I am a rule-follower.

I am a people-pleaser.

I sacrifice my wants/needs/desires to avoid conflict.

I make the right choices.

I mind my manners.

I am always a good girl.

This was my façade; my coping mechanism. I tried to do everything right and grew up making decisions based on how I was supposed to be.

I couldn’t face my reality, so I hid it. And tried desperately to forget it.

I was pretty proud of myself because I had carried this out for so long; well into adulthood, in fact, and no one knew how ugly and damaged I was inside. Including myself.

Life though, started to catch me off-guard. Situations would arise and remind me of the abuse. Unknowingly, the fight or flight response would  then kick in and my response was always flight. Over the years, I began to think I was weak for not wanting to do hard things. This did not pair well with my perfectionism, which also increased over the years.

The tipping point came when the recurring memories and my “personality quirks” were more than I, or my family, could bear. By constantly trying to shove the memories and emotions away, I became “on-guard” all of the time. It was exhausting.

I grew angry.

Angry that I was still being affected. Angry that it was pervasive in virtually every aspect of my life. Angry that I couldn’t be intimate with my husband. Angry that it was ruining my relationship with my son. Angry that I was lonely. Angry that I couldn’t talk about it to anyone. Angry that I couldn’t control the memories and my life. Angry that I was angry. all.the.damn.time.

I remember one night after the kids were all asleep, laying on my bed, legs crossed, hands folded on my chest, staring at the ceiling, angry-quiet. My husband came in and laid down on his side of the bed and asked if we could talk. Sure. I didn’t care. He asked if I wanted to leave.

Still staring at the ceiling I muttered “no.”

He clarified, “do you want to leave me?” Again I replied, “no.”

He asked me what I wanted, what I was feeling, and I said, “I don’t know. If I didn’t care what people thought, I’d be tempted to run away right now and be done with all of you.”

That was the first truth I had spoken out loud and as horrible as it was to say, it felt equally good. This troubled me. Was this “good feeling” a sign that I really did want to go? What did I really feel? What did I really want??

We sat in silence for a bit. I’m sure I hurt him. I’m sure he was sad. I didn’t care.

He asked if I wanted a divorce and I said that I didn’t know.

With genuine sincerity, he asked if I wanted to go live with my sister for as long as I wanted and have time to think about it. Six months, one year, however long. I could take the baby, or leave all the children with him. He was willing to wait.

I wanted so badly to run away and go. Not necessarily to my sister’s, but away away. Somewhere new. But, we couldn’t afford it. I was mentally calculating it. I told him.

He knew me and said he would find a way to make it work. He knew I didn’t choose to fight or do hard things. But, life had now become harder and this was my flight pattern. He would support my choice.

I asked him if he wanted a divorce, and he said “no.” I couldn’t understand why. I was making his life a living hell. It would be so much easier if he asked for a divorce so that I didn’t look bad; it would have been a perfect out. damn.

I told him that I would figure it out and asked to be left alone.

I don’t remember if he suggested therapy or if I finally realized this was something I needed to look into, but deep down I knew it was the next step. I didn’t like where this was headed.