the younger I have been snatched up by God. I am being healed. I am feeling the prayers and fasting on my behalf. I am far from recovered but I am working the steps with a sponsor who is 23 years sober. I have the best example of an addict to lead me and I am doing everything he says to find sobriety. I have hope and as I recover I too will have a mission to help addicts like me. I will be working as a sponsor the rest of my life so that I can help my brother AND that I too can be sober. I am so grateful for this miracle. Thank you for your help, support, prayers, and fasting. I am not done and I have a long strenuous work ahead of me so please keep your prayers coming!

I ask for your prayers and fasting on *******'s behalf. I have been an addict in my 15 years married to this sweet woman and I put her through things that no wife should ever have to face. I have destroyed her trust in me. I have added chaos and craziness with my addiction. I have caused a betrayal to her that is so painful and deep. I have destroyed my marriage to her. I am the one responsible in our marriage if we get divorced. I pray for peace and healing to be with her. I want her to be happy. I want her to heal. I want your help to join me in a prayer and fasting on behalf of her need to overcome her pain in betrayal. ******* is faithful and doing all she can to heal. She is going to meetings for woman with husbands who are addicts. She is attending conferences and she is seeking counseling. She attends the Temple. She is doing her part to heal. She is supported by her family and you. As things are currently feeling she is feeling peace about divorce. She cannot stand being in the same room alone with me and how could she be married like that? But wait J is recovering or maybe one day is in true recovery? This does not change her pain, her hurt, her loss, her betrayal. This is not her fault and if I never brought addiction to our marriage we would not be here. It is my fault. ****** is also open to following God in whatever he wants her to do. She is open for the miracle. I want to cling to that particle of hope. I pray that *******  will receive this miracle if it is to be God's will. 

Two years ago we had the sweetest miracle in our marriage that I want to share. This was the first time we were separated and I was working the 12 steps for my first time. In step 4 you make an inventory of your life. This takes around 6 weeks or more to build and it is every thought, action, deed, and sin I have ever had in my life. It is a process of getting all the crap out on paper or excel in my case. In step 5 is confession. I then read and share this with my sponsor and bishop and then I shared it with *******. It was hell. It was terrible. It was horrifying. There is was all out on the floor. She heard everything. She took a few days to process and then she wanted to share back her feelings. She yelled and cried and yelled and cried speaking very articulate in ******** style. For over 3 hours we sat in my car and I listened to her pain to everything I had ever done and how it all hurt her. How it all felt to her. As she cried I cried. We cried so much that we both were getting dehydrated. As she felt the pain so did I. It was the strongest witness of the spirit of God that we both ever felt. The Atonement of Jesus Christ come over us and it wiped out her pain. It wiped out my pain. It healed us. We embraced at this miracle and agreed "never again." This miracle gave ******** the strength to give our marriage another chance for the 1000th time. He gave her the healing she needing to continue on. It gave her the strength to trust me again. 

I wish this was where the story ended. But It is not done. This is why no one can truly understand exactly how ******** feels when her addict husband relapses after such an experience like that. How her husband can look her right in the eye in the most intimate moment in bed and lie to her as she is vulnerable knowingly that he viewed porn just the day before. This is why she is devastated to all I do as an addict. It is the worst. Porn has killed our marriage. It has destroyed all that was good. It is the most tragic thing I have ever done or felt. 

In all this pain and hopelessness is still the miracle. I believe with all my heart that the event above can happen again in our lives. It could heal our marriage. I would like that to happen while we are still married but I also see that is what I want. If I divorce I still want that healing in my life and especially for ********. She deserves to be happy and safe. She deserves a husband who can treat her with respect and honor. She is a daughter of God and never deserved an addict husband. 

Here are two video by the Church that I hope can illustrate the pain and healing of husband and wife in addiction. 

Troy's Story

https://www.lds.org/media-library/video/2013-03-0020-meet-troy?lang=eng

Kerri's Story

https://www.lds.org/media-library/video/2013-03-0010-meet-kerri?lang=eng

There are plans to file for divorce after Christmas. Please join me in prayer and fasting that whatever happens we are doing God's will and what will bring healing and peace to our family. I know its early but this is what I want for Christmas. 

Love,

J  

Reading that letter sent me into a tailspin. On the surface, it seemed like he was saying things that I'd been wanting him to say for years. He was acknowledging my pain! He was taking responsibility! Wasn't he? And yet, I got the same sick feeling when I read it that I always seemed to get. His words were correct, but... something wasn't quite right. 

As realization slowly dawned on me, it was like getting a physical blow to the gut. "Of course he's pleading for prayers on my behalf", I thought sarcastically, "because clearly HE has done everything he can! HE is in full recovery! HE is cured! Obviously, I am the real problem!" It reminded me of thirteen years ago when he'd told me that if we were ever to divorce, it wouldn't be due to his betrayals and duplicity, but would be entirely my fault for not forgiving and letting go. Evidently, he hadn't changed his stance. And now, he was making sure that everyone we knew would share his sentiment. 

It made me feel absolutely crazy. I agonized and second guessed myself, going through my endless washer-machine cycle of thought, only to come to the same conclusion. I'd stayed when I felt prompted to stay and now I was leaving when I felt prompted to leave. I hadn't a clue about the rest of it, and it shouldn't matter anyway. 

I'd only just settled on this when my brother replied to the letter. 

J,

I wasn’t going to write anything back. Normally, I think what happens in a marriage is between the husband and wife in that marriage, and is none of my business. But since you sent this letter to us all, you’ve made it all of our business. So I’m not going to keep quiet.

I think that it’s great that you can at least type these words in an email. Honestly, I don’t know how sincere any of it is, and frankly, I don’t really care. It’s not my place to judge. But your words do seem completely out of touch with the reality of your actions and the situation, and in many ways is just plain insensitive to the myriad feelings involved for my sister.

I too have a testimony of fasting. And prayer. And miracles. And many, many other things. I especially have a testimony of agency, choice, and accountability.

If you want to talk Book of Mormon stories, I think looking at Alma and the Sons of Mosiah is looking in the wrong spot. Try Jacob 2:31-35. I don’t need to tell any of you the story, I’m sure you’re all familiar with it if you’ve ever cracked the spine of the Book of Mormon.

I also don't think you need to worry about your Christmas wish for my sister being fulfilled. It's already in the works. We have all been praying and fasting and supporting her in any way we can to make up for where you’ve neglected your duty. If you want me to fast and pray for someone this Christmas, I think it should be for you. My Christmas wish is that you’ll have the experience that Alma the younger had and be “racked with the pains of hell” to truly understand the extent of damage that has and is being done, and would rather die than ever want to return to it again. The letter you wrote to us all doesn't seem like it's from someone who really understands this.

However, If I were you, I wouldn’t replace my ability to make and keep sacred covenants with wishing for a miracle. An eternal marriage is not a sprint. It's a marathon. And your recovery will be a life-long pursuit. If you take anything from the Sons of Mosiah, forget the miracle moment. Focus on the fact that you have the rest of your life to make better choices to repair the damage you’ve done to your wife and children and the generations that will follow after them. If you’re still on that path in fifteen years (whether married, divorced, or remarried) then I’d consider that the true miracle.

Merry Christmas

-C

I read it, mouth agape. For the first time in my life, someone had seen through J. It had never even entered my mind as a possibility that someone-- anyone-- could see the betrayal, the broken covenants, the insincerity and actually call him out on it. I was shocked. As I read my brother's reply, I flashed back to several years earlier when I'd been in a confrontation with someone who was yelling and swearing at me. My brother stood up from across the room, shoulders thrown back and eyes ablaze as he ordered, "You don't talk to my sister that way!" This felt exactly like that.

I'd never felt anything so powerful as that moment of empathy and validation. 

{image from Into The Woods}

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.

{image}

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." 

{image 1, image 2}