by Band Back Together | Sep 19, 2010 | Abuse, Adult Children of Mentally Ill Parents, Child Abuse, Coping With Domestic Abuse, Divorce, Domestic Abuse, Mental Health, Psychological Manipulation |
She left him this morning while he was at church. My brother drove five hours to come and take her to stay with his family. After seven years, she finally got up the courage and bailed. I have never been more proud of her than I am in this moment.
She left the abuse, the control, the hate, the mind games. She left the drugs, the crime, the lies and the stealing. She left him for going through her things and screaming at her every day. She left him for punching her in her sleep when she snored. She left him for telling her when she could or couldn’t eat or leave the house or come visit me and her granddaughter. She just… left.
She left.
History has a way of repeating itself, especially when it comes to relationships. And her history has been on repeat since 1970. Every man she has ever been with has treated her like the scum of the earth: my dad, her boyfriend of 10 years (after divorcing my dad), and now him. I would be lying if I said I thought none of this was her fault because she chose this. She has continually chosen this, but that doesn’t mean she deserves it. Nobody deserves this.
Her bouts with mental illness have plagued her for most of her adult life. It’s like the men she chooses know that she is weak. They prey upon those who seem to “need some help.”
My mother has been homeless on the streets, homeless in shelters, fed by soup kitchens, and by the kindness of strangers. She’s been in and out of mental hospitals and failed relationships more times than I can remember. She has been raped, assaulted, kidnapped and abandoned on the side of the road in her underwear in a blizzard. And through all of that, she lived. She lived through it.
But today? She finally ended it on her own. She didn’t wait to be kicked out or told that he was done with her. She didn’t wait to end up in a hospital or shelter or on the side of the road… or worse. She left on her own, by her own free will. She didn’t wait until she was no longer strong enough to go.
I always used to tell her the analogy of the frog in the pot: If you throw a frog into pot of boiling water, he will instinctively know that the water is too hot and leap out. But if you put a frog in a pot of cool water, and gradually increase the temperature, he won’t notice that things aren’t right, and will let you boil him alive and kill him. She was that frog. The one who started out in a relationship being wined and dined and showered with gifts. But soon those things started to go away, and slowly the little jabs at her self-esteem became major blows, both mentally and physically. She didn’t notice… or maybe she did but soon nothing became shocking; nothing “burned” her.
I asked her this morning what finally made her snap. She said she heard them talking outside her door when they thought she was asleep plotting how they would “off her.” Whether it’s the illness talking, or the truth, I will never know. And it does not matter.
She left.
She is free.
I am so proud of you, Mom.
by Band Back Together | Sep 18, 2010 | Coping With Divorce, Divorce, Infidelity, Marriage Problems, Military Deployment And Family |
I used to be a wife.
That seems like a lifetime ago but he was my first true love and when I was 19 my childhood dreams came true: we were married in the back room of a church in Vernon Parish, Louisiana.
Our first year together was great.
In October, he came home from the National Guard a couple of weeks before our first son was born to start our civilian life together. The day we brought our son, Nick, home I didn’t think life could get better. We spent weekends with friends, had our own place, he had a good job and life was good. In 2003 we extended our little family by one more, a little girl. We were complete.
In 2004, we got word that life was going to change when his guard unit got called to Active Duty. We weren’t sure exactly when he was leaving but we started preparing the kids for it. We mounted a world map on the wall to show them where daddy was going. We made countdown calendars and drew pictures. Alone, we prepared for the worst.
That cold day in November, we bundled up our 3 babies and headed for his departure. Friends and families were everywhere, but I was still in denial. I didn’t want to say goodbye and I didn’t want to lose my husband. I tried to hold it together because I didn’t want him to see me like that. So we just hugged and kissed and said that we’d see each other soon. We waved until we couldn’t see the plane in the sky anymore and then I went home and cried – a lot.
I saw him once before they shipped out to Iraq when I drove with two boys and two girls -strangers- to see our soldiers in New Jersey for Thanksgiving. It was fun, but it was a sad trip. I knew that there was a chance I would never see my husband -my best friend- again, and in some ways that is exactly what happened.
He arrived in Kuwait on our 5 year anniversary so he had a friend bring me flowers and a card. I still have that card somewhere, I think. We talked a lot while he was ‘in country’ through the phone or the internet. I’d turn up the speakers on my computer so that I’d never miss his call, and if I did, I’d spend the day crying.
I heard that other soldier’s wives and girlfriends cheated and it baffled me. How is that true love? I took my vows seriously, for better or for worse, and this was my version of the worst. It never even crossed my mind to stray, but it got into his head that I cheated on him. It was impossible. It broke my heart.
He came home right before our anniversary in January of 2006. He was nothing short of a celebrity among our family and friends and for awhile things were great.
Then, the issues started. He was quieter and wouldn’t talk to me. That summer, we separated. I couldn’t tell you for how long or what I did during that time because I don’t really know. I started talking to another guy for awhile but realized I needed to focus on my marriage so I moved back home.
In January 2007, we separated again, this time it was for good. He’d been cheating. And maybe that was why he believed that I was – because he was trying to rationalize his actions. I really don’t know. A few months later, I started talking to the guy I had met the year before, partly because he was a good guy and partly because I really wanted to hurt my husband the way he hurt me.
After my divorce, I moved in with the guy and shortly after became pregnant. At the same time my now-ex-husband was busy getting remarried and having a baby of his own. The guy and I didn’t work out. I moved out and began my life as a single mom.
And that is the end of that story. This is just one chapter in our lives and through my tears, I am working on writing the next one.
by Band Back Together | Sep 14, 2010 | Coping With Divorce, Divorce, Sexuality |
I was recently asked by someone who has recently separated/divorced, if, in my humble opinion, she can be considered to be “re-virginised” after only having sex about four times in seven years. Now take note ladies, because some of us have been here or are sitting here miserable and depressed, thinking the worst…
HELL, YES SWEETIE! ….and that’s a really good thing. Read on.
You see, I’ve been secretly joking for years that by the time a woman has gone without sex for a few years or more, she shouldn’t be considered frigid or past it. Au contraire! It’s probably healed over ‘down there’ and she should be considered a ‘Born Again Virgin’!
And, boy are these BAV women dangerous.
Firstly, there’s all that pent-up sexual energy just waiting to be released. Then there’s the fact that these women have probably been in a miserable relationship (cos they’ve not been getting any for starters, as well as dealing with loads of other shit) and are just bursting at the seams to have someone show them some loving, physical attention. Add to this the women who find themselves in this situation and single again, are generally in the age bracket where they’re considered to be in their sexual prime and BINGO they’re suddenly, footloose, fancy-free and hot stuff!
Here’s the icing on the cake – you’ve reached this wonderful status of the BAV in an era where it’s far more socially acceptable to go find yourself a younger man! So stuff the old bugger that you were with and go for a younger version. I was amazed and stunned when I became single again and got continually propositioned by outrageously young men. First I thought that it was all a joke, but seriously the number of young men wanting to hook up with older women is unbelievable.
Actually, a discussion with someone whom I had reprimanded sternly after they’d shocked me with a hot (and unprintable) proposition, made it all very clear. I asked what the hell it was with these young guys who pursued older women. Where they perverts or something? “Well” came the reply, “If you can get yourself a cougar, then you’re the man cos it’s like a badge of honour, a real education…..you know what I mean?”
I told him to bog-off cos I knew his mother. Which of course I didn’t, but he was so young that I might have. Now, I’m not suggesting that you go off and become Mrs Robinson or give out ‘cougar badges’ or anything, but hell woman, you could go for something just a snip younger than your last model and do your self-esteem the power of good.
Take it from me, there is nothing quite so good than to be told by some handsome hunk of a younger man that they find you sexy and beautiful. So, rejoice in your Born Again Virgin status and think of it a the re-birth of not only the rest of your life but your sex-life too. Get out there and shine like a star, cos the sky’s the limit and you’re rocket fuel baby!
by Band Back Together | Sep 12, 2010 | Coping With Divorce, Divorce, Guilt |
My parents broke the news to me and my brothers when I was nearly 17, about five years ago. We kind of expected it, really; as my mom said, “We would argue over what shade of blue the sky was.” I’d spent plenty of car rides with my mother where she angrily ranted about my father, always apologizing at the end, and me saying that it was okay, I understood.
My father wasn’t, and isn’t, a bad man. I think he has problems coming to terms with that sometimes, but he isn’t. He’s strict, and he has high expectations. But I think he’s just as lost and confused as the rest of us, trying to do what he thinks is right for everyone, and until lately that meant to the exclusion of himself. His well-paying job kept us more than comfortable, but he loathed it; business trips every few months became once a month became twice a month became every week. He hated it, and he still hates it.
My mother was, is, more laid back, and prone to leaping without looking. Which, I think, is how they came to be married so quickly after their first failed marriages. I was born into the world with a half-sister already eight years older than me, and a half-brother legally adopted by my father who was only a little less than two years older than me. My little brother followed three years later. Then my mom became a nurse, and bounced from job to job, looking for what made her happy.
Nothing really did.
And so I sat in the kitchen with my brothers, listening to my parents going over the reasons I already knew, and I cried anyway. Because my mom was moving out, and my life turned upside down.
I was leaving for college soon, anyway, so my mom’s new apartment only had one room for my little brother. When I was there, I would sleep on the couch. Every time I went there, I felt guilt dragging me down, avoiding saying more than I had to, to my father. Every time I left there, I felt guilt that I couldn’t stay longer, even though there was no where for me to sleep.
I began walking a thin line. I know my parents tried not to put me in the middle, but they couldn’t help it. I’m sure it’s difficult. My older brother was already in college, and he lived with his girlfriend at the time. My younger brother had no car, and was dependent upon me and them for transport, so they set his schedule. I had to balance my own schedule and pray that it would be somewhat fair.
Every week I would have a chore list from each of them, and I would travel back and forth between houses, doing what I could. There were always arguments over “you do more for your Mom/Dad than you do for me.” Eventually, I broke down. I was trying. I really was. Maybe I could have tried harder, but I hated doing chores when they were together, and now I had two different places to do them in. Plus extra chores, like sorting out the boxes of photos so my heartbroken father didn’t stumble across pictures of my mother and sob over how she hadn’t wanted to go to couple’s therapy.
When I first knew, I allowed myself some time to grieve, and then I focused on what I would do. How I could handle this. I had seen the movies and the cartoons, of children rejecting step parents and acting comically like brats in order to somehow fix their parents back up together. I knew that was stupid. I was nearly an adult, nearly in college; I would handle it with grace and maturity.
I complained, sometimes. Sometimes I bawled about how unfair they were being to me, not by their divorce, but how they tore me between them. Home became uncomfortable, a constant trip back and forth, til I had two of everything, and even then there were forgotten cell phone chargers or shoes or books. I slowly lost my “place,” living in dorm rooms, couches, or spare rooms.
I was counselor, sympathizer, errand runner, schedule balancer. I assured my father that he would be okay, assured my mother she was doing the right thing for her, scolded the both of them when they tried to talk down about the other to me. I took my mother’s elopement in stride, as well as my father’s ease away from the Catholic faith and his decision never to remarry.
I found guilt. Guilt in accidentally letting slip the word “stepfather” around my own dad, when talking about Matt. Guilt for having to leave my mother’s early for dinner at my father’s. Guilt for working for my mother watching my stepfather’s kids when I couldn’t find a job. Guilt for hiding from one parent at another’s house. Guilt for not knowing the answers, for watching TV instead of doing some chores, for asking for money because my gas was almost gone and I needed to drive between houses more, guilt for not being able to evenly spread my time during spring breaks, guilt for trying to partition holidays, guilt for blaming my brothers for not “doing anything.”
My family has come back together, in a way. In pieces. Five years is too short a time to mend everything, but I can say I’m going to my mom’s without my father feeling hurt. I can talk about her dogs in his house without pain. I can discuss my father with my mother without there being insults. Everyone is calmer, and I’m drifting away. My father still won’t call the number at my stepfather’s cabin, and avoided them at my commencement, but…steps. Everything is in steps.
I just signed a lease to live in the basement of a woman’s house, so I will be moving out on my own. I won’t rely on their sofas or guest rooms for living, their money for my car, or even their judgment on how long my boyfriend can stay over. I won’t do their chores, and I’ll call once a week or so to check in and chat. Money will be tight, and I’ll be looking for a second job to fill hours and plan for my next big life step.
But I’ll have my own space, my own time, and I’ll begin the final process of unwrapping myself from the middle and moving on.
