Well, I'm actually doing it. In a week or so, he will be served with the new divorce papers. I'm not entirely sure why it will take that long but I have waited 15 years and 7 months; one or two more weeks, while I would prefer yesterday, will not make that much of a difference.
We have no contact between each other and I am very happy for this. During the course of our marriage, I was not allowed to say the word, "No". Or rather, I could say it, but he would ask the same question over and over until I gave in and acquiesed to whatever it was that he wanted at the time. This is primarily the reason we are not divorced.
Another way he curtailed my actions was through sex. I had to ask a friend what his actions meant as I had misunderstood his intent all these years. When we had a particularly bad argument or I would not agree to something important to him, he would force himself on me. I had mistakenly believed all these years that he thought being with him was so great it would change my mind. A friend gently pointed out to me, that no. He was not so self assured of his prowess that he was blowing my mind, therefore gaining compliance. What he had been accomplishing all those years through forced sex was dominance. As my friend put it, what he did to me was no different than what a human does to a dog that is out of control or overly dominant. A human will lay on top of the dog to assert Alpha status. He raped to assert his Alpha status. I don't know how I could miss that.
WELCOME, FRIEND! This blog records my struggles with leaving an abusive spouse. After 17 years of insidious violence, I divorced my abuser. It wasn't easy; but it was worth it. I've recorded my experiences navigating the military and civilian court systems in the hopes someone can benefit and avoid my mistakes. Good Luck. I understand.
Stockholm Syndrome
Am I simply overtired or still a little shell-shocked at the sheer boldness at which he has been lying to me for over a decade? Is it ever accepatable to mourn the loss of a horrid relationship? And what exactly am I mourning? The loss I feel is not yet tangible and defies any explanation.
Rationally, I am aware that in no way should a woman ever feel the loss of a marriage to a "man" who:
A friend of mine told me how his family moved from their childhood home a few miles away to a much better suited home on a quiet, lazy street. Yet many nights, the family dog would traverse the busy roads, sometimes sustaining injuries to sleep on the porch of the old home. Sleeping on the porch of the previous home wasn't better. Traveling there certainly wasn't more comfortable and definitely not safer. The dog had become conditioned to understand that was home. Without question. I wonder if abuse imprints, too.
Rationally, I am aware that in no way should a woman ever feel the loss of a marriage to a "man" who:
- Broke her R hip
- Broke her pelvis
- Broke her R forearm
- Slit her scalp
- Threatened her with a firearm
- Pushed her
- Choked her
- Slapped her
- Slammed her head on the wall, doorjam, car frame, floor
- Belittled her
- Took pornographic pictures and videos of her without her consent or knowledge
- and most horrific of all....hurt her children
A friend of mine told me how his family moved from their childhood home a few miles away to a much better suited home on a quiet, lazy street. Yet many nights, the family dog would traverse the busy roads, sometimes sustaining injuries to sleep on the porch of the old home. Sleeping on the porch of the previous home wasn't better. Traveling there certainly wasn't more comfortable and definitely not safer. The dog had become conditioned to understand that was home. Without question. I wonder if abuse imprints, too.
Sponge Bob Douche Pants
Let's travel back from memories of a heartbreaking Halloween birthday to the summer. June 6th, He was angry that I wouldn't spend the afternoon at the movie theater. I had been sick the week before and was looking forward to resting at home. Instead of understanding, he became verbally abusive so I retreated to my bedroom with my 10 year old where we curled on the bed and read books. Back in the living room, my younger sons were watching cartoons, Sponge Bob, on TV. He was angry because he wanted to watch something else on TV and wanted to watch it on the TV in our bedroom. There are 4 TVs in the house, only one of which was in use. He became angry when I said, "No," and began pounding on the bedroom door, demanding I let him in. I told my 10 year old everything was all right, that Daddy was "playing silly" and continued to read our book. Next thing we know, my husband's hand pounds through the door, feels around until it connects with the door knob and unlocks the door. As frightened and startled as I was, I had to laugh as he looked like Thing from the Adam's Family feeling around blindly as he was. He let himself in the room and demanded that we let him watch the TV in the bedroom. He tells me that I will never lock him out of anywhere again. I tried to make it a joke with my son about how silly Daddy was being, just like the Hulk, busting his hand through the door. I hope he never knows fear from that incident, only bewilderment at an adult's loss of control.
Safety Dance!
Anybody reading this, stand up and do a little 3 second happy dance. Just imagine, if I had found his Internet "friends" while he wasn't thousands of miles away, he would be beating my ass right now. It's Friday! He's deployed! There's no way he can hurt me or the boys! HAPPY DANCE!!!!!
Pound Puppy
Long ago, He worked with animals. One of the things I found humorous was that while he was not particularly fond of small children or animals, they adored him. Babies stopped crying when he held them, though not his own, and stray dogs frequently followed him home. One of his functions at work was occasionally euthanasia. When an animal was sick, injured or dangerous, it was "put down" and he performed this function without a thought, without remorse. Euthanasia was simply another part of the job.
I've given a lot of thought to this over the past year in light of the Michael Vick story. When an animal has been so mistreated, it is not fit to reenter society; it is cruel to expect that it can. It is of benefit to society and to the animal to kill it, to end it's suffering. You've seen examples in the dog pound, the lank, emaciated, quivering dog huddled in the corner of it's cement enclosure, desperately avoiding human interaction. While well meaning people mean no harm, approaching such an animal is frightening and often results in growling or biting in self defense. These dogs are not placable. They can never again be sent to live with a human companion for fear of harm or litigation. Maybe a lucky few find peole like Cesar Milan but the amount of dogs he can take in and save is finite. Google "dog whisperer". The first few pages are all Milan. There's one dog whisperer per how many thousands of mistreated, maladjusted dogs?
The same goes for humans. There's how many therapists available for exactly how many hundreds of thousands of mistreated, maladjusted people? How many actually seek out or have the means to afford therapy? Some of these "fighting dogs" cannot reenter society rather they reside along the fringes, watching and never quite fitting in. Others chose euthanasia. I hope the number that find "human whisperers" is growing. I want to believe that like some of Vick's pit bulls, humans can be reformed, reemerging as people worth loving, worth knowing and that they learn to love and value themselves because for certain, their former owners did not!
I don't have torn ears or a ravaged face from the bloody pits. My scars are all mostly internal. I sometimes run my fingers across the knot on my forearm over a break that was never properly set. When an old fracture in my hip begins to throb, I can accurately foretell a thunderstorm. Sometimes I'll nervously tangle my fingers in my hair searching out the lump from stitches and rub the tiny, even row like a talisman. Even if these, and more, were not tangible, the internal scars run deeply leaving me unfit to be around others.
But NOT my children. That is different. The relationship with them is primal, compassionate, protective. More than mothers who have not seen and felt, I know and can shield them. But from other adults, other men. I don't want to be pushed. And that's what I'm feeling. I don't want to be someones. I want to be my own. I want ownership of my own body, my own thoughts, my own feelings. It is too soon to be responsible for someone else's.
I've given a lot of thought to this over the past year in light of the Michael Vick story. When an animal has been so mistreated, it is not fit to reenter society; it is cruel to expect that it can. It is of benefit to society and to the animal to kill it, to end it's suffering. You've seen examples in the dog pound, the lank, emaciated, quivering dog huddled in the corner of it's cement enclosure, desperately avoiding human interaction. While well meaning people mean no harm, approaching such an animal is frightening and often results in growling or biting in self defense. These dogs are not placable. They can never again be sent to live with a human companion for fear of harm or litigation. Maybe a lucky few find peole like Cesar Milan but the amount of dogs he can take in and save is finite. Google "dog whisperer". The first few pages are all Milan. There's one dog whisperer per how many thousands of mistreated, maladjusted dogs?
The same goes for humans. There's how many therapists available for exactly how many hundreds of thousands of mistreated, maladjusted people? How many actually seek out or have the means to afford therapy? Some of these "fighting dogs" cannot reenter society rather they reside along the fringes, watching and never quite fitting in. Others chose euthanasia. I hope the number that find "human whisperers" is growing. I want to believe that like some of Vick's pit bulls, humans can be reformed, reemerging as people worth loving, worth knowing and that they learn to love and value themselves because for certain, their former owners did not!
I don't have torn ears or a ravaged face from the bloody pits. My scars are all mostly internal. I sometimes run my fingers across the knot on my forearm over a break that was never properly set. When an old fracture in my hip begins to throb, I can accurately foretell a thunderstorm. Sometimes I'll nervously tangle my fingers in my hair searching out the lump from stitches and rub the tiny, even row like a talisman. Even if these, and more, were not tangible, the internal scars run deeply leaving me unfit to be around others.
But NOT my children. That is different. The relationship with them is primal, compassionate, protective. More than mothers who have not seen and felt, I know and can shield them. But from other adults, other men. I don't want to be pushed. And that's what I'm feeling. I don't want to be someones. I want to be my own. I want ownership of my own body, my own thoughts, my own feelings. It is too soon to be responsible for someone else's.
Please No Like Father, Like Son
Today, my oldest son, almost 15 informed me once again that he is not attending school. Sometimes the way he talks to me reminds me of the way his father talks at me, talks down to me. I'm at once both angered and saddened. We've modeled a reality for him that is as far from the life I want him to emulate as possible. As the oldest boy, he saw/sees and remembers so much. I know he loves his mother but I also know he lost a lot of respect for me watching me accept the punishments that rained down over me throughout the years.
I also had quite the wake up today. For a decade and a half I was told repeatedly that the reason I was {insert abuse here} was because of something I did. I said or did something that made him so incredibly angry that he had to hurt me to make me stop. It never occurred to me that he would hurt anyone else. I was the reason he was abusive, not anyone or anything else. Right before he left, there was an incident with our ten year old. He broke a pen on military housing carpet. I was not at home, having rented a tiny apartment and in the process of moving out. Whatever he did to our son, no one would say, resulted in my 14 year old's frantic call to me to come rescue the younger boys. My husband said he "spanked" our son for "deliberately" spilling ink on the floor. A week later, I completely removed the stain with OxyClean and Resolve floor cleaner, took a picture and texted it to him. My son took whatever punishment for nothing.
I do not know why I continued to believe that He was a good father, that his abuse is reserved solely for the lowly, miserable creature that I am. I allowed Him to take the three youngest children to his mother's house for Thanksgiving. While he was not abusive to them, His mother was concerned with the way the children acted to each other when they were around Him.
In an email, she said, "I have also spoken to him about letting the boys hit each other in really viscious ways. But (He) seems to think it's "macho". I realize kids fight and argue..but I saw more than that...(He)seems to think "gentleness" is unmanly..perhaps even "gay". God forbid one of your guys does turn out to be gay...
(He) would be hideously nasty!!I REALLY couldn't keep quiet about something like that."
The boys were really difficult when they came back from Thanksgiving but I wrote that off to traveling and the holidays and never once suspected that they were coming back from WWF Smackdowns and no rules. They settled down within a few days and things were back to what is "normal" for us. How do I teach my boys compassion and love their brothers when He counteracts with violence and hatred?
BTW, the oldest boys are in counseling and the counselor is acutely aware of what it means to be a member of our household. I'm trying to do the right thing.
I also had quite the wake up today. For a decade and a half I was told repeatedly that the reason I was {insert abuse here} was because of something I did. I said or did something that made him so incredibly angry that he had to hurt me to make me stop. It never occurred to me that he would hurt anyone else. I was the reason he was abusive, not anyone or anything else. Right before he left, there was an incident with our ten year old. He broke a pen on military housing carpet. I was not at home, having rented a tiny apartment and in the process of moving out. Whatever he did to our son, no one would say, resulted in my 14 year old's frantic call to me to come rescue the younger boys. My husband said he "spanked" our son for "deliberately" spilling ink on the floor. A week later, I completely removed the stain with OxyClean and Resolve floor cleaner, took a picture and texted it to him. My son took whatever punishment for nothing.
I do not know why I continued to believe that He was a good father, that his abuse is reserved solely for the lowly, miserable creature that I am. I allowed Him to take the three youngest children to his mother's house for Thanksgiving. While he was not abusive to them, His mother was concerned with the way the children acted to each other when they were around Him.
In an email, she said, "I have also spoken to him about letting the boys hit each other in really viscious ways. But (He) seems to think it's "macho". I realize kids fight and argue..but I saw more than that...(He)seems to think "gentleness" is unmanly..perhaps even "gay". God forbid one of your guys does turn out to be gay...
(He) would be hideously nasty!!I REALLY couldn't keep quiet about something like that."
The boys were really difficult when they came back from Thanksgiving but I wrote that off to traveling and the holidays and never once suspected that they were coming back from WWF Smackdowns and no rules. They settled down within a few days and things were back to what is "normal" for us. How do I teach my boys compassion and love their brothers when He counteracts with violence and hatred?
BTW, the oldest boys are in counseling and the counselor is acutely aware of what it means to be a member of our household. I'm trying to do the right thing.
His Response
In response to the "Liar..." post, He emailed me this, "I choked you every day, every month, every year? Is that way (sic) you are saying. I've told you. Early in our marriage I was immature. Throughout out marriage I was badly behaved. I didn't have respect for myself let alone anyone else."
But he loves me. Has always loved me, will never love another. Well, I have news for you. Your love HURTS!
But he loves me. Has always loved me, will never love another. Well, I have news for you. Your love HURTS!
Is Anyone Listening?
After a huge campaign against domestic violence in the military, the armed forces would like to think they have the problem under control or at least under the rug. Unfortunately, a few classes here and there and a slap on the wrist by the 1SGT are not adequate deterants. With the increasing number of deployments, the military can only expect to see the numbers rise, IF those abused actually report the incidents.
Domestic violence in the military setting is chronically underreported for very good reasons. When a woman reports her husband, the punishments available harm the entire family, not just the abusive service member. There are only two ways to handle domestic abuse in the military. One, is within the judicial system and two, is with Family Advocay. Following the first track, if the military member is incarcerated or chaptered out of the military, the family finds themselves without any means of support increasing the likelihood of retaliatory abuse. With Family Advocacy, the service member's unit is involved. He is identified as having "marital problems" and will be sent to classes such as anger management. In Texas, my husband loved his anger managment classes. He was able to get out of work and spend time with a special group of men who helped him hone his skills. One of the men there shared with him the different ways he abused his wife that didn't leave any marks and was, therefore, not admissable in court. Good Times. The service member may also be stripped of rank and receive a reduction in pay. This added stress can cause an increase in the amount of abuse in the home.
Four. The number of times the police have been called to military housing at our current duty station where we have lived for a little over a year. The third time, my husband's 1SGT, our neighbor two doors down, showed up at our door after the incident. She pulled me aside and told me, "You know I live right there. When you feel upset all you have to do is come talk to me, not call the police," implying that I was wrong in calling the police to my home. Yes, I'm certain the military had prepared to deal with our marital issues. I can't keep the smirk off my face at that one.
What she did not understand or bother to ask is why the police were called. A particular brutal argument had ended with my husband dragging me to him by my hair and forcing my head into his crotch. He was attempting to force me to perform oral sex. Afterwards he said he was only "joking" and I acquiesced and sent the police away with only a vague report of a domestic disturbance. There are six of us in the family. Any reduction in pay, any change in our status means bills will not be paid, groceries will not be purchased. At that moment, I made the (un?)conscious decision to trade a sore head and some missing hairs, a wrenched neck and terribly bruised pride for a few sacks of groceries and a roof over our head. It seemed a small price to pay at the time.
Domestic violence in the military setting is chronically underreported for very good reasons. When a woman reports her husband, the punishments available harm the entire family, not just the abusive service member. There are only two ways to handle domestic abuse in the military. One, is within the judicial system and two, is with Family Advocay. Following the first track, if the military member is incarcerated or chaptered out of the military, the family finds themselves without any means of support increasing the likelihood of retaliatory abuse. With Family Advocacy, the service member's unit is involved. He is identified as having "marital problems" and will be sent to classes such as anger management. In Texas, my husband loved his anger managment classes. He was able to get out of work and spend time with a special group of men who helped him hone his skills. One of the men there shared with him the different ways he abused his wife that didn't leave any marks and was, therefore, not admissable in court. Good Times. The service member may also be stripped of rank and receive a reduction in pay. This added stress can cause an increase in the amount of abuse in the home.
Four. The number of times the police have been called to military housing at our current duty station where we have lived for a little over a year. The third time, my husband's 1SGT, our neighbor two doors down, showed up at our door after the incident. She pulled me aside and told me, "You know I live right there. When you feel upset all you have to do is come talk to me, not call the police," implying that I was wrong in calling the police to my home. Yes, I'm certain the military had prepared to deal with our marital issues. I can't keep the smirk off my face at that one.
What she did not understand or bother to ask is why the police were called. A particular brutal argument had ended with my husband dragging me to him by my hair and forcing my head into his crotch. He was attempting to force me to perform oral sex. Afterwards he said he was only "joking" and I acquiesced and sent the police away with only a vague report of a domestic disturbance. There are six of us in the family. Any reduction in pay, any change in our status means bills will not be paid, groceries will not be purchased. At that moment, I made the (un?)conscious decision to trade a sore head and some missing hairs, a wrenched neck and terribly bruised pride for a few sacks of groceries and a roof over our head. It seemed a small price to pay at the time.
Blogger Blues
I started this blog as personal therapy, a way to rid myself of all of the memories and the harmful feelings associated with them. What I have found instead is that I am dwelling on the past, each bad memory linked to another as if I'm pulling an imaginary magician's neverending scarf from my brain. Reliving the Texas Soapdish Massacre reminded me of the many times the police were involved. I was stronger then. I had filed for a restraining order, but in his vast maturity, He would sneak off post to my house and peer in the doors and windows until I called the police. Once, after such a call, the officer and I were standing in my driveway discussing what to do in the event He returned. I had no idea that He was hiding in the trunk of my car!
Around the same time, one of his brilliant battle buddies gave him a pistol for "safe keeping". Now, so many years later, I'm shocked as to how He avoided being arrested for having a gun on his person (under the seat of his car). Of course, that was Texas and not much has changed. I was too young to realize exactly how dangerous the situation was and can only now appreciate that I am alive and writing this today.
This blog was supposed to help with the healing process. Instead, I'm reliving the abuse. I wonder if the process (and I'm sorry to be so graphic) is like vomiting; you hate to do it, but just know you'll feel so much better when it's all over. Ah, I seem to be blogging to myself anyway, so I'll have to judge if my purging all of this information is better for me and the ones I love or if I need to keep it all stored safely away in the little box in my chest like before.
Around the same time, one of his brilliant battle buddies gave him a pistol for "safe keeping". Now, so many years later, I'm shocked as to how He avoided being arrested for having a gun on his person (under the seat of his car). Of course, that was Texas and not much has changed. I was too young to realize exactly how dangerous the situation was and can only now appreciate that I am alive and writing this today.
This blog was supposed to help with the healing process. Instead, I'm reliving the abuse. I wonder if the process (and I'm sorry to be so graphic) is like vomiting; you hate to do it, but just know you'll feel so much better when it's all over. Ah, I seem to be blogging to myself anyway, so I'll have to judge if my purging all of this information is better for me and the ones I love or if I need to keep it all stored safely away in the little box in my chest like before.
Texas
I'm writing, following the free flow of thoughts in my head. The bitterly cold weather here has me reminiscing about warmer duty stations. One of the things that I imagine is the same with all abusive military spouses is the idea that the abuse will stop or become better with a Major Change. When we PCS, we'll be better. A new baby, we'll be better. A new promotion, we'll be better. But change brings stress, even good change and stress brings more abuse. If I were asked to chose the most violent duty station, I would pick Texas. We met, married and were stationed there for about 4 years. A lot of family and my best friend lived in Texas meaning that should have been an ideal location for me. But he was upset with the amount of time I spent with my family and friends. It was much easier to isolate myself rather than risk his displeasure. I remember I used to take my youngest to the pool every day in the summer until he became jealous that we were able to go and he was not. It was much easier to simply stop going.
One of the funniest incidents occurred in our bathroom in one of our Texas homes. I use the term "funny" because even ugly things are sometimes funny and if you cannot laugh at the ugliness you will drown in it. We had been fighting all day as was our usual custom. What the 'fight du jour' was, I cannot remember. I am absolutely certain it was something stupid. This I can defend, as right before he deployed this time, we fought over a $7.35 doctor's bill and while deployed, we argued about a 0.75 cent check I paid from his account for a traffic toll ticket he received.
I was standing in front of the mirror applying make up and alternately mouthing off. Something I said must have really upset him because before I could even respond, I was flying through the air sideways only stopping when my head struck the ceramic soap dish inside the shower. Shocked, I pulled myself out of the bath and put my hand to my head only to find it covered in blood. The force had opened a gash on the top of my skull. Nervous and worried, he attempted to talk me into letting him stitch it up at home. Nasty head wound? No need to go the hospital, Soldier Boy will stitch that right up for me. I declined and demanded he take me to the hospital. He delayed the trip because I had to admit that I had "fallen" before he would take me. There was no question of my taking myself; I was not allowed to go anywhere alone if he were available, in normal circumstances. Going to the hospital with a wound would certainly mean I would need a chaperone in case I should say something that would get him in trouble.
For years, whenever the incident was mentioned, it was understood that I had somehow flown through the air, sideways, from a standing position, striking my head on the ceramic soap dish all on my own. He had bravely come to save me from certain death and driven me to the hospital. Or so the fairy tale goes....
One of the funniest incidents occurred in our bathroom in one of our Texas homes. I use the term "funny" because even ugly things are sometimes funny and if you cannot laugh at the ugliness you will drown in it. We had been fighting all day as was our usual custom. What the 'fight du jour' was, I cannot remember. I am absolutely certain it was something stupid. This I can defend, as right before he deployed this time, we fought over a $7.35 doctor's bill and while deployed, we argued about a 0.75 cent check I paid from his account for a traffic toll ticket he received.
I was standing in front of the mirror applying make up and alternately mouthing off. Something I said must have really upset him because before I could even respond, I was flying through the air sideways only stopping when my head struck the ceramic soap dish inside the shower. Shocked, I pulled myself out of the bath and put my hand to my head only to find it covered in blood. The force had opened a gash on the top of my skull. Nervous and worried, he attempted to talk me into letting him stitch it up at home. Nasty head wound? No need to go the hospital, Soldier Boy will stitch that right up for me. I declined and demanded he take me to the hospital. He delayed the trip because I had to admit that I had "fallen" before he would take me. There was no question of my taking myself; I was not allowed to go anywhere alone if he were available, in normal circumstances. Going to the hospital with a wound would certainly mean I would need a chaperone in case I should say something that would get him in trouble.
For years, whenever the incident was mentioned, it was understood that I had somehow flown through the air, sideways, from a standing position, striking my head on the ceramic soap dish all on my own. He had bravely come to save me from certain death and driven me to the hospital. Or so the fairy tale goes....
Not All Soldiers Are Angels
Today is the first day back to work after the holidays. Hard to be in a bad mood because I'm wearing fabulous boots! It's the little things....
I had a few people take a look at the first post and their responses were the same, "Get out!" I'm writing to clarify that I am in the process of leaving El Douche but the process is delayed when he is thousands of miles away. There are both pluses and minuses to having a spouse deployed. The plus is that the bastard is far, far away. The minus is that he can't be served. My lawyer told me, and I quote, "I thought we served him already," when I asked how far the divorce had proceeded prior to his leaving. Yeah, that's the confidence builder I was seeking. Some people with misguided patriotism may read this blog and feel sorry for my husband because he is a soldier and "fighting for our country" (he sits behind a desk, but whatever). I would remind them that not all soldiers are angels, for example, the last time I checked, both Hitler and Genghis Khan were soldiers.
This blog is a complilation of memories from the past and daily thoughts. I write about the past because if I don't put words to paper (web page), I will drown in them. For over a decade, I was alone with the way he treated me. I don't know if I'll ever find the proper words to express the disgust and incredulation at standing by his side at church or military functions knowing what he truly was, pretending the entire time that we were the lovely family we appeared to be. Only one time did a crack show. When we were stationed overseas, I was standing in my driveway, waiting to get into the family vehicle. He was frustrated about something. Back then, he was more so than any other duty location. He came around the side of the car, towered over me and started screaming obscenities, calling me "bitch", etc... I think he did it because he thought none of our foreign neighbors would understand. I don't think they needed to know the words, although I'm certain they did, to understand the tone of his voice. At the same time, my military OB/GYN was walking his dog past our house and heard the whole thing. At my next weekly doctor's visist he asked me if I felt "safe at home" and if there was anything I wanted to tell him. That was the extent of the help from my doctor. As the doctor and my husband were both Army and as we all attended the same church, what I assume is that he was trying to protect my husband's career. The doctor certainly wasn't protecting me or the baby.
I had a few people take a look at the first post and their responses were the same, "Get out!" I'm writing to clarify that I am in the process of leaving El Douche but the process is delayed when he is thousands of miles away. There are both pluses and minuses to having a spouse deployed. The plus is that the bastard is far, far away. The minus is that he can't be served. My lawyer told me, and I quote, "I thought we served him already," when I asked how far the divorce had proceeded prior to his leaving. Yeah, that's the confidence builder I was seeking. Some people with misguided patriotism may read this blog and feel sorry for my husband because he is a soldier and "fighting for our country" (he sits behind a desk, but whatever). I would remind them that not all soldiers are angels, for example, the last time I checked, both Hitler and Genghis Khan were soldiers.
This blog is a complilation of memories from the past and daily thoughts. I write about the past because if I don't put words to paper (web page), I will drown in them. For over a decade, I was alone with the way he treated me. I don't know if I'll ever find the proper words to express the disgust and incredulation at standing by his side at church or military functions knowing what he truly was, pretending the entire time that we were the lovely family we appeared to be. Only one time did a crack show. When we were stationed overseas, I was standing in my driveway, waiting to get into the family vehicle. He was frustrated about something. Back then, he was more so than any other duty location. He came around the side of the car, towered over me and started screaming obscenities, calling me "bitch", etc... I think he did it because he thought none of our foreign neighbors would understand. I don't think they needed to know the words, although I'm certain they did, to understand the tone of his voice. At the same time, my military OB/GYN was walking his dog past our house and heard the whole thing. At my next weekly doctor's visist he asked me if I felt "safe at home" and if there was anything I wanted to tell him. That was the extent of the help from my doctor. As the doctor and my husband were both Army and as we all attended the same church, what I assume is that he was trying to protect my husband's career. The doctor certainly wasn't protecting me or the baby.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)