Masterpiece in Progress

by Smith, TL

  Jerry was very charming and pleasant to Danny Ray, but I could sense an undercurrent of anger. I knew that I would be in trouble because he stopped by and I wasn't wrong.

  He was livid. He told me that he had no business coming by, asked me if I had spoken to him before (I hadn't) and why did he think it was okay to just come over uninvited. Of course, my answers were, "I don't know" "Nothing is going on, we're just friends".

  Paige was little then (right at 3) and later that night when I could tell that the beer was making him mouthy, I took her to her room, and we played until it was her bedtime.

  I was praying he had passed out, but he hadn't yet. To eat up some time, I took a long, hot, bath.

  I checked in on Paige and went to bed. To my surprise, Jerry was still awake and still angry. That was the first time he abused me sexually. He told me I must like it. He asked me if this was how Danny Ray f*cked me, he held my arms down and said he would show me how a husband should treat his wife. He reminded me that I was his and no one else’s and that I better not forget it. He called me horrible names. And the whole time, I kept quiet so I wouldn’t wake Paige. Even when he had his hands on my neck, or my forehead, holding me down. I did not make a sound.

  When it was over, I rolled over and sobbed quietly into my pillow, praying he wouldn’t hear me crying. Praying he’d stay asleep and wondering what I could have done differently. And the answer was, nothing. There was nothing I could have done to change what had just happened to me. To us.

  The thing with abuse is that the next day, everything is back to normal. As if it never happened. He was his kind, loving self again. I was convinced I imagined it all and told myself it really wasn't that bad and that he WAS my husband after all. And I told no one. Not even my sister.

  I reverted to my old habit of acting like it never happened. In retrospect I can clearly see that it was simply my coping mechanism.

  Our lives returned to what they were, laughs, dinners, church, family get togethers. And I made sure to let Danny Ray's family know that he could NEVER come over again.

  I loved him. Fiercely. He was a fun person to be around, he loved me to the extent he was able. He adored his daughter. Even if it wasn’t picture perfect, it was our perfect.

  I thought for so long that no one could understand him, that I was the only one who truly loved him. Everyone else had given up on him. And I was going to be the one who loved him in spite of everything. I would NOT give up on him.

  And I never told his family (or mine) what was REALLY going on.

  He wasn't awful all the time, as a matter of fact, most of the time he was wonderful, and I even liked him. We danced in the kitchen, we grilled out, played board games and Donkey Kong, and we made memories.

  THIS. THIS is the real side of how the abuse cycle happens.

  People who haven't been on this side can't possibly understand. It's a dance of your emotions. But it's also a juggling act of keeping all the balls in the air and it's exhausting.

  Chapter 15

  The Same Only Different

  Our lives continued in much the same fashion. I was careful with my actions and words, so as not to upset Jerry and keep the peace.

  We hadn't been in Arkansas long when Jerry decided his job opportunities in Oklahoma were better. So, we moved AGAIN.

  What I didn't realize then (because you know, hindsight is 20/20), was this was a way to alienate me from my family and lifelong friends.

  He controlled ALL the money (yes, even my work earnings) but I didn't think this was wrong, I thought it was him being the leader of the family. But as time went on I had to nearly beg him to get things I needed, like bras and panties. There was always money for his beer though.

  That began to eat at me.

  Over the course of our marriage, our bills were never paid on time, and we were always behind on everything. We moved countless times because he would get behind and we'd get evicted. We went without electric, gas, water. But there was always beer. And it was always someone else's fault. I began to make excuses for him to my friends and family.

  I had a good job with the City of Norman and Jerry had a good job with a local construction company building cabinets. There was no reason we should be this behind.

  I recall one of the first times we went to his supervisor's (and friend) house to play cards. We had kids the same age and Jerry thought I would enjoy meeting them.

  I truly did (and still have a lifelong friend as a result) but I had BEGGED him to not drink too much, to please behave. He didn't. And I was so embarrassed. I mean, this was HIS BOSS. Didn't matter that they were all drinking, you had to maintain because we needed that job!

  Our girls were playing and having fun and I distinctly recall pulling him aside and crying telling him I wanted a divorce in one of the bedrooms. So upset that I had scratched my own face in sheer agony over this situation.

  His response, "You stupid f*&NG bitch". Then walked back into the room and acted like nothing had happened. As I was expected to do too. His boss’s wife allowed me to feel whatever I was feeling right then and reassured me that it was okay, (no harm, no foul) which helped then. But everything was NOT okay. None of this was okay.

  But I too acted like it hadn't happened; and I began to think it was me that was the crazy one.

  Chapter 16

  There’s Always a Reason

  I remember, holidays were often the hardest time for me.

  There was always a reason for Jerry to drink. He had a hard day, it was the weekend, but to me, the worst, was "It's Christmas"!

  Often he drank MORE on the holidays celebrating the season.

  I learned that at first, he was more festive, but as the day wore on, he would start getting mouthy. I always tried to keep the peace and I ALWAYS made excuses for him to my family when we were gathered for Thanksgiving or Christmas.

  Many times, he barely ate any of the wonderful food. I would make him a plate and encourage him, but I'd end up getting "the look". Which meant, "Stop now". So, I did; but I remember always being so tense, always wondering how he was going to act. Wishing I could just relax and enjoy the moment.

  Eventually, I ran out of excuses and I didn't want to be embarrassed anymore in front of my family, so we just quit going altogether.

  There was always an excuse for that too. The car wasn't in great shape, we didn't have gas money (although my sister would ALWAYS give me gas money); one of us wasn't feeling well. And it was always MY place to figure out how to tell them.

  More often than not, after I got off the phone with them, I would cry because I missed them so much and I wanted to be with them so badly. Jerry would sometimes be comforting, with words that made me think he was right, we really couldn’t afford to go. But many times, he would made snide remarks about my being a baby. “Look at you, you’re a grown-ass woman, crying, like a baby, because you can’t see your sissy.” “What a wuss.” “I didn’t know I married a wuss.” I learned to suck it up then and allow myself to cry in the bathroom or the bathtub where he couldn’t see me to make fun of me.

  I'm so grateful Paige remembers the early years of going and being around family and how special that is. We try VERY hard to NOT miss it now, although this year, COVID kept us apart.

  We lived in Oklahoma, but rarely saw his family 40 miles away. It just wasn’t a thing for him. And I had to remind him every Sunday to call his mother. Telling him she was not going to be around forever, trying to make him understand the importance of family.

  Sometimes when I was persistent, it ended in an argument.

  When we did go to visit, he would either take or buy some beer. Not as much as what he would normally have, and when the 6 pack was gone, it was time to go home.

  Funerals were when we saw his extended family.

  Chapter 17

  Journal Excerpts

  *These next few pages are from my journal entries that led me to write this book*

  November 15, 2020

  I'm not sure
why, but I was led to write this down today. In three days, we'll be at the anniversary of the day Jerry went into the hospital, so I'm sure that plays a part.

  Here’s what I thought.

  I thought for sure he’d be admitted to the hospital. I KNEW he was sick and needed medical intervention to recover. I was fully prepared for that and I made sure he understood that was a real possibility. I’m pretty sure I got that through to him.

  I did NOT expect him to nearly collapse in the doctor’s office waiting room. Or to be admonished by the staff there for NOT taking him to the ER. To have to wait on an ambulance to come get him so they could stabilize him enough to get him ACROSS THE STREET to the hospital. I also did not expect a total stranger in that lobby to ask me if she could pray for us.

  I did not expect the hospital staff to think he was homeless because of his unkempt appearance and scraggly beard, sweatpants, sweatshirt, and Carhart beanie he was wearing. A nurse, garbed in PPE head to toe (we think they thought he might have had TB) asked Paige “Is he homeless?” Paige, already in shock from the gravity of the situation was instantly offended (I had stepped out to smoke and cry in my car). Her response to the nurse was, “NO! He’s MY dad!” Her indignation was still on full display when I returned to hear this story from her.

  But he looked homeless. He smelled like he hadn’t bathed properly in weeks. The dirt and grime under his fingernails haunted me. He was thin, gaunt, and weak. I did the best I could to bathe him at home, but admittedly it was difficult. Getting him in and out of the bath was nearly impossible. I sponge bathed him as often as he would allow it. I tried so hard to get him to eat, but he didn’t want food.

  I felt overwhelmed with fear and shame. Fear for his life because the look on the ER doctors and nurses faces told me the gravity of the situation. Even when they said, “You’re a pretty sick guy Jerry, we’re going to take you up to the ICU.” I knew then he was even sicker than I thought. Shame that I wasn’t able (financially, physically, or emotionally) to care for him as I should have been. As what I expected of myself, as what I had always done in our marriage.

  I couldn’t fix him. I couldn’t make an excuse for this to my family or his. I couldn’t make it okay in my mind this time. And I was scared. For the first time, I had nothing in my arsenal to put a positive spin on this. THAT was MY job, had ALWAYS been my job. To make everything okay. And this. This was definitely NOT going to be okay. How could I have let this happen? Why did I not try harder to get him to quit drinking? What more could I have done? I had no answers and the sadness that enveloped me was like a heavy coat I could not take off, weighing me down.

  The first 30 hours in the ICU, I had hope. Hope that with proper medical intervention, he would pull through and get the desperately needed help to quit drinking. I was drinking then too, and I would come home at night from the hospital, grab a beer and collapse into the sadness and exhaustion.

  I don’t know what day it was that the realization hit me that he wasn’t coming home. Maybe the day they cut him down for a central line. But I know Paige and I talked. We had had many conversations over the years about not being hooked up to machines and she and I both knew he didn’t want that, but we weren’t at that point yet. We also talked to her brother; he wasn’t there yet either. We were all still holding on to some thread of hope that he could turn around, that his liver would heal. His kidneys start working properly again. We watched his urine output bag for signs of a better color (not rust colored like it was). We talked with doctors.

  Jerry would be perfectly coherent at times, then other times, he would talk crazy. We would learn that ammonia builds up when the liver shuts down, also excessive fluid in the brain causes pressure to build up and cause disorientation, confusion. We were there. We tried to make light of it with him.

  Paige and I came in one day to find him with a feeding tube in his nose and he was restrained. He was so mad. She and I were agreed that he wouldn’t want this. We accepted the fact that he was, in fact, dying. Getting her brother on board wasn’t as easy because he didn’t live with us. He didn’t know what Jerry had told us, what not to do. But he wasn’t ready to give up on his dad and I understood that.

  Day 6. When I walked into the ICU (alone), he looked at me like, “help me, please.” He was still restrained, thirsty (he could only have mouth swabs, then tried to suck the liquid out of the sponge swab) and even with all the aggressive measures they were taking, his numbers were going down. He was not improving and all we were doing was prolonging the inevitable.

  From somewhere deep inside me the anger boiled up and over like a storm taking control of its’ surroundings. I said, “NO MORE!” “No more. Stop it all now.” I called Paige and told her what I had done, went outside and dissolved into a crying heap of raw emotion.

  During his time in the ICU, family, and friends made sure they were there for us. Many would stay hours in the waiting room.

  Jerry was moved to the palliative care unit. I asked him if he understood what this meant. He said (weakly and out of breath) “Yes. Thank you.” I told him I loved him. Told him if he could scooch over, I’d get in that bed with him. To my surprise, he did. So, I crawled up into that bed with him and talked to him.

  What do you say to someone who you know is going to die? Was I supposed to prepare him? Did he know he was dying? (I think he did). I knew he believed in God and Jesus. So, I just held him and laid with him. I tried to not feel because if I allowed myself to feel, I might not survive what was happening.

  And I’m forever grateful his niece was there too. He had a real soft spot for her, and she helped keep me sane.

  The medicine to keep him comfortable would make that our last exchange of love. And contrary to what you see on tv, it’s not quick most of the time. It would be many long hours before he took his final breath on day 7. I was shocked at how fast his body became cold.

  I could not be there in that room any longer. I HAD to leave. He was gone. And in addition to the sadness, I felt relief, which made me feel shame.

  Ironically, his death would end up saving my life later.

  I wanted to run and hide. I wanted to not feel what I was feeling. I wanted to quit explaining to people what happened. I wanted it to be a horrible nightmare. I wanted to die with him.

  In spite of everything he’d done to me through our marriage, I loved him. But I also hated what he had done to damage me. And, I resented him. I was overwhelmed with the conflicting emotions I was feeling.

  I didn’t know how to live without him telling me what to do, how to do it. What the hell was I going to do?

  I drank even more, so hell bent on not feeling anything. I tried moving back to my family, but I was just running away. I came back home.

  And I kept drinking.

  I had only started drinking to begin with to piss him off, to show him what an ass he was when he was drinking, then it became something we did together. Something we had in common. Then he died.

  I tried to slow down, but I couldn’t sleep. And I damn sure couldn’t FEEL. I simply could not feel any more pain. I had no reservoir of strength left to handle it, it was if the pain of my whole childhood, coupled with my marriage, and now his death was my “full” point.

  But I was miserable. I was making people around me miserable and worried and mad. They had every right to be. Paige told me I was going to die just like her dad, and I wept in shame and grief for the pain I was causing her.

  Having gone through the loss of my own dad, and my mom. How could I do this to her? What the f was wrong with me?

  I had never stopped praying and I knew God loved me. But I had moved away from my personal relationship with Him. I didn't deserve His love, His mercy, His son, but most certainly, His grace. I was so full of shame and guilt and I had no one. Not even my God who loved me should see me like this.

  July 14, 2015 I woke up and my eyes were yellow, and I was terrified. I went to the ER and my liver enzymes were high, but I wasn’t sick enough to be a
dmitted. Having had weight loss surgery, I wasn’t supposed to drink to begin with, but here I had been rocking it! (tongue in cheek)

  I came home from the ER and I surrendered my everything in prayer to God like I NEVER have. Not simply asking, but true, honest, gut-wrenching, surrender. Hours in prayer, He was all I had left, and I simply had to live for my daughter. I could not do this to her. He heard my prayer (He always does).

  He delivered me. He restored me. I was healed and that is all HIM. I give Him all the praise and glory because I had failed. I didn't lean into Him and His glory, but my own. And in my own power, I failed. But He doesn't fail.

  I have not touched a drop of alcohol since that day and I’ve not had any desire to and my relationship with my Heavenly Father is so special today. It's mine. It's personal. It's miraculous.

  So, when I started this group, it was from a place of healing and restoration for me. I’m a work in progress too and even though I was saved and loved the Lord. Until that day, I had never experienced Him like this.

  It shouldn’t have had to take Jerry dying, but it did and He knew it would and I believe He used Jerry's death and my childhood and my hurts to bring me to this place. This place of healing.

  November 23, 2020

  It's been a long day. I find myself more irritable as I get closer to the anniversary of Jerry's passing (25th). Like I'm on edge and little things just pi$$ me off.

  I try to stop and recognize that even though it's been 6 years this year, I'm working through the anger.

  Anger that he couldn't stop drinking, anger that I wasn't enough, anger that I'm at this stage of my life and alone (by choice now). Anger at the crappy things that happened. Ever feel that way? C'mon I cannot be the only one?

  BUT....

  I remember something I heard on Dr. Phil multiple times (and again today ironically). Anger is just a mask for hurt, sadness, frustration, loneliness.