the state of things

It's been too long. I want to write something to you, you two or three members of this public/private literary collective, who have demonstrated interest in each other's inner thoughts and the details of our lives. And anyone else who may be reading. I'm hesitant to say some things on the Internet. Funny how that can change.

I left my husband almost two months ago now. I am moving one step at a time. There's a lot of waiting involved. I am staying in a safe place, and I am so well supported. So well. My support network spans oceans. 

Some decisions take a long time to make. This one took about three months, in its acute phase. Ever since the day in July when he woke up drunk and woke me up groggy and we got into a fight about nothing that ended with him grabbing me around the waist and throwing me out of the house, barefoot, without keys or my wallet or anything. He locked the door behind him. Miraculously, my keys were in the cupholder of one of the chairs on our front porch. I grabbed them and ran, got into the car and drove to the only place I could think of. While I was trying to get someone to go back to the house with me--I know better than to go some places alone--he threatened suicide and stopped answering my calls. I called 911 from the car, sitting in traffic trying not to panic. He was involuntarily committed.

When he was released from the hospital, we agreed that he would stop drinking and we would seek counseling individually and together. We tried it. I felt that I was making progress individually with my therapist, and he felt that he finally found a therapist who understood him. I hope he's still seeing her. Couples counseling progressed very slowly. Scheduling can be a nightmare. Our couples counselor broke up with us three days after I left, at our last appointment, saying that it would be contraindicated for her to continue treating us given the state of things. He tried to fight it. I understood, let my professional clinician intervene, shook her hand, and walked away.

We had the same conversation over and over for months. He did most of the talking. I shouldered all of the blame. In September, I found myself sitting with my back against the inside of the guest room door, trying to maintain a safe space for myself. He berated me through the closed door for what could have been half an hour about how selfish I am, and it finally occurred to me:

I deserve better than this.

It took four more days. He picked me up from work and started another fight in the car on the way home about how everything is my fault. It continued once we arrived at the house. There was a moment when he looked at me and said, "I just can't win with you." I responded, "Not right now, no." He asked, "Then why are you still here?" I realized there was no reason remaining, so I grabbed my things and I left.

Part of me is afraid to tell my story, because I have seen him telling his side to others. I am worried about the friends I may lose. He lies. This is a sad truth I am finally learning, the kind of lesson that makes you wonder if anything you ever knew was right. He lies. This is my round Earth, my solar-centric system. My entire life for the last four years may have been a fairtyale--the original Grimm, not adapted for Disney's gentle audience. Part of me is afraid to tell my story because I am afraid he will find it and somehow use it against me. He cannot cause me any more harm.

As I drove away and paused to catch my breath, I found myself for a moment and I smiled. I do not have to put up with this anymore.

I know it is important to tell my truth.