That was officially stupid hard.
I made the call today to go home and end my marriage. For years it has been harder than it needs to be. I still feel terrified even though I think that this is the right thing to do. The Sergeant planned to just remove him from the house until he/we could get counseling until I told him what happened. My aim was never to get him in trouble, but I was afraid ro be in the house with him. I do not believe that counseling will help the situation. I have tried to ask him to go to counseling with me before, and his answer was, “Why are you doing this to me?”
The Sergeant told me it wasn’t my fault.
I know it wasn’t. J says otherwise. And I’m a smart girl. I know what J is doing even if he doesn’t realize it. But the reassurance made me feel a little bit better.
That doesn’t make it not hurt.
And that doesn’t make it easier.
I almost said, “I am mad that I have become another statistic” but we all are, in one way or another, so saying otherwise seems silly. If I get to choose, though, I would rather be the alive kind of statistic. I knew that verbal abuse has the chance of becoming physical. But I never thought it would happen to me. (they always say that) And I know that in many cases, physical abuse does not stop until one of the people involved are dead. (but that would never happen to me, right?)
This is not the only time that he has hurt us. This time is the last time.
I know that it is pathetic, but when the military people were explaining to me what was going to happen, that they were going to go file their report and to tell J that he wasn’t allowed to come home or contact me, I wanted to tell them, “Tell him I’m sorry.”
So I am here, alone in this big empty house save for two very small children who aren’t really clear on the whole, “Mommy just changed the course of our lives forever” front.
And all I can do is cry. Last night he told me that if I loved him, I wouldn’t think he was some sort of monster. He told me that if I loved him, I wouldn’t think about leaving. I wanted to tell him that if he loved us, he would not have picked our four year old son up by the neck twice a foot off of the floor just to bring him closer to his own face so he could yell directly into it. That if he loved us, he wouldn’t have tried to smother his two year old daughter. That if he loved me, he would not have strangled me. That if he loved me, he would not have told me for years how lacking I am. That he would never have caused us harm on purpose. And repeatedly.
But I was too afraid to.
I don’t want to be a big whiny baby about this. There is only so much complaining one can do before everyone that has heard it over and over is sick of hearing said complaining. And it’s not like I was in a loving relationship that suddenly turned sour. I cried all the time. I was told how inadequate I was all the time. It’s not like it can get worse. I worry about providing properly for the kids. I worry about being a failure and them being ashamed of me. I worry about them being embarrassed of me. I worry about saying the wrong thing in front of them. I don’t want to slip and say bad things about him in front of them. I don’t want them to feel like they’re in the middle of this.
But it’s my responsibility to keep them safe. They can’t grow up thinking that it’s okay to treat anyone like that. They can’t grow up learning that they should be treated less than they deserve. I would rather be alone forever and raise my children in a home full of love and laughter and music and magic than to keep them here where they grow up afraid and in constant danger.