Physical & Emotional Abuse Support Group
Abuse is a general term for the treatment of someone that causes some kind of harm (to the abused person, to the abusers themselves, or to someone else) that is unlawful or wrongful. No one deserves abuse, period. Abuse can be emotional, physical, or sexual.
Pasted in from today's Wolf's Daily Howl
July 5th, is my Independence Day. On July 5th, 2002, I announced to my husband of fourteen years that Id decided to end our marriage. I told him, on that day, Id decided to divorce him.
Both my decision and my declaration, were a long time coming. Id survived a suicidal depression, to which my problematic marriage had certainly contributed. That near-disaster was now years down the road, as I headed home from work, July 5th, 2002. Id come a long way since then.
My route home from work as a program director for a senior center, was a two-lane highway through mountains that rose up on either side of the river. It was always a beautiful ride, raptors soaring through the skies overhead, the water traveling over the rocks, down below the guardrail, dancing its way to Long Island Sound.
Id prepared for this declaration day carefully. Id gotten counseling and been in a variety of support groups in anticipation of the day Id end my marriage. Fearing Id be shell shocked and forget what I needed to say when the moment came, Id even planned out the first six sentences of my announcement, and memorized them. With a script composed put to memory, I had more confidence the words would stick in my throat and never be uttered.
Even so, I realized with a start, that I was feeling sick to my stomach.
Another few miles through the gorge and the nausea worsened. I wondered if Id be able to make it home without vomiting.
It occurred to me, and I considered for a brief moment, that the world wouldnt end if I postponed the declaration for . . . . . well . . . . a week, maybe. As I savored the possibility of rescheduling, I experienced instantaneous and delicious relief. Then it struck me that I if I put it off, Id be driving this gorge next week, feeling at least as nauseated as I was this moment.
The next few miles I drove, were to the accompaniment of a voice which seemed almost to come from outside myself. The realization that shadowed me as I paralleled the tumbling river down-stream, was that certainly I could postpone my declaration as long as I chose. I could wait a week, a month, even a year. But in addition to the nausea, and even worse than having to experience the nausea again, postponing the pronouncement would mean that I had lived another week, another month, maybe years, in a marriage that had already made me ill. I realized that worse than the nausea that came with the anticipation of delivering the coup de grace to my marriage, was sacrificing another day, week, month, year of my life to an abusive relationship.
I had already sacrificed far too many days, too many post-midnight hours crying and drinking rum and coke at three a.m. in the den, during the frozen winter, or sitting out on the front steps looking longingly up at the stars in the summer. I had sacrificed my fabulous forties, which had gone by in a swamp of tears and regrets. If I gave in to this temporary relief and waited another week, Id be consigning that additional week, that season, that precious piece of life, however long I passively sat back in temporary respite, to spiritual annihilation.
As I emerged from the rocky gorge that leads to my lower-valley home, the address to which I moved when I separated from the residence Id shared with my husband, I knew that I would not postpone my announce. I would call him, tell him Id be coming down his way for dinner. I wouldnt be able to tell him more than that. Getting this much out would be hard enough.
When I got home Id change my clothes and head down to the home wed shared for ten years. Before I got there, Id pick up dinner, either Chinese or chicken pieces. Though separated, I still had a key and entrance to our marital home. Id play with our three-legged cat, then stir up my husbands ice tea from the pre-mixed powder, set out the familiar table settings on t.v. trays in the den, and wed eat in silence watching the evening news. When we finished, Id clear away the trays, load the dishwasher, refill his glass of ice tea, and take the remote from the arm of the sofa. Hed look up in surprise, as the remote was his to control. Id tell him I needed to turn the t.v. off, and hed know it was serious. He might even guess how serious, as Id only ever done this once before, the night before Id moved out.
Having envisioned the whole scene right to the point of my memorized opening, I realized the nausea had lessened.
In fact I could not, I would not proceed through another sunset and sunrise, without having spoken my truth. I would not allow another day of my life to slide to the bottom of the hourglass, without having declared my intent to divorce.
I pulled into my driveway and climbed the stairs to make the call.
July 5th, is my Independence Day. On July 5th, 2002, I announced to my husband of fourteen years that Id decided to end our marriage. I told him, on that day, Id decided to divorce him.
Both my decision and my declaration, were a long time coming. Id survived a suicidal depression, to which my problematic marriage had certainly contributed. That near-disaster was now years down the road, as I headed home from work, July 5th, 2002. Id come a long way since then.
My route home from work as a program director for a senior center, was a two-lane highway through mountains that rose up on either side of the river. It was always a beautiful ride, raptors soaring through the skies overhead, the water traveling over the rocks, down below the guardrail, dancing its way to Long Island Sound.
Id prepared for this declaration day carefully. Id gotten counseling and been in a variety of support groups in anticipation of the day Id end my marriage. Fearing Id be shell shocked and forget what I needed to say when the moment came, Id even planned out the first six sentences of my announcement, and memorized them. With a script composed put to memory, I had more confidence the words would stick in my throat and never be uttered.
Even so, I realized with a start, that I was feeling sick to my stomach.
Another few miles through the gorge and the nausea worsened. I wondered if Id be able to make it home without vomiting.
It occurred to me, and I considered for a brief moment, that the world wouldnt end if I postponed the declaration for . . . . . well . . . . a week, maybe. As I savored the possibility of rescheduling, I experienced instantaneous and delicious relief. Then it struck me that I if I put it off, Id be driving this gorge next week, feeling at least as nauseated as I was this moment.
The next few miles I drove, were to the accompaniment of a voice which seemed almost to come from outside myself. The realization that shadowed me as I paralleled the tumbling river down-stream, was that certainly I could postpone my declaration as long as I chose. I could wait a week, a month, even a year. But in addition to the nausea, and even worse than having to experience the nausea again, postponing the pronouncement would mean that I had lived another week, another month, maybe years, in a marriage that had already made me ill. I realized that worse than the nausea that came with the anticipation of delivering the coup de grace to my marriage, was sacrificing another day, week, month, year of my life to an abusive relationship.
I had already sacrificed far too many days, too many post-midnight hours crying and drinking rum and coke at three a.m. in the den, during the frozen winter, or sitting out on the front steps looking longingly up at the stars in the summer. I had sacrificed my fabulous forties, which had gone by in a swamp of tears and regrets. If I gave in to this temporary relief and waited another week, Id be consigning that additional week, that season, that precious piece of life, however long I passively sat back in temporary respite, to spiritual annihilation.
As I emerged from the rocky gorge that leads to my lower-valley home, the address to which I moved when I separated from the residence Id shared with my husband, I knew that I would not postpone my announce. I would call him, tell him Id be coming down his way for dinner. I wouldnt be able to tell him more than that. Getting this much out would be hard enough.
When I got home Id change my clothes and head down to the home wed shared for ten years. Before I got there, Id pick up dinner, either Chinese or chicken pieces. Though separated, I still had a key and entrance to our marital home. Id play with our three-legged cat, then stir up my husbands ice tea from the pre-mixed powder, set out the familiar table settings on t.v. trays in the den, and wed eat in silence watching the evening news. When we finished, Id clear away the trays, load the dishwasher, refill his glass of ice tea, and take the remote from the arm of the sofa. Hed look up in surprise, as the remote was his to control. Id tell him I needed to turn the t.v. off, and hed know it was serious. He might even guess how serious, as Id only ever done this once before, the night before Id moved out.
Having envisioned the whole scene right to the point of my memorized opening, I realized the nausea had lessened.
In fact I could not, I would not proceed through another sunset and sunrise, without having spoken my truth. I would not allow another day of my life to slide to the bottom of the hourglass, without having declared my intent to divorce.
I pulled into my driveway and climbed the stairs to make the call.
When I left my abusive husabnd after 12 years of marriage I walked out on a beautiful house, I lost our friends, his family, my helath insurance and my financial security. I lost a lot but I gained my freedom and best of all...my self, my old self. Leaving him was the hardest and scariest thing I have ever done. Like jumping off of cliff, not knowing what is below, hoping for a soft landing. I applaud you as we celebrate our true Independence Day.