Want Tomorrow for Them

Tonight the lump in my throat feels permanent. The parts that broke when he left have lodged themselves in my esophagus, where people refer to when they say, "that went down the wrong pipe", coughing goodnaturedly about a jagged chip that tried to become air. 

That is what loving him felt like. 

Air, turned jagged, lodged in my throat. Panic, pain, unexpected interruption from something so seemingly innocent. 

It hurts tonight, pulsing with a familiar weight as though it's always been there and it will never leave. Experience keeps my head above water. This will pass again. 

This morning began with a jolt. The nightmare was over. It wasn't real. Not anymore. 

Get up. 

Get dressed. 

Brush teeth. 

Wash face. 

Housework. 

Housework. 

Email ding. 

"Dear Melissa, please complete this new patient packet before your appointment next week." 

I sat on the couch, folding my legs beneath me, clicking the attachment in the email to begin answering questions about family history and smoking habits. 

At the bottom of the form, four simple questions:

"Within the last year, have you been AFRAID of your partner? *YES* or *NO*"

"Within the last year, have you been humiliated or emotionally ABUSED by your partner? *YES* or *NO*"

"Within the last year, have you been kicked, hit, slapped, or otherwise PHYSICALLY HURT by your partner? *YES* or *NO*"

"Within the last year, have you been sexually or physically ABUSED by your partner? *YES* or *NO*"

I clicked *NO* to all four without hesitation. 

Then I felt the lump in my throat thicken. I remembered the bathroom at the first doctor years ago, "mark here if you need help". I remembered the hesitation. The answer was always "no". But the hesitation held the truth. 

I took a screenshot and sent it to my husband, "It feels good to not have to think about my answers."

In less than a minute, he rounded the corner red-faced and tearful. He hugged me. Hard. Then he sat back and held my hand, "Please know you'll never have to answer yes again." 

"I know. It's over."

I do know. 

It is over. 

I thought it was my fault, years ago, when my answer would have been "yes". The shame kept me silent. How can you blame someone when they are only reacting to a horrible thing? 

People jump at scary movies. 

Pregnant women cry at puppy commercials. 

Men beam with pride at their son's winning touchdown. 

He pulled my hair because I was walking out of the room. 

He choked me because I wouldn't stop talking. 

He lied to his friends because I made our relationship confusing and difficult. 

It felt like cause and effect. 

I was the cause. 

The pain was the effect. 

He didn't want to be that way. Once I learned how to be better, he would be better, too. 

Marriage is supposed to be hard. 

Right?

No one could have told me to leave him. No one could have gotten the truth from me. And if it had relied on me to speak up, I never would have.

But I wasn't the only one with truth. 

My Mom, "All you've done is cry since you married that boy."

My marriage therapist insisted on speaking privately, "I think he's a narcissist. Do whatever you need to protect yourself."

My coworker, "If my husband let me fall down the stairs, I wouldn't have a husband anymore."

My roommate after stumbling into an argument. "He needs to leave. This is abuse."

I told my Mom I just wasn't sleeping enough. I hung up the phone and made a dinner he didn't show up for. 

The therapist? I nodded when she said it was emotional abuse. I nodded again when she insisted I tell her if there was any physical harm. I nodded, knowing I was already lying. 

My coworker? It was an accident. It was raining and the stairs were slippery. 

My roommate? I didn't know what to do, but I loved him. We were getting help. 

I'd like to think that after things ended, I would have stayed strong and my life would be something beautiful no matter what. 

The lump tells me differently. 

"Manipulated" feels like a buzzword, too trendy for the way I'd watch myself being pulled, twisted, confused, subdued... If I'd been left alone, I would have run to him again. I would've played the games. I would have lost. 

I had an army that made sure I knew I wasn't alone. An army that made sure I knew I was safe. An army that has never once uttered, "I told you so". Only, "I'm sorry." "You did not deserve that." and "It isn't your fault." 

An army made of my parents and my friends, flanked by lawyers, police officers, and therapists. I had a community. And during a time when I did not want tomorrow- they wanted tomorrow for me. They wanted tomorrow for me until I finally wanted it for myself. 

And in the midst of it all, I found a man who loves me with a consistency rivaling Wesley's "As You Wish"; Princess Bride never met my Derek. 

It felt like being rewarded for all the pain. 

And it continues to feel the same. 

Every night spent praying on shaky knees, imploring God through stifled sobs for the ability to be a better wife has been replaced with a night of comfy pajamas, ice cream, and blue eyes telling me I'm the best person he's ever known. 

The best person he's ever known.

Me. 

Shame tells me I'm not safe here. Eventually, I'll be found out for the person I am at my core- the cause to the effects that ended my first life-long commitment far short of its intended due date. 

Shame reminds me of the names he called me, the colorful adjectives to prove I would never be enough.

Shame has a lot to say, and its voice is all too familiar. 

But experience tells me when I am done with this post, I'll crawl into bed and fall asleep next to a man who made chili today because I offhandedly mentioned that it would be a nice treat in this cool fall weather. 

For what it's worth, be part of someone's army. Tell the truth when it's hard, listen to the lies they desperately want to believe, and when it falls apart, want tomorrow for them when they're too weak to want tomorrow for themselves.