sae
03-22-2015, 03:26 PM
Before I get into my vent, emote, whatever this is going to turn into,just a fair warning. If you are troubled by reading about domestic abuse, profanity, suicide and drug abuse, you may want to skip over this one. It's tough to share, and I am sure even more tough to read.
Exactly 3 years ago to the day my husband went missing. Let's back this up a little first. We had a less than idyllic marriage. I allowed myself to be coralled into an abusive relationship and there I sat, deciding I was helpless to escape it. Believe me I tried, too, but that's another story for another day. On March the 15th, the day after our 10th anniversary, he returned from a 3 day crack binge. He was penniless, shirtless, wearing women's flipflops and sporting some fresh burn blisters on his lips. This was such a regular occurrence that such disappearances no longer fased me. He was coming down and angrier than a wet hornet about it. I went about my day as I normally did, brought the kid to school, went to my classes (since I had just a few months before had a massive heart attack and was still on medical leave I decided to dedicate the downtime to finally finishing my associates degree), and returned home to start dinner.
I remember the following exchange verbatim:
"I see you made it back."
"yeah, whatever."
"what would you like for dinner"
"How the fuck can you cook in this pigsty of a house"
"I am mopping the floors as soon as I take something out of the freezer"
"If you weren't wasting your time on that stupid school you would have more time to take care of the house."
This was the moment in which my mood shifted from passive to upset. I said nothing. A small part of me actually wanted to agree with this nonsense. Apparently silence was the wrong response for the moment. There was an altercation. I said nothing as he did exactly as he was prone to doing when he found he could not control his anger. Luckily he at least had enough snap not to leave any marks on my face. I suppose being on enough warfarin to drop a horse was good for something at least. By 3 pm I was alone again.
The thoughts of my recent near death surfaced. All medical evidence pointed to certain death in the near future. I didn't want to spend my last days doing this again. by 5 p.m. I packed my daughter's belongings and a few changes of clothes for myself and we checked into the local women's shelter. I was done.
The next day I went to Wednesday night service. I knelt at the altar and prayed for it all to stop.
March 22 I spent much of the day avoiding my mother in law's incessant calls. She called my cell, leaving voicemails, pleading that just "stop the dramatic foolishness and go back home." She cried, pleaded, even threatened to tell him about my cell phone (i was not permitted to have one, as per the husband, but I kept one anyway in case of emergencies.) I almost relented and went back home. Finally, the last message from her that night was to tell me he was missing. He told her he couldn't handle being alone so he was headed to her house to stay but he never arrived.
I called everyone that I knew to help look for him. I even went out the next few days, skipping classes and all, to search for him in all his usual places. On March 28th, I was headed into class to take the very first review class for my finals when I received a call from the pastor of my church demanding that I stop what I was doing and come to the church. I already knew, without explanation what had happened.
He was found behind a local church, wedged between the a/c condenser and the wall. He had met his end huffing freon. It was ruled an accident, but anyone who knew him knew it was his way of checking himself out.
I look back and wonder what was going through his mind those final hours, what made him make this final decision. I ca'tn place myself in his shoes, battling addiction, his family walking out on him, unable to cope with the world around him. To this day I don't regret my decision to leave yet I can't help but feel as though I was the direct cause for his decision. Where would he be if I had decided to come home instead. Where would I be. I am certain no matter what one of us would have died no matter which action was taken. Sometimes, while logic dictates I shouldn't, I still blame myself for all of it, that I saved myself at his expense. It's a low, dirty feeling. I left him to his own devices, prayed for the insanity to stop at whatever cost, and now I am alive and he is not.
I just had to unload it, share it, make it known the events of those days. I am simply tired of carrying around.
Exactly 3 years ago to the day my husband went missing. Let's back this up a little first. We had a less than idyllic marriage. I allowed myself to be coralled into an abusive relationship and there I sat, deciding I was helpless to escape it. Believe me I tried, too, but that's another story for another day. On March the 15th, the day after our 10th anniversary, he returned from a 3 day crack binge. He was penniless, shirtless, wearing women's flipflops and sporting some fresh burn blisters on his lips. This was such a regular occurrence that such disappearances no longer fased me. He was coming down and angrier than a wet hornet about it. I went about my day as I normally did, brought the kid to school, went to my classes (since I had just a few months before had a massive heart attack and was still on medical leave I decided to dedicate the downtime to finally finishing my associates degree), and returned home to start dinner.
I remember the following exchange verbatim:
"I see you made it back."
"yeah, whatever."
"what would you like for dinner"
"How the fuck can you cook in this pigsty of a house"
"I am mopping the floors as soon as I take something out of the freezer"
"If you weren't wasting your time on that stupid school you would have more time to take care of the house."
This was the moment in which my mood shifted from passive to upset. I said nothing. A small part of me actually wanted to agree with this nonsense. Apparently silence was the wrong response for the moment. There was an altercation. I said nothing as he did exactly as he was prone to doing when he found he could not control his anger. Luckily he at least had enough snap not to leave any marks on my face. I suppose being on enough warfarin to drop a horse was good for something at least. By 3 pm I was alone again.
The thoughts of my recent near death surfaced. All medical evidence pointed to certain death in the near future. I didn't want to spend my last days doing this again. by 5 p.m. I packed my daughter's belongings and a few changes of clothes for myself and we checked into the local women's shelter. I was done.
The next day I went to Wednesday night service. I knelt at the altar and prayed for it all to stop.
March 22 I spent much of the day avoiding my mother in law's incessant calls. She called my cell, leaving voicemails, pleading that just "stop the dramatic foolishness and go back home." She cried, pleaded, even threatened to tell him about my cell phone (i was not permitted to have one, as per the husband, but I kept one anyway in case of emergencies.) I almost relented and went back home. Finally, the last message from her that night was to tell me he was missing. He told her he couldn't handle being alone so he was headed to her house to stay but he never arrived.
I called everyone that I knew to help look for him. I even went out the next few days, skipping classes and all, to search for him in all his usual places. On March 28th, I was headed into class to take the very first review class for my finals when I received a call from the pastor of my church demanding that I stop what I was doing and come to the church. I already knew, without explanation what had happened.
He was found behind a local church, wedged between the a/c condenser and the wall. He had met his end huffing freon. It was ruled an accident, but anyone who knew him knew it was his way of checking himself out.
I look back and wonder what was going through his mind those final hours, what made him make this final decision. I ca'tn place myself in his shoes, battling addiction, his family walking out on him, unable to cope with the world around him. To this day I don't regret my decision to leave yet I can't help but feel as though I was the direct cause for his decision. Where would he be if I had decided to come home instead. Where would I be. I am certain no matter what one of us would have died no matter which action was taken. Sometimes, while logic dictates I shouldn't, I still blame myself for all of it, that I saved myself at his expense. It's a low, dirty feeling. I left him to his own devices, prayed for the insanity to stop at whatever cost, and now I am alive and he is not.
I just had to unload it, share it, make it known the events of those days. I am simply tired of carrying around.