“I really want to go back and see Dr. Anderson,” I said.
He looked at me, his face full of shock and annoyance. “Why?” he snapped.
“Come on, Justin. You know things aren’t good right now. We need some help. I can’t keep doing this. We’re not communicating, I’m having some trust issues with you, and you’re clearly not happy. We need this.”
As much as I’d prepared myself for some push back from him, I wasn’t prepared for the assault that came.
“It’s your problem!” he shouted. He was going into tirade mode. “I’m not going back to that shrink! You know how much that’s going to cost? If you want to go, then go ahead! It’s not my problem—it’s yours!”
What happened next horrified me. Before I could even respond, he did something I’d never seen before. He started hitting himself—and I don’t mean just a slap on the wrist. He curled his hand into a fist and started punching himself in the face and on the head. I screamed for him to stop, and as I moved toward him to physically intervene, I froze. He was glaring at me with such fury that I couldn’t take another step. My heart pounded in sheer terror.
We stood there looking at each other for a moment, and then I walked out. Not knowing where else to go, I went into the bathroom and shut the door. I looked at myself in the mirror and tried to comprehend what had just happened. Is he okay? I wondered. But I was too afraid to open the door. I started a bath, thinking that would at least buy me some time before I had to face him again. As I crawled into the hot water, I couldn’t help but think, What if he’s hitting himself to stop from hitting me? And if that’s the case, how long will it be before that actually happens?
The next day I called Dr. Anderson.
Chapter 8
You Are Equipped with the Courage You Need
When we’re feeling traumatized or confused or beat up, it’s hard to hold on to perspective. That’s why I’m a big supporter of counseling. Some problems are just too huge to handle alone.
I was grateful Dr. Anderson had counseled Justin and me two years before, because that meant he already had some background on our situation. He told me he was sorry for what we were going through and asked me a lot of questions about how I was doing and how Justin was doing. Even though I was at this session alone, I felt I was making some progress. I was able to talk freely, expressing my fears and doubts without criticism. I left Dr. Anderson’s office feeling a little lighter, like a burden was slowly being lifted from me.
Still, after watching Justin punch himself and seeing his rage, I felt like I had no protection once I left Dr. Anderson’s office. I had no way to gauge how far Justin might go if he heard something he didn’t want to hear. So how did I tell him I needed to spend some time away from him—on my own?
Fortunately, I didn’t even have to bring it up. Justin did that all on his own.
About a week after my first appointment with Dr. Anderson, everything blew up. Justin got mad about something—I’m not even sure what it was. I took Dr. Anderson’s advice and got really honest with Justin. I asked him again about that two-hundred-dollar bar bill and told him straight out that I didn’t believe he wasn’t drinking. That’s when he started railing on me, calling me names and spewing erratic, illogical excuses. At one point he looked straight at me and said, “Maybe we should just separate!”
I said nothing. I just sat there staring at him. One thing I’d learned from all the emotional abuse I’d taken was that once you say something, you can’t take it back. Sure, you can apologize, but the sting of the words, the bite you feel in that moment, can’t be erased. I knew firsthand the power of words, and I wanted to be very cautious with mine.
Justin yelled at me some more, and then he said, “Maybe the answer is that we just separate.”
Again, I kept my mouth shut. I knew that once I agreed, there would be no going back. And I was afraid of how he’d react. Would he hurt himself? Would he hurt me? Dear God, what should I do?
After more of his tirade, he said it a third time: “I guess maybe we should just separate, Christi, because this isn’t working!” Finally it dawned on me that this was it—this was the opening I’d been asking for. I felt like God was saying, “Hello! I’m giving you an out here, Christi! You don’t even have to say the words—he has already said it. Trust Me in this.”
Now, I don’t know if God actually talks to us like that, but those are absolutely the words I sensed from Him. I suddenly felt emboldened. Courageous. Is it possible to be scared out of your mind and intrepid at the same time? Let me tell you—yes, it is.
So I took a deep breath, looked at Justin, and said, “I guess maybe we should.” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, my muscles tensed. I guess I was subconsciously bracing for the attack.
Just as I suspected, the roof blew off our apartment. Justin was like a tornado, whirling back and forth from one end of the room to the other. He’d get right up in my face and then bolt from room to room screaming at me, hands flailing. Finally he went into the bedroom and packed a suitcase, calling me names the whole time. “You stupid b----! This is it! It’s over. No separation. This is divorce!”
I sat on the couch, terrified to move. Tears were streaming down my face, and I was shaking uncontrollably. I could feel it coming now. The end. It was right there in front of me.
I wanted to be anywhere but in this moment. I wished I could either hit the rewind button and erase what was happening or push fast-forward and get to the other side of this as fast as I could. But I was stuck there, in the present.
Justin came into the living room and stood over me, waving his finger at me.
“This is divorce! There will be no separation! Do you really want me to walk out that door? Because once I do, I’m never coming back! You’re such a selfish b----. I never want to see you again!”
He walked into the bathroom, and a split second later he walked back out—completely calm. He sat in the chair across from me and said, “What happened? Why are you doing this? I don’t want to separate—let’s try to work this out.”
I just stared at him, stunned. This is what always threw me. One minute he’d be ranting, the next pleading. I didn’t know what to make of his erratic mood swings.
Somehow, no doubt by the grace of God, I got the courage to say what I was really feeling. “I think we just need some time apart. I can’t live like this anymore.”
And thus began round two, which went on for several hours. He’d blow up, then calm down. My body was shaking, and I couldn’t control the swirling in my stomach. Once I ran to the bathroom and literally got sick to my stomach.
My marriage was burning to oblivion right in front of me, and I had no resources to step in and save it.
Twice that night Justin got in his car, peeled out of the apartment complex, and returned only to continue hurling hateful words at me.
The last time he slammed the door shut behind him, I heard the squeal of his tires as he drove off.
A couple of minutes later the phone rang and there he was on the line, screaming at me again. “I never want to see you again unless it’s in a courtroom and I’m finished with you for good!”
That’s when he did a “Whoa, whoa . . .” and I heard him hit the brakes. There was a thudding sound, then the phone went dead.
“Justin? Justin?” I shouted into the phone.
I was immediately on my knees, still crying. “God, please let him be okay. Please be with him. Please surround him with your protection,” I pleaded. My stomach was one huge knot. “Please let him be okay,” I whispered.
And then, as if on cue, I heard stomping up the apartment steps. There he was, storming through the door.
I was so flabbergasted I couldn’t speak. How dare he fake the whole thing! He’d put on the drama full throttle, making me think he’d been in an accident just to scare me or get back at me.
I slumped on the couch as he started to shout again, berating me with his usual criticisms.
I sat ther
e as he verbally waled on me, his arms thrashing as he paced back and forth. In the midst of his tirade, my mind tuned out his words as a terrifying thought overtook me: What if we had children?
I pictured a child in her bedroom, cowering under her covers to drown out the noise of her father letting loose. I pictured that little girl crying, scared and trembling. And I knew I could never put my son or daughter in that position.
I didn’t want my children to hear their father threaten to leave someday. I might have been able to handle it, but my children would need stability and security. How could they cope if every time their dad got angry, they were plagued by the fear that their family would fall apart? I didn’t want my son growing up thinking he had license to treat a woman—or anyone—with this kind of disrespect and abuse. And I didn’t want my daughter growing up thinking this is what she should expect from a man.
Then came the moment of impact. The internal statement hit me with the force of a Mack truck: If it wouldn’t be right for them, Christi, then why are you still here?
My mind paused for a second as I processed that statement.
Why are you still here?
And that was it. That was the moment I emotionally checked out. At that instant I was gone from the marriage—in my mind, at least.
When I came back from my cerebral fog, I heard Justin scream, “Do you really think there’s someone better out there? Do you really want to be back out there, Christi?”
I thought, No, I don’t. But I certainly don’t want to be here.
Only part of my answer came out of my mouth. The “No, I don’t” part.
He sat down and said, “Okay, then, let’s think about this.”
We went to bed, and I lay there wishing he’d just leave. Literally a couple minutes later, my wish came true. Out of the blue, he got up and said, “I can’t be here. I can’t do this!” And he walked out the door.
It was three in the morning, and I was alone. I sat in bed with the light on and picked up the phone. It was 6 a.m. in Ohio. I called Mom crying, and through my tears I told her what had happened. She asked if I was okay and if Justin was okay. Then she told me that she and Dad would support me no matter what happened.
After I hung up the phone, I crawled out of bed and lay down on the couch. I just couldn’t be in that bed by myself—the bed that had been ours. Lying in it only amplified the fact that Justin’s half of the bed was empty. It had been empty many times before, of course, but I knew this time was different.
I was too scared to turn off the lights and too rattled to sleep. As I lay there, the finality of it all started to sink in. I was alone.
In the still of the apartment, I could feel the end. It was like a locomotive that you hear off in the distance at first, but as it gets closer and closer, you can actually feel the ground trembling as it approaches.
Eventually I dozed off for about an hour or so. I awoke to the gradual light of the sunrise. When I went to the balcony, I could see the sun hovering on the edge of the downtown buildings and the palm trees, their feather-shaped leaves fanning in the breeze. I sat on the chair with my knees pulled to my chest. All I could do was pray. What’s going to happen? I wondered. What now?
Oddly, an overwhelming sense of relief came over me. Yes, I was alone. But it was okay. In fact, it was better than okay. It was good. I suddenly found myself free of that ominous sense of “What will set him off today?”
I had peace.
Peace is hard to fake. We might be able to pull it off in front of someone else, but when it’s just us and God, there isn’t a lot of gray area. Either peace is there, or it’s not.
And peace, I think, is connected to trust. Trust in God. Trust in yourself. Trust that whatever happens is manageable. Not fixable, mind you. But for the first time, I actually believed I might survive this mess.
I was amazed how immediately my body adjusted to the change. When I was with Justin in those moments of volatility, I couldn’t repress the trembling and tenseness. But being there all by myself, my body felt peaceful again. My breathing was steady and deep, my muscles were relaxed, and I was enveloped in calm.
I called my friend Colleen and told her what happened, confessing, with a twinge of guilt, the peace I felt. The line beeped, indicating someone else was trying to call. Justin. I said good-bye to Colleen.
“Hello?”
“Hi,” he said.
“Where are you?” I asked. “Are you okay?”
“Don’t act like you care where I am. I stayed at a hotel last night.”
Before I could even speak, he barreled on. “I’ve decided I’m filing for divorce. Irreconcilable differences. I’ve already contacted an attorney and found an apartment. I also called my boss and gave him two weeks’ notice because I can’t work near you. I called my agent, and he’s working on it. Oh, and I called my parents.”
My jaw was on the ground. I’d asked for some time apart—a separation—but apparently he saw this as all or nothing. He wasn’t wasting any time.
Before I could even get a syllable out, his tone softened. “I just want to come home,” he said. The next thing I knew, he was walking up the stairs. He came in, looked at me, and started crying.
“I can’t do this again, Christi. Let’s just work it out.”
“What do you mean?” I asked. “You obviously already started the process! What did your parents say?”
“I didn’t call them,” he confessed.
“What do you mean? What about your agent? Your boss? The apartment? You didn’t do any of that?”
“No. I just need to sleep.”
I stood there dumbfounded. He had done nothing. Nothing, except spin more lies in an attempt to scare me.
He walked into the bedroom and crawled into bed.
We were both exhausted, but I couldn’t bring myself to lie down next to him. I didn’t even want to be in the same room. I told him I needed some space and was going for a drive.
I drove to the church I’d been attending for the last couple of years and sat in the parking lot with the windows rolled down, watching as the sunshine splashed over the steeple.
How did I get here, God? How did my life come to this point where I’m sitting alone in a church parking lot looking for answers?
I called Nanette. My dear, sweet friend Nanny.
“Are you okay?” she asked as I relived the previous night for her.
“You know we’ve always believed things happen for a reason,” she reminded me. “Whatever you’re searching for, you can’t ignore it now. It’s too big.” After a pause, she asked me how I was feeling.
“Like I’ve been pummeled. Every muscle in my body aches, and my head feels like it’s going to explode. I’m so confused. It’s like I’m fighting the truth—I know I have to leave, but I don’t have a clue how to do it! Nan, I’m terrified!”
“Pray, Christi. You know that’s how you’ll get your answers. And I’m praying for you too! I love you.”
I sat there awhile longer just staring at the church. Maybe I was waiting for Jesus Himself to walk out of those tall wooden doors, saunter over to my car, and say, “Snap out of it! Here’s what you need to do. . . .” I know it sounds crazy, but what if God did show up? I was in the right place, after all, right? This sacred space where people come to worship, where crosses serve as a reminder that sins have been paid for, where there’s an altar for people to fall to their knees and ask for forgiveness for the mess they’ve created.
“Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding.” The words of Proverbs 3:5 popped into my head out of nowhere.
“My own understanding? I don’t have any right now, God!” I whined.
“Trust in the Lord with all your heart. . . .”
Okay, I was getting it. Maybe that was part of my problem. I’d been seeing God as this distant entity—Someone who could fix all my problems except the ones I’d got myself into. Wasn’t God mad at me? I mean, even I was mad at me! I was disa
ppointed in myself. I didn’t deserve to be happy.
Whoa. That got my attention. Where had that come from?
How could I trust God to take care of me when I didn’t deserve it?
Trust in the Lord with all your heart. . . .
Sitting in the car with the windows rolled down and the desert breeze wisping through my hair, I realized something: I didn’t trust God.
I mean, I’d been praying for four years that He’d save my marriage. I’d been begging Him to intervene and bridge this vast canyon between Justin and me. I’d been pleading with Him for so long, but where had it gotten me? To an empty church parking lot, feeling like a vagrant with no place to call home.
This is where the real healing started. Healing, as I was learning, is born when we get real with ourselves. No matter how ugly we’re afraid that realness is.
The healing might be undetectable at first—so minuscule and meager that we don’t even know it’s there. But whether we sense it or not, it comes to life that moment we give up and finally say, “Okay. I’ve messed up. I’m willing to see this differently. Please help me do that, God.”
And when healing begins, it gives way for miracles to emerge.
On that day, I was on the verge of a miracle myself. But I would have to go through some pretty messy muck before that miracle would become a reality.
I thought about the epiphany I’d had the night before, when I realized that if this relationship wasn’t safe for a child, then it wasn’t safe for me. In a flash, I recognized myself as the child in this situation . . . and God as the Father.
And just like I’d known emphatically that I’d do anything to protect my children, I realized that was exactly what God was doing for me. If I felt that way about children I didn’t even have yet, imagine how fiercely protective God must be of me—His daughter.
My picture of God suddenly changed. I’d been taught to look at Him as Lord, but what about as Father? I so often saw Him as a judge, a disciplinarian, an omnipotent force that could blow the world apart with one swipe of His hand if He wanted to. But what about as Father? A gentle, compassionate, loving Father who so desperately wants to help but is patiently waiting for an opening. If I didn’t surrender this whole catastrophe to Him, He wasn’t going to swoop in and save the day without a welcome from me. He could, of course. But based on my experiences, God wants to be invited.
Love Isn't Supposed to Hurt Page 9