The next time we were in a marriage counseling relationship that made a real difference was when my husband was pastoring his second church. It was along the northeastern coast. Our counselor’s office was in a different state than the one we lived in (we lived close to the boarder) and I was expecting our fifth child. I told my husband in a counseling session that the verbal attacks which were frequent at that time were breaking me down. I felt like I had previously had a barrier inside me that protected me from his verbal abuse, but I was feelilng like each time he attacked me that wall was getting thinner and weaker. I was afraid of what would happen if that wall gave way.
My counselor was deeply concerned and focused his counseling towards me that I needed to get away for at least a couple weeks – away from my husband and away from the children and church. I needed to be somewhere where the stresses and pressures I was under would be gone and my basic care and needs would be taken care of for me. He told us (both my husband and me) about a place called L’Abri which could be a haven and a place to get my head straightened out. While the counselor focused his encouragement to me to go and to let nothing stop me, he was focusing his counsel toward my husband that he should send me. It was no longer enough to stop the abuse. That had so stop and it was critical that it stop immediately; it was no longer enough. It was essential that he make the preparations for me and give me many reassurances that he and the children would be fine and he was to send me with his blessings. As the time drew nearer for the baby to be born and husband wouldn’t step up and make the appointment, the counselor told me I had to make the appointment myself and carry through no matter what husband did or said. The counselor promised me that my husband would come through after I left and the children would be fine in his care. Meanwhile, at home I was being threatened that he would not be responsible for what happened to the children if I left them in his care. It was beyond his capabilities to care for them without me, especially for that long. As the appointed time drew nearer I shortened the duration of my stay but I didn’t cancel it. I ended up going for an extended weekend, and the whole time I was worried sick about what was happening at home. After a brief interview the first day I was there, I was assigned to read a book focusing on personality development, ironically enough.
When the baby arrived it was on Easter Sunday. As I held that tiny new life so dear and so vulnerable the wall inside of me broke. I knew it immediately. I feared for what that would mean. I don’t have much recollection about the first 5 months of the babies life; but he was 5 months old when I was driving on my way to a counseling session by myself and very nearly intentionally drove head on into an 18 wheeler at about 65 mph. I was at complete calm as the wheels crossed the center line and I continued full speed, but somewhere deep inside there was a struggle like a tension pulling the wheel against my will back toward my side of the road. I resisted until there was no was to change the outcome. Even if I were able to swerve to my side of the road the car was too fast to avoid rolling the car. I relaxed my hold on the wheel and by some miracle the truck got past me and I was still driving on the road in my own land. I was in a state of shock as I continued to the counselor’s office and told him what had happened on the way there. He made some phone calls – one to husband to find someone to bring him to get me and the car – I was not going to leave that office driving myself anywhere. Another call was to a psychiatrist who saw most of this counselor’s patients. Up to this point I had refused care by a psychiatrist because I refused to go on any psych meds because I was nursing and I knew as well as I knew I was alive that the only thing keeping me alive was the baby’s dependance on me for nourishment. I guess my close encounter on the way to the counselor’s threw that excuse out the window. I sat in the counselor’s office while he made these calls, unable to put two or three words together in a coherent sentence.Husband arrived and was given directions on where he was to take me immediately to the psychiatrists office – do not pass go do not collect $200. I don’t remember the ride there. The psychiatrist spoke with a strong British accent. After a few attempts to ask me questions, he turned to my husband and said, “she’s really quite retarded.” which tickled me. He said I was in an extremely delicate condition and normally he would send me immediately to a psychiatric hospital, but our lack of insurance left the only option available a state institution and he felt I was much too fragile to survive being treated there. The only solution the two could come up with was to ask my father to come live with us to take care of the children and help with household duties so that I would have no responsibilities at all. The baby was sent to my cousin who lived not far from our home so she could wean him and I would not be able to take over his care. Arrangements were all made before we left the psychiatrist’s office, and three more appointments were made for that week. My husband was given very stern strict orders that absolutely nothing was to upset me further. We left the office in silence to begin with; but we hadn’t gone more than 115 minutes down the road before my husband started his verbal attack. I don’t remember his words. I started shaking my head no, trying to ward of the attack with the shake of my head. Before I knew it my whole body was flopping uncontrollably back and forth while a ghastly sound came out of my mouth and I floated out of my body, not able to comprehend anything anymore. My body flailing around caused my husband to quickly pull the car over and attempt to stop my movements. I’d like to think he was feeling somewhat guilty for intentionally pushing me over the edge, but I’m afraid his thoughts were more for himself – how he was going to get me home. I don’t know how it happened our how long it took, but eventually I calmed into a slump and we drove the rest of the way home in silence.
The story doesn’t end there, of course; but I have to say that I have no knowledge that husband ever indicated in any way that he regretted what he had done to me – not at the time and not any time since. Even as I write this with tears streaming down my face, there is a deep longing for some acknowledgment that he felt some remorse for what he did, but it is met with nothing more than an empty void – an aching empty void. It’s one thing to have no endearment towards one’s spouse; but it is still to this day incomprehensible that one could intentionally do such severe harm without even the slightest remorse.
I weep because I’m still wounded. All the years of marriage to a man who truly cherishes me cannot remove the pain of that past injury. I’ve said it before, but it bears repeating here. I am told that he is not the same man today that he was back then. I knot that there are parts of me who have forgiven him and even invite him to family gatherings on holidays; but I guess this is one of those areas where I, Stranger, am in a very different space than my others. Speaking only for myself now, I still fear him and don’t trust him. I don’t wish him any harm; but neither am I willing to go out of my way to do anything kind or good for him.
