So choice number one seemed impossible.
Number two: should I call his parents and have them be there when I broke the news? The problem with that possibility was that I didn’t want to humiliate Justin by having someone else there when I told him. I didn’t want him to feel disrespected—to experience the shame of having everyone in the room know this was coming except him. I felt like I should at least give him the dignity of being the first to know I was leaving him.
Number three: should I call him from Ohio when I was home with my parents? I didn’t want to take what might be perceived as the easy way out and avoid facing him in person. But at least I’d be thousands of miles away and out of physical danger if the confrontation escalated. And based on past experiences, chances were it would.
I sat on these options for a few days, vacillating between them all. What happened next convinced me that, yes, God had my back.
As I was still considering the next step, Justin’s mom called and told me Justin’s brother, Jeff, was coming to be with him while I was in Ohio. She said she knew things had “intensified” between us and that Justin needed help. Her hope was that Jeff’s calm, logical demeanor could be that help in some way.
At that moment I wanted to forewarn her of my decision. I didn’t want Jeff coming out here blind to what was about to happen. But that didn’t feel fair to Justin. I decided it was only right for me to let him tell them once I dropped the bombshell myself.
Of course, there was no telling what Justin’s version of things would be, but I couldn’t worry about that. So in the end, I simply told my mother-in-law how grateful I was to know Jeff would be here. Oh, if only she knew.
The news of Jeff’s visit felt like the nudge I was looking for. I would go home to Ohio and let Justin know of my decision by phone. That way I’d be physically safe from his wrath, and Jeff would be there to help Justin through it.
I made plans to stay with my friend Carey from work when I returned to Arizona if I needed a place to go. I wasn’t sure if Justin would move or if he’d want me to get out, so I made arrangements just in case. I packed enough clothes for two weeks rather than just the one I’d be in Ohio.
I’m thankful to God for Carey. I knew I was putting her in an uncomfortable position since she was friends with Justin, too, but she graciously opened her home to me. I hadn’t shared much with her about what was happening between Justin and me. She had a strong maternal instinct and good gut intuition, though, and it turned out that she had suspected for a long time that things weren’t right at home. Her unwavering support was monumental to me.
On the afternoon I flew to Ohio, the sun was shining brightly, just as it had on our wedding day. But now I was leaving.
As Justin dropped me off at the airport, I said good-bye with the gut-wrenching sense that this was it. It was followed by a wave of guilt that he didn’t know that.
Justin clearly wasn’t happy about dropping me off. He didn’t approve of this trip home, and he didn’t make any attempt to hide it. I don’t think we even kissed good-bye.
As I walked toward the glass doors of the airport, I took one look back at him as he got in the car. He never turned back. He didn’t wave good-bye.
I stepped through the airport doors, my bag in tow, and let out a huge sigh—the kind that comes from deep in your gut—and I felt relief sweep through my entire body. It was as though I was finally inhaling fresh air again. I was free. I was on my own. And that was perfectly okay.
When you’ve been locked in a relationship that doesn’t allow you to be who you really are, suddenly being alone isn’t a bad thing. It’s a blessing.
On the plane ride home I went over and over in my mind what I’d say to Justin when I called him in a couple of days. I’d have to choose my words intentionally and be careful of my tone. I wanted to do this as gently as possible—not because I was scared, but because I wanted Justin to be okay. As I looked out the window at the blue sky and puffy clouds floating beside us, I realized I felt no anger. No animosity. I did feel sadness, though—especially since I knew things would get much worse before they got better. But I saw Justin the way I used to see him. I loved him, though I wasn’t in love with him. I wanted him to be happy.
“God, please help us through this. Help him be okay,” I whispered.
I stepped off the plane in Cleveland and was overwhelmed when I saw my parents waiting for me. Elation and relief swooshed through my body as my mom put her arms around me. On the one hand, I felt like a kid safely enveloped in my mother’s arms. On the other hand, I felt like a grown-up firmly standing on my own, with the future stretched in front of me. There was nothing to hinder my dreams, no barrier to stop me, no one to knock down my ideas with judgment or ridicule.
My parents, my brother, and sweet Gram took me to dinner that night. Before the meal came, Gram asked the big question: “How are things with Justin?” She said it nonchalantly, oblivious to what was happening.
I took a deep breath. “Gram . . . I’m leaving him,” I said. “But I know this is the right thing.” We all sat still, waiting for her reaction. I think it took her a second to process. Then right there, in the middle of the restaurant, she looked at me and started crying.
This completely threw me for a loop . . . and it broke my heart. Mom jumped in. “It’s okay, Mom. This is what she needed to do. It really is for the best.” Dad and I reassured her too. Danny just sat there—the poor guy didn’t know what to say.
In the car on the way home Gram and I talked a lot, and by the end of the evening, we both had our own revelations.
For her part, she accepted that this was the best thing for me. She told me she wanted me to be safe and happy. And I understood that she was crying not just because I was leaving my husband but because she knew firsthand what I’d been going through the past four years. She absorbed how bad things must have been if I needed to leave my marriage, and she ached that I had to go through this.
When we got home, Mom and I sat on the couch talking before heading to bed. She told me she’d confided in her friend Sherl about what was going on and why I was coming home. Sherl had gone through a divorce after being married for a long time, and she was now happily married to a wonderful man who adored her. Her newfound happiness was an example to me of what could be—that while this was a difficult chapter, good times and a healthy relationship could still be within reach.
“When I told Sherl about what you’ve been through and why you were coming home, her response was, ‘If Christi decides to leave, please tell her not to wait twenty-five years like I did.’”
What an image! Sherl’s advice rang in my ears for days. I couldn’t fathom waiting another twenty-one years to make this decision. I didn’t want to waste that time holding on to something that wasn’t going to get any better.
I pondered her statement throughout the night: Please don’t wait twenty-five years like I did. It made me realize that when you have a mountain to climb, waiting isn’t going to shrink it. It’s only going to waste precious time—time in your life you can’t get back.
I tried to be open and imagine whether things could get better with Justin. But one thing kept coming back to me: he chose a lie over me. I had given Justin three chances to own up to that two-hundred-dollar bar bill. And let’s be honest—we both knew it wasn’t about the money at all. It was about three openings to admit he had a problem. Three opportunities to come clean so we could move forward. Three chances to say, “You’re important enough to me that I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you.”
When it came down to it, he knew our marriage depended on his commitment to telling me the truth, and he still chose not to. That made a big statement about what he valued. His image meant more to him than the truth, and his alcohol meant more to him than I did. I didn’t want to be someone’s second choice anymore.
As upside down as it sounds, the next several days were filled with joy. I reveled in the safety and freedom that surrounded me when I was with my fa
mily. I went running, I listened to music, I wrote in my journal. I basked in the security of home. But in the back of my mind, I knew I still had a phone call to make.
It was late at night, and my parents had gone to bed. I was sitting there just staring at the phone.
Dread permeated every inch of me. No one was forcing me to make the call. There was no hard mandate that I had to say the words. But I knew in the depths of my soul that this was necessary. I had to do this—and do it in this moment. I’d been held back by fear long enough, and I wasn’t going to let it stop me now.
I shot up a quick prayer and dialed slowly and deliberately.
“Hello?” Justin said.
“Hey. It’s me.”
There was some small talk. “Are you having a good time with Jeff?” “What have you been doing?” Then he asked if I’d been thinking about things.
Yes. I had.
“Justin, I’m not coming back. I mean, I’m coming back to Phoenix, but I can’t keep living like this. I can’t come back to you right now. I can’t pretend things are okay when they’re not. I hope you can understand that.”
He didn’t fly off the handle immediately. In fact, the conversation was somewhat civil at first. Maybe he hadn’t quite absorbed what I’d said. Then it started.
“I can’t believe you’re doing this!” he shouted. “There’s no separation here, Christi! It’s divorce!”
“Okay.” I tried to keep my voice calm.
“And don’t think you’re just getting out of this! I’m entitled to half of your 401(k)! Especially since I cashed mine out thinking we were going to use it as a down payment on a house! And what about the cars?”
“We’ll deal with it,” I said. I knew now wasn’t the time to start arguing over material possessions.
He repeated, “This is divorce, Christi!”
When he finally took a breath, I said, “I have another place to stay for a bit when I get back, or if you don’t want to be there, I understand. Just let me know what you want to do. If you want me to stay in the apartment, I will.”
He told me there was no way he was staying there and that he’d be gone by the time I came home.
“I’m sorry, Justin. I hope someday you can understand.”
“Tell that to my lawyer,” he hissed.
“I’ll talk to you later to work out details.” We said a quick good-bye . . . and it was done. I placed the receiver back in the cradle and sat there waiting for something to happen.
I waited to feel the lump in my throat and the sting of tears in my eyes. I was ready for my body to tremble or for remorse to sweep over me. But none of that came. Not during the conversation, and not now. The tears I expected never fell.
What I felt instead was relief.
It was over. I’d said the words, and I knew there was no going back. But that was okay because I didn’t want to go back. I wanted to be right where I was. In this chair in the middle of the night, alone.
Still, I felt heartsick about what I was putting Justin through—and his brother, for that matter.
I wondered what Justin was doing right then—how he was reacting, what he was saying to Jeff. I could only guess how much Jeff hated me. Then it suddenly hit me that maybe now Jeff would see the Justin I’d seen—the erratic, belligerent man who’s impossible to reason with. And maybe on some level at least, Jeff would understand. Not that I expected him to defend me, mind you. But I wished someone in his family would understand, even a little. On some small level they’d think, Oh, okay, I get it. I can see why she left.
Yet I knew in all probability that I was going to be the bad guy in all this. As I processed things, though, it occurred to me that even if his family placed the full blame on me, that was okay too. And that surprised me because I’ve never been good at being the bad guy. I was the one who wanted everyone to like me, who wanted everyone to get along.
I knew that my decision wouldn’t just hurt Justin; it would hurt his family, too—these people I had come to love over the past several years. The lines had officially been drawn—even though I’d give anything for an eraser. But for the first time in my life, I was okay with being the “guilty one.” I’d certainly rather live with that than keep living the way I had the last few years.
The next morning Mom asked how it went with Justin and how I felt. Then she looked at me and said, “Christi, you need to be with someone who cherishes you.”
I knew full well what she meant. Mom wasn’t saying I should be pampered or spoiled or get everything I wanted. She was saying that I should be with a man who loved me and treated me that way. Someone who was considerate of me. Someone who treated me with respect. Someone who cherished me. I couldn’t even dream about that at the moment.
That night I went running and stopped by Gram’s place.
“How’re you doing, hon?” She squeezed my hand.
“I’m really good, Gram. I feel free.”
“I have to tell you, Christi, I knew at your wedding reception that this wasn’t right.”
I just sat there with my mouth open for a minute. Finally I could get out, “How?”
She paused, stared into the sky, then looked right at me. “I never saw him give you any affection that day,” she said. “In fact, I’ve never seen him show affection toward you the whole time you’ve been married.”
I could see that although she hated what I was going through, she understood this on a personal level. And she had her own fears about it all.
“Christi, don’t go to that apartment by yourself when you get back. I don’t want you to get hurt.”
Once again, I was struck by her insight. Gram never knew about any of the verbal abuse or threats from Justin. She only knew he’d been “mean” and that he drank, but I’d never told her anything more. I didn’t want to worry her. But it was clear she knew a lot more about what was happening than I’d given her credit for.
“I won’t, Gram,” I reassured her.
Back in my room at my parents’ house, I sat on my bed and explored what was in my heart. I had expected to feel anger and resentment toward Justin. But to my surprise, I discovered I wasn’t mad at him. Not anymore.
Now, I also knew there was a lot ahead of us, and I wasn’t foolish enough to think everything would be smooth and agreeable from that point on. But at the core of me, I truly wanted him to be okay. I didn’t want him to hurt anymore, and I didn’t want him to be angry. I wanted him to find the truth for himself and be free from whatever was making him so hostile. I wanted him to feel what I was feeling: freedom.
That’s what forgiveness does. It evokes freedom.
It’s impossible to underestimate the power of forgiveness. My mom taught me that lesson years ago. It was a learning experience I’ll treasure my whole life—but it was also a painful one.
I was in high school, and there was a girl I’ll call Felicia (only because I know no one from high school by that name, so I can’t get myself in trouble). To put it bluntly, Felicia hated my guts. I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say that if I’d been standing in the middle of the parking lot and she had access to a truck, she would have mowed me down.
I couldn’t exactly avoid her, though, since we were on the same cheerleading squad. Things came to a head one evening at a football game, shortly after our official cheerleading photo was taken. She was mad at me because she’d been absent for the picture, and the football program hadn’t included a line in the program about her being missing from the photo. Because I was there when it was taken, apparently it was all my fault. You know—the usual teenage drama.
That night at the game, I finally confronted her. I felt I had to if we were going to spend the rest of the season together.
“Felicia, I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t get what happened between us, but what do you say we just forget it all and start over as friends?”
What happened next stuck with me for a long time.
She looked me up and down, shook her head, chuckled, and w
alked away. In front of everyone! I was humiliated. I could feel my face burning with embarrassment as I heard the whispering around me. Several people said, “I can’t believe she just did that to you!”
I went home fuming. I told my mom what had happened—how degraded I felt and how angry I was. And I knew I had a right to be mad! Mom listened to my diatribe without interrupting. Then, very calmly, she said, “Christi, do you know what you have to do?”
I quieted down, waiting for the words of wisdom my mother was going to bestow on me—some brilliant piece of advice that would make everything right again. I knew she’d back me up on this.
“You have to forgive her.”
Huh? I’m sorry—can you repeat that? I must have misunderstood you. Surely I didn’t hear what I thought I heard.
She said it again. “You have to forgive her.”
I stomped up to my room and vented with all the teenageness I could muster. I paced. I cried. Seriously, how could I forgive someone who had publicly humiliated me? And wasn’t my mom supposed to be on my side?
As the days wore on, though, I realized Mom was right. Oh, don’t you just hate that?
But what I hated more was how my anger was affecting me. It made me anxious and a bit paranoid. Whenever I was in the same room with Felicia and she giggled, I was convinced she was making fun of me. I was realizing just how toxic anger is, and I didn’t want that poison anymore.
A couple of years later, there was an incident where Felicia treated me horribly at a party one Friday. The following Monday I saw people coming to my defense, and I think it woke her up.
She asked me to forgive her. Now that was something I never saw coming, but I didn’t think twice. I could tell she was being genuine and was truly sorry for how she’d hurt me. While I didn’t let my guard down altogether, I did forgive her. I chose to give her the benefit of the doubt . . . and it felt fabulous!
I realized then that when you forgive someone, you unchain yourself from the anger that’s clinging to you. Suddenly your world is wide open.
Love Isn't Supposed to Hurt Page 11