The Dissolution of Illusion

The moon is always round. God is always good.

This season of life sucks. How, you may ask?? 

My marriage got so bad I had to leave.

I moved into my parents' home.

My van broke down and was totaled.

During the beginning stages of the divorce, I petitioned the court to allow my kids and I sole access to the apartment I shared with my (now ex)husband. That was denied. 

My now ex-husband spent a fortune of our money on hookers, strippers, and massage parlors with “happy endings.”

My now ex-husband conveniently “forgot” his password to our crypto currency account which totaled $147,000 USD.

My now ex-husband accused me of sleeping with my male therapist and decided to confront said therapist outside his church IN FRONT OF HIS WIFE AND CHILDREN. This led to his subsequent arrest for harassment.

My now ex-husband started to harass my tenants about paying him rent and threatened legal action if they refused. 

I often ask myself, “How did I get here? How did I let this happen for so long without doing anything about it?” This is my fault, isn’t it? I let him treat me poorly for 14 YEARS. I let him control me, whether I was aware of it. I let him walk all over me. So, all of this is my fault, really. I’m the reason for this season of sucky-ness. Surely, if I had stayed things would have gotten better. 

Right??

WRONG. 

This season of life also has its beautiful moments. How, you may ask?

God gave me the courage to leave an abusive marriage. 

My friends and family rallied around me and my kids.

My eldest daughter’s school also rallied around her and made sure she was doing well during the separation/divorce.  

My parents opened their home for me and my kids. 

I got a really good work-from-home job.

I was granted sole custody of my children.

I bought my very first car.

I often ask myself, “Did I really do that? Is this really my life? Do I really get to build a new life centered around me and my kids?”

By the grace of God and the strength He gave me, I left. He no longer gets to treat me less than. He no longer gets to control me. He no longer gets to blame me for his actions, his behavior and his wellbeing.

In a very real sense, good and bad, this is my fault. 

Starting over might look like sleeping on an air mattress and living out of a suitcase at your parents house for almost 6 months. And progress might look like buying a futon and dresser off Amazon.

  While it’s not the progress I was hoping for, or envisioned for myself, at least it’s progress right? Going through a divorce is hard, add on top the fact that my ex-husband is living in the home we built together, for FREE, while the kids and I are at my parents house. I’ve been very bitter about this; I had petitioned the court early on during the divorce to allow my kids and I to live in the apartment, but he granted access to my ex-husband. So while he gets to live there, again, for FREE, the kids and I scrape by. We have a roof over our heads and food in our bellies, but it’s not the same as having our own space. I can’t open the windows to let in fresh air without someone passive aggressively closing them with a derisive sigh. I can’t turn the heater off, even if it’s hotter inside than it is outside. I can’t park where I want, I have to park in a specific spot, behind all their cars. So, I’m essentially trapped. I know these seem like small things, and they are, but it irks me when they say, “We want you to feel comfortable here. We want you to feel like yourself.” Then passive aggressively say the opposite with their actions. The bottom line, the rock bottom line, is that starting over at one’s parents house is really, really, REALLY difficult. 

Let’s face it, this “rock bottom” could be a lot worse. And I’m thankful it’s not. However, gratitude doesn't make it easier. It doesn't make the windows open when I need air. It doesn't give me back my autonomy. And it doesn't answer the question that keeps me up at night: how much longer can I do this?" Knowing it could be worse doesn't make the futon from Amazon feel like progress. It just makes me feel guilty for wanting more. Like I shouldn’t want more and be thankful for the roof over mine and my kids heads. 

I asked for this. I left and filed for divorce. I’m the one who decided to stay at my parents house when he disappeared for two weeks over Christmas doing God knows what. I could have “taken” back the apartment. But to what end? He would have made living there a nightmare, thinking I “stole his primary residence,” as he’s so often threatened me.  Yet, I feel like I’m a kid again, asking my parents permission to do literally anything.

  Why does it feel like there’s no freedom in gaining freedom? 

There was, and is no timeline in how long we will be here.

It's extremely overstimulating being surrounded by so many people all day—my three kids, my parents, my brother. There is only one time I get to be alone: MY bedtime. The kids go to bed, but all the adults are still awake.

I am constantly surrounded by people. Yet, I am utterly alone when the sun goes down.

Normally, I'm too tired or too focused on tomorrow to think about it. Tonight is no different, but I feel this overwhelming sense of loneliness, of isolation, of solitude in a way that I did not ask for. Being a single mom, I often ask for a break, a moment of silence, a moment to myself. But this? This is something I do not have the strength to face.

I spent the last 14 years being someone's someone. The question of "what now?" is circling my mind while my day's sanity is circling the drain.

Isn't this what I prayed for—the courage to leave, the strength to do this alone? I got what I asked for. So why does it feel like this? It's confusing. It's unsettling. It feels like a step backward.

I was able to buy my first car today. In the 16 years I have been an "adult," I bought my very first car with MY money. I felt so good. And now this loneliness is threatening to overtake that win.

I can hear doubt whisper: "You wouldn't have had to buy a car if you just stayed with him. You wouldn't be in this position had you not walked away from your marriage. You wouldn't feel so alone if you were still married."

But there is a reason I no longer felt safe in that relationship. There is a reason I felt like I could no longer stay. No matter how lonely I feel, I will always know I did the right thing, if not for me then for my kids.

Something happens to you when the partner you thought was going to walk through life with you says, "I'm glad I won't be married to you." Something inside you irrevocably breaks. A piece of you dies with those words, the malcontent of the tone, the body language that says you are no longer important. Did I leave? Yes. But that doesn’t mean I did not care, that I gave up. I left out of fear for the future-verbal abuse happened, whether he said so or not, and I was not about to let it happen again. He left the marriage for his vendetta against the company that fired him. He left the marriage for alcohol. I still care what happens to him, what becomes of him. I still care if he likes me, not in any romantic way, but as the mother of his children. I still want him to like me. I want to be friends, if only for the sake of our kids. But I was never good enough, in our marriage and most certainly not in divorce. “I don’t want to see you or hear you.” “I’m glad I won’t be married to you.” He spoke these words to me in the middle of the children's museum, as our kids were playing on the playground having the time of their lives. And he spoke to them as casually as he could, like it was just a passing thought. No emotion, no inkling as to how those words would gut me. Like nothing we had mattered. And as the tears began to fall freely from my eyes, pain that I could not express with words, I walked away. I walked away so he would not see the extent of the hurt he caused. Not like he didn't see me crying before I walked away. Not like he would have cared anyway. And the kicker is, he wasn’t even sorry for his part in the dissolution of our marriage. He didn’t even think he had a part in our separation, thought it was all my fault because I didn't stay and give him an ultimatum. He told me, 'If you would have given me an ultimatum, I would have stopped drinking and we wouldn't be in the place we are now.' As if I hadn't begged him to stop. As if I hadn't watched him choose the bottle over me, over our children, night after night. No, he wouldn't have stopped. His love for alcohol, his NEED for alcohol, was far greater than that for his family. The pain and anger I felt—the words that wouldn't come, only tears— I could no longer be near him. His words cut deep. The accusations that I could have done something, that this was all my fault because I didn't give him an ultimatum he never would have honored anyway.

Google defines voice as "a particular opinion or attitude."

Is your voice silenced? Or is it uplifted? Is your voice heard? Or buried underneath 'more important things?'

My voice was the latter. And not just by my ex-husband.

My family never valued or placed value in my voice.

I remember a moment in my life where I realized for the first time my voice was not to be heard.

My parents had just bought their first house and took my brother and me to see it after dinner. Everything was dark—the power had yet to be turned on—and yet I still saw significant damage to one of the pantry doors. It looked like someone had poured acid on it; it was warped and the paint looked like it had been dissolved. I ran over to tell my dad, only to be brushed off. "I'm speaking with your mother." Not knowing the brush-off for what it was at 11, I just returned to exploring the new house in the dark.

We returned a few days later to see it in the light, and my dad finally noticed the damage. When I told him that's what I wanted to show him the other night, he looked me dead in the eye and said, "No you didn't. That's called a lie. There is no lying in my house."

That's when I knew my voice would never matter. Not to my father. And not to my husband.

That night taught me something dangerous—that the people who are supposed to love you most can make you disappear while you're standing right in front of them. I didn't know I was looking for that feeling again. But somehow, I found it. Or it found me.

My voice was not the treasured opinion. My voice was not treasured at all. My husband made sure of that. I guess that's what it's like being married to a narcissist. I never expected him to bend to my opinions or say that whatever I said was holy. But every once in a while to hear "that was a good idea" couldn't have killed him.

Am I not desirable? Does no one want me? Through his actions, my ex-husband made it clear that he no longer wanted me.

Do I not deserve to be wanted? Do I not deserve to be loved?

I didn’t do anything wrong. I am a human, yes. I make mistakes. I will until the Lord calls me home. 

But I loved, I fought, and I supported him in everything. Even when I probably shouldn't have. He did not reciprocate. At least not in the way I expected. He would criticize, demean, and invalidate. It was always subtle, so subtle that I doubted he knew it at the time. And maybe he really didn’t notice then. 

But now? Now he knows what he's doing. 

Is it too soon to move on? 

Maybe. 

But I fell out of love with him a while ago. A year ago, to be exact. There were things he did, to me and to my kids, that broke my heart in ways it can never be mended. 

Am I broken? Yes. But I am healing. My healing is fueled by his actions now. They are fueled by the man he is turning into; a cruel, petty liar. He has turned from this kind, loving, and benevolent man, to one of vengeance and wrath. 

There are things that I miss, though. How could I not?

I miss the companionship we had. The comradery, the laughs, the life shared. Not necessarily with him, not anymore. There was a time where I would have given anything to have that life back, to have him back. But now I want those things with someone else. Someone else who will not take advantage of my kind and giving heart. Someone who will come alongside me, be my partner, and be someone I can count on. 

That may be hard to find. 

This might be my loneliness talking, but some days I fear I'll be alone for the rest of my life. Just like he threatened when I told him I was leaving—that he would make sure of it. 

But however I spend my life, be it single or married once more, I will not regret my decision to leave him.