Divorce

I see words in color.  The word "art" shows me an aura of red, blue, and green swirling around the letters.  The colors themselves never mix, but swim around each other like fish.

The word "divorce" has always held a curious color aura.  The beginning and end of the word are dark brown and snot-green.  But the middle of the word is brilliantly colored, like sunshine on the first day of spring when you realize that the trees are blooming again.

Weird, huh?  Eh, such is my way of thinking.

I'm going to take a few minutes and talk about this word, and my story behind it.  If you care not to read, I understand.  This is a topic that is rarely brought up except by therapists and people who feel the need to threaten their spouse.

I was brought up in a conservative home with my mother and maternal grandparents.  I was taught "old-fashioned" values like, Family sticks together even when life goes south, and Blood is thicker than water, and plain old loyalty and honesty.  Even though my parents were divorced, I never once questioned my mother's love for me, and my family's unerring support.  As a whole, I saw my cousins once every 4 years or so and heard very little about them in the meantime.  But they were always there for me, and I adore them still.

OK, so we're a clan.  And we protect and scold and love and laugh like a clan.  I guess it comes from all that Irish/Scottish blood in us.

Anyway, I met a guy, fell stupidly and blindly in love.  We got married.  Yet even as I walked down the aisle, I knew it was wrong.  I knew, looking at him waiting for me, that this was not the man I'd dreamed of marrying, that I longed to grow old with.  He was my "settled-for."  (Name that movie, I dare you!)  I head my biological clock ticking and I thought we could work through anything.

Next time you hear a woman say that about a guy, do me a favor.  Smack her.

Three days after I said my vows to be faithful and help him through all the trials of life, the guy I'd given my heart and body to stopped being my husband.  He looked at a woman, and lusted after her.  And it spiraled downward from there.  Nothing I ever did was enough, and every day he reminded me of that.  He always cloaked it in concern or pretense, but he never failed to remind me that I wasn't enough.

I turned to my friends and family, silently begging for someone to tell me it was okay to admit that I was wrong about him, to pick up and leave.  Our son was born, and my hope was renewed...for about 4 days.  And then it got worse again.

I got to the point of never looking up, always cowering inwardly, terrified of what I would say or do next to earn one of his scathing remarks or days of the silent treatment.  I avoided talking on the phone while he was home, always let him rent whatever disgusting film he wanted, and put up with his childish pouting and tantrum throwing.

Then one day, after he told me that I had enough fat on me that I didn't need a blanket in the 50-degree bedroom, I'd had enough.  I started fighting back.  No, I was not going to take his tantrum-ing or his pushing around anymore.  He fought back harder.

Pop quiz: what's the best way to stop a fight?

Answer: stop fighting.

So I did.  I packed up me and my son and we left.  Oh, I made all the noises of wanting to work it out, to make it last.  But every time he called, I cringed.  When I'd get a letter from him, I'd avoid it like the plague.

And now divorce papers have been filed.  And I've never felt so free, so empowered.  He continues his stupid games, and I keep moving forward.  My family has encapsulated me and refilled the gaping hole in my soul.  I feel loved, protected, and safe for the first time in years.

If you are reading this and know anyone who feels enslaved or threatened by their spouse, do them a favor.  Stick close to them.  Be their sounding board.  And don't be afraid to tell them how you feel.  If it weren't for my dearest friend, I wouldn't have seen the abuse that had been happening.  She saw it, and told me.  And I thank God more than she knows that she had the courage to tell me.

And never, NEVER accuse someone of being the problem in the marriage.  People told me that since my husband hadn't hit me, it must not have been so bad, and I should just go home already.  That I was the wimpy one and gave up too soon.  Marriage takes two to make, and takes two to break.

Every time I see a married couple who have come through the true hardships of life (losing a child, living on the brink of bankruptcy or death) and they're still laughing and holding each other, I'm reminded that there is such a thing as God-pleasing marriage, and that maybe I will get to experience that.

Until then, divorce will be a rainbow in the swamp, and I'll keep slogging through the muck to find the way through.