But ... he doesn't hit me ... [part two]

So on October 24, 2009 I asked him for a separation. His reply was to barricade himself in the back bedroom with a shotgun. But ... he never hit me.


[Continued from But ... he doesn't hit me ... [part one]]

October 24, 2009. A day forever etched in my memory. Much like the birth of a child, wedding anniversary, holiday or other important event. Only this day wasn't a day for celebration. At least not in the traditional way. In a way it marks a day of freedom; freedom from confusion, freedom from toxicity, freedom from fear.

So, he didn't hit me. He was in the bedroom with the shotgun, door barricaded. I found myself asking, "What are you going to do?" At least I think I asked that. It's been awhile since I've thought about that day ... He made no reply.

At that point, I ran to the phone in the kitchen and dialed 9-1-1. I was hysterical. I calmed down enough to explain to the operator, "My husband is in the back bedroom with a shotgun. I don't know what he plans to do."

Operator: "Where is your husband now?"

Me: "In the bedroom with a shotgun."

Operator: "Where exactly in the house is he? Do you know what he's planning to do?"

Me: "He's in the back bedroom. No. I have four children under 10."

Operator: "Do you have a cell phone?"

Me: "Yes."

Operator: "Get your children, your cell phone and call me back when you're safely on the road."

Of course, in that moment there was fear, lots and lots of fear. To date, the experience I'm describing is the most fearful, terrifying moment I have ever experienced. If I ever had any doubt of my ability to react to a challenging situation it has been erased by the memory of this event.

I gathered up my children. I had my keys. My cell phone.

We left.

Reviewing the incident report several months later I became aware of some serious grace. First, from the moment I dialed 9-1-1 and the time I contacted the operator on the road again was between 4 and 5 minutes. Who buckles 4 children, 2 under the age of 2, into a vehicle and drives several miles in less than 5 minutes??? Miracle.

I'll be honest. It's hard to even think back to that day. It's almost easier to forget. To brush it off as a bad dream ... but it was real. It is real.

So, my ex never hit me with fists. But his "punches" with words and attitude where and are designed to destroy, attacking your very soul. In the 4 years since separating, I've felt like I've been on a roller coaster or a yo-yo of emotions. Anger, sadness, pity, grief, rage, joy. And around again. Currently, I have minimal (as little as possible) contact with my ex. I do struggle with the ongoing challenges of visitation and transition issues. The verbal, emotional, and psychological abuse continues with my children. I focus on helping us all get through this. The court issues are "final" - meaning, I believe that unless or until a recognized criminal abuse is perpetrated and charges filed, this is our "new normal" - breaking the chains of a legacy of family dysfunction and violence. The court system will not save us. The police will not save us. CPS will not save us.

I'm not a superhero. I just play one in real life.

Some days it feels like we are a "normal" family - whatever that is - the teasing, the loving, the bonding, being together, laughter, enjoying each other's company. Other days, I'm consciously aware of our brokenness. I recognize this is part of the grieving process. Part of accepting what is and letting go of how I thought  or think things should be. Most of the time, I feel like something's missing. I long for healthy partnership. For comfort. I feel like I'm not good enough. I worry I won't ever be good enough. I think about how maybe I could have done something different ...

But then I remember, I'm only responsible for my attitudes, actions, behavior, beliefs ... I tell my children I wish it were different. I make room for me, for us, for healing, for growth. I focus on healthy relationships, building community, asking for help, risking rejection.

And then I look at the beauty that is my family. The brokenness. The healing. The laughter. The screaming. The tears. The anger. The joy. The sadness.

The grace.

And, I cling to the belief, no to the knowledge, that what I am doing is worth it. It's worth every tear, every fear, every struggle, every hardship and challenge. For me. For them. For us.

I am worth it.