Beginning my blog, somewhere in the middle

I've been meaning to do this for some time now--four years, to be exact. In truth, my choice to start now, after so much has already happened, enables me to procrastinate my current legal project without so much guilt--after all, I'm being productive. And what I have to say must be said.

The real question is this--where do I begin? The beginning of our relationship? The beginning of the abuse? The beginning of the divorce? The beginning of the true nightmare, which, as you may not expect, came AFTER all of the above?

I will jump around a bit, as is the nature of my ADD and the rhythm my life has taken through this process.

And while you may detect humor in my voice, I promise what has taken place in my life and the lives of my two young and beautiful children will inspire no laughter. It is tragic. What has taken place in our lives involves a man I once loved who became my abuser. And two innocent children who watched.

My story began like a fairytale reads--a remarkable man chose me to be his wife. Our babies were born healthy and entirely perfect. My husband adored me. I felt cherished. I kept wondering what I must have done in my life to deserve such blessings. I decided I could live without knowing the what or when or why I was so blessed. I was certain of only one thing--this was God's plan for me.

While I remain certain of this single fact, that the life I was living was part of the Lord's plan --what I did not yet know is this--that His plan was not about rewarding my choices, but about growth that would come from tragedy and survival.

I am grateful I did not know what was to come. I fear I would not have survived the knowledge of this.

The abuse came on gradually. In such small pieces--sporadic and minor offenses in contrast to so much that was wonderful and everything I had hoped for. The white noise of a dripping faucet, unheard, until it becomes Niagara. Kind of like that.

I've come a long way since the center of my pain--when I lived in his house, under his roof, under his control. Entirely helpless and at the mercy of evil. I started to keep a journal during this time, and on occasion I revisit my entries when I need to be reminded how far I've come and how much my pain has diminished. It doesn't always feel that way of course. We live in the present state of our emotions. To compare and contrast is not a natural process when it comes to our pain, or so it seems to me. To see it in relative terms takes effort. And so I revisit, compare and contrast, and remind myself how far I've come and how much my pain has diminished.

My first entry was written, as follows:

Entry Saturday, April 29, 2006 I am a Volcano.

Peace is a luxury like caviar and imported linens spun with gold, something my empty pockets cannot afford. And so I go hungry and cold.

I am a Volcano.

If I could bleed out the hate it would be a relief to me. If its exit from my body were visible you would see thick red fluid rushing from every orifice like rapids on an angry river. You would see its turmoil and living energy.

My body is about to explode. The hate and anger are so enormous they are bigger than my body and it feels like there’s a giant beast inside my much smaller body and I’m forced to contain it against this powerful struggle. I feel helpless. I feel cornered. I can do nothing but rage against this giant foreign body inside mine, demanding freedom, and I’m not sure how much longer I can survive before it rips my flesh to shreds in its violent escape.

My screams are so loud that I can’t hear the world around me. Does it exist? I am acutely aware that nothing outside my body exists—all the energy in the universe has been concentrated inside me to build this volcano of hate. I have sucked-in all the ugliness around me, as one inhales before blowing out a hundred birthday candles with one breath. I have the power to exhale a kind of violence that could destroy a generation.

GOD HELP ME I don’t know where to put it. I have to get it out. I hate him I hate him I hate him.

He is an evil man dressed in gentleman’s clothing. The fabric seemed soft to me once. Gentile. Neatly tailored with purpose and compassion. I felt warm beside its fine threads. I felt special to be its chosen companion. He is a liar who wears a smile and gentle touch on the days it suits him to choose that attire—when he has something to gain.

The hate is for my husband. Husband is a word that once meant protector, lover, partner, supporter, friend, champion. Today it means enemy, nemesis, destroyer.
I hate this man with the kind of passion I felt when I loved him, one of intensity and consummation. If I could only dim the lights enough to find peace.

(end of entry)

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In spite of my anger toward him, in this moment, today, and in spite of the pain I contain right now, clearly my pain has diminished. My healing has been profound--I can be certain of that. But I do remember this day and this pain, and I know this memory will always be a part of me. And if I let it, the same pain comes back, just as I felt it that day, just as if I'm living that moment all over again. I'm careful to keep it high on a shelf where it cannot be easily reached.

I wonder what memories my children have and the pain that accompanies those snap-shots they may always carry. They seem well--they are well. They are remarkable. They have become survivors much sooner than anyone should have to survive. And they have no idea that this is not everyone's reality. When they are old enough to know this I hope they find strength in knowing they survived, rather than anger toward those who hurt them so deeply, only surmounting their tragedy. But for now, they are left to believe that life is supposed to hurt this much--it is all they have known. I'm not sure which is the greater tragedy.

That is all for now.
Christine