Gaslighting

Knowing was the easy part. It was saying it out loud that was hard.
-- The Horse Whisperer

The idea of not working on my relationship with Richard... I couldn't wrap my mind around it. Yet, in the months that preceded our official separation, I also couldn't wrap my mind around continuing to live with him. I was aware that I was literally not going to survive if I continued to live with him. At that point it wasn't even because I was afraid for my life. It was because I wasn't getting any sleep and I could feel my health declining. I knew I couldn't go on like that. But I also couldn't bring myself to end my marriage. I could see that things weren't getting better but I was so sad about it, I couldn't come to terms with it. Yes, I'd seen him break my phone. Yes, he'd threatened to blow up the house. Yes, he'd ripped up pictures of me. I just kept reminding myself that relationships take work. I didn't know if I could continue to work as hard as this relationship seemed to require but I wanted to believe that there was SOMETHING salvageable.

Then, of course, things changed.

I'm one of those people that writes in a journal. No, not every day. In fact, there can be months or maybe even years when I don't journal at all. But then, I'll pick it up again and journal furiously, perhaps just for a day, but maybe a few days, weeks, or months. It's one of the ways I process things -one of the ways I figure out how I feel. The process of writing often centers me.

Once I was intentional with my writing in a journal. I used it for a specific purpose - for a certain end. That was the journal in which I wrote about my dad.

I wrote paragraphs or pages - it didn't matter. The point was to write things I remembered about my dad. I wasn't a parent at the time I started writing in it but I certainly imagined using it one day to tell future offspring about their grandfather.

I remember one occasion when I shared with my siblings and my mother something I'd written. I revealed that I'd been writing in this journal for while and asked if they would mind if I read one of my "stories?" They welcomed my sharing, of course. So, I read out loud to them. I still treasure that moment. One of my siblings, who is not overly sentimental or emotionally expressive, seemed to connect with what I'd written and began sharing his own memories about our dad and what I'd written about - the airport where we would pick up my father after many, many business trips. It was a special moment for me - both in connecting with my family and in feeling validated as a writer.

I kept this particular journal in the drawer of the nightstand by our bed. There were times I wouldn't look at that journal for months or maybe even a year. Then there were other times when I would pull it out frequently, finding comfort in reading my own recollections about my dad, his mentorship and his faith. I can remember exactly when I last looked for that journal. I opened up the drawer, pulled it out and discovered that all of the pages - every single one that bore my hand-writing - were ripped out. Gone.

Shocked, I showed Richard. He, of course, immediately denied doing anything to it. In fact, he suggested that our daughter had probably done it. I considered that option but pointed out that if she had come upon it (given her age at the time), she would have written or drawn in it, on the blank pages, without ripping out the pages with writing on them. Or, if she had torn out the pages, she wouldn't have been strong enough to break the binding of the journal and the rips wouldn't have been so clean. So, I knew it wasn't her.

Then I began to wonder if I would have done that. Would I have done something like that for some reason and not remembered? I couldn't even believe I was considering such an insane possibility but... I couldn't figure it out. I couldn't believe how vehemently - and convincingly - Richard said he didn't do it.

Eventually, I wept. Not only because of the overwhelming loss of all those memories I'd written down for years and years, but because I realized that even if Richard hadn't done it, I believed he could. And, that was the piece that remained unacknowledged. At least by him. He insisted he would "never do that to me." Perhaps more importantly, I believed he would do that to me. How could I remain with someone I believed could and/or would do that to me?

Things deteriorated in ways that were... unrecoverable. Tragic, really.

I remember looking for resources to help me navigate this stuff. I just could not find what I needed. I remember joking with one of my pastors, "Where was the self-help/marriage-counseling book called For Better or For Worse: How to Decide Whether or Not to Move Forward with Felony Charges Against Your Husband?" 

Some people tell me that they think I'm brave for writing about this.
I don't see it that way. The way I see it:

a) I need to write about this.

b) I want to help break the silence.
Friends have been surprised, even shocked, I think, to learn that this happened to me. I'm an intelligent, generous, strong, educated, fun-loving, creative, independent and professional woman and this happened to me. So, maybe this helps people know that it can happen. It did happen. To me. For now, this is my way of blowing the whistle on it.