There's an old adage that says there's three sides to every story: yours, mine and the truth. This is true, for sure.
There's a not-so-old adage that I try my best to live out: to be set free, you have to tell your story and own it, in order to heal.
Because I'm a writer who believes in being honest, I am writing about yet another difficult topic. I actually wrote this story several weeks ago, but fear has kept me from posting it until now. Every time I write about something difficult, I know I take a risk: of alienating or hurting or angering someone. I get it. But this is my story; I lived it (and continue to do so, to some degree) and I would have gladly told it, face-to-face, if anyone, if someone, had asked...
I was married to John for 20 years. I'd like to say they were great years, but the truth is, maybe all the days that were great added up to 365. If you asked him, perhaps he would have the same perspective. But he died several years ago so that conversation will have to wait until Heaven I guess.
Let me say, I was far from the perfect wife because I am far from the perfect person. But I tried, I really did. John was a Denver cop who walked into the job with a lot of demons and left the job with many more. I understand that. Help was available to him, but he never sought it out. I so wish that he had.
John loved a few things: me, his kids, gardening and sex. He didn't like to be with people, he hated to travel, hated crowds. So I did all the things he hated because I loved them. In essence, we lived separate lives.
John did many things right: he was an outstanding provider, a great father, a hard worker and he had talent out the wazoo. He was a fantastic athlete who taught our sons how to switch-hit and he could do whatever he set out to do. Except provide me with the emotional support and encouraging words that I so desperately needed. John was a perfectionist who expected the same of others.
This is a very long story that cannot completely be told here, but during all the years of our marriage John verbally and emotionally abused me. Many friends and even our children witnessed this. I was often called every name in the book and was told I was a horrible wife and a horrible mother. Things that were said to me should never, ever be said to another human being.
I stayed with John much longer than I ever should have, for the sake of our kids and because I believe you get married to stay married. But when the verbal abuse turned physical, I knew I could no longer hold up my end of the bargain. Even then, I stayed a few months longer than I should have.
During the last few years of our marriage, things became worse and worse. John was taking drugs for an injury he suffered on the job and, as I found out many years later, was drinking heavily. Those two things, along with the pressure of being a cop, made a lethal combination. I tried all I could to escape from him in my own house, but he followed me around, ranting and raving, so much so that I would get in my car in the middle of the night just to escape the nightmare.
It broke my heart that my kids had to go through what they did. I like to hope it made them stronger and more compassionate. I know it made me stronger and more understanding of those who go through abusive situations. But no one escapes such trauma unscathed.
The straw that broke the camel's back came one August night, toward the end of our marriage. I was in our bedroom getting ready to take a shower when John told me he wanted to have sex. I looked at him like he was crazy and told him as much. We were barely speaking, he was off the deep end, but he expected sex? This was the norm for John, sadly. But that's a story for another time. He kept asking and I kept saying no, until he locked the door, grabbed me, threw me down on the bed, held me down and tried to rape me. All three kids were home at the time and all I could think to do was scream. They broke the door down, only to see both of their parents naked on the bed in a serious altercation. Joseph held a baseball bat, James held a knife and Allie's face held a look of sheer terror. My kids came to my rescue (which is something kids should never, ever have to do).
John jumped off me, grabbed the bat away from Joseph and went after him with it. I ran after both of them, running interference for my son. I don't even know how we got away, but we did, leaving to spend the night with my parents. I should have never gone back, but he convinced me to try one more time, never apologizing or acknowledging what happened. It was a classic abuse situation.
To make a long story short, social services somehow found out about the incident and sent a social worker to our house to talk to me, then to each one of the kids' schools to talk to them, separately. I told them to lie because John would lose his job if we didn't. So we all did. But when John was interviewed, he admitted to it, but said it was all in good fun. He went to his death bed saying that. It makes me wonder if he truly believed it...
Shortly after that night I filed for divorce. I simply could not endure one more day with John. Even after he was served with divorce papers, he would not leave our house and the verbal abuse continued. Finally he was legally forced to leave. For years after the divorce, he continued to abuse me via voicemails and emails. He did unspeakable things to me and often used our kids as pawns in his evil acts.
John told me countless times during our marriage that I would never have the guts to leave, that I liked the security he provided. He was right; I knew he would always take care of me financially. That was yet one more reason why I stayed as long as I did. But, in the end, that was simply not even close to being enough. After I divorced him, I lived in fear of what would happen next...and a lot went down over the years. I feared he would kill me so I told my close friends that if anything ever happened to me, to tell the police John did it. I even went so far to write everything down in my online diary, giving my best friend the password, just in case.
Lest you think I'm being dramatic, John "joked" about the fact that, if he killed me, no one would ever find my body because he would cut me up in little pieces and dump me in a place that no one would ever look. He also told our daughter that he would have if he had known he could have gotten away with it. There is a reason why the ex-husband is always the first suspect when their ex-wives go missing. I thank God every day that I didn't end up a statistic.
Rumors went around about me, saying I had affairs while we were married, even that I left John for someone else. Of course, people didn't come to me, not once, and ask if it were true. Even my own parents doubted my sincerity and chose to be on John's side for many years. I lost friendships and walked through my divorce utterly alone, but I came out on the other side, stronger and wiser but beaten, bruised and feeling unworthy of love, believing much of what John said to me all those years. I am better, but still healing. The negative impact of demeaning words, said over and over again, should never be underestimated.
I hurt, even more so, for my children because they never deserved to be subjected to such abusive behavior. Even child deserves a happy, peaceful home. In the end, they didn't have that plus they lost their father to alcoholism.
When John died, I remembered the good times way more intensely than I ever dreamed I would and was affected by his death in ways I did not expect. I also found out a lot that I did not know, particularly just how much he drank. I was surprised to feel guilt and sorrow; even now I struggle with the what ifs; what if I had stayed with him, what if I had done more to try to save our marriage? It's crazy that he still has a grip on me in some ways. Like I said, I am still healing and it is indeed a lifelong process. What I'm learning is that grief cannot be put in a box and each of us deserves to grieve in the way that's best for us.
So that's my side of the story, in case you ever wanted to know. There's much more to say, but I will save that for another time. For now it is enough to put it down in words because I need to do so in order to fully work through it. All I can hope for is true healing and, that in some small way, others might find hope in my story.
My Side of the Story (Because No One Ever Asked)
