“Would you take this for me and put it away somewhere?” she asks as she hands her mother her wedding ring.
“Sure, I’ll just wear it so it doesn’t get lost,” replies her mother, with surprise.
“I want Nyah to have it when she is old enough to take care of it.” With that over, a sigh of relief escapes her. Six months ago is when he left. That odd and painful time is one she won’t forget.
The anger that welled up in her throat was one that she had felt thousands of times before. He was about to get on the bus to Florida for his eleventh attempt at rehab. All his bags were packed, in her personal luggage of course. Here she was, the summer heat beating down and he had asked her, not just to take him, but to escort him into the bus station. What was he thinking? She was going to have to park in a seedy part of town where the stench of vomit, body odor, and urine attacked the nostrils before escape could be made. It didn’t feel safe to be walking downtown after dark, especially dragging three little bitty kids into the freakish downtown bus station. Cigarette butts and empty beer cans littered the streets. More than one stranger eyed her and her babies with looks that made her cringe inside. Allowing herself to be convinced to wait with him at eleven o’clock at night was not on her agenda. Once again, he was getting his way, at all costs.
As she stood there next to him while he made his goodbyes to the children, she thought about the many times before that he had left her or caused problems. It was a vicious cycle. He asked her, “What’s wrong, baby?” Her glare of frustration didn’t need interpretation. “I’m gonna miss you so much,” he whimpered. “Goodbye, call me when you have a chance,” she replied with disdain. She was so tired of the manipulation. His leaving for Florida was his own getaway, an open-ended, indefinite vacation! The bastard! She’d be stuck as a single parent, AGAIN!
This was it. Although she wouldn’t recognize it until later, this was it. She could have made her exit many times before. In her own little way, she didn’t really want him to go. The feelings of abandonment set in. She sensed the deep sadness of what she was about to experience with him gone. Within days, she knew she wouldn’t be able to prevent the inevitable visit to the Emergency Room. Her life was going to end. She couldn’t believe he was gone. Tears just kept rolling down her face all day long. How could she live without him? This was her husband. He was her life.
Once at the hospital, she told the ER doctors that she wanted to die. She explained that she knew she needed help and that she had been asking God to take her out of the pain. Within an hour, a psychiatrist was at her side. Tall, with mousy brown hair and kind brown eyes, he looked like someone she’d be comfortable talking to. He said he could help. Giving in to therapy wasn’t as hard as she thought it would be, but would she be able to overcome her fear of rejection? Would she be able to grow past her juvenile infatuation and “being in love” with a narcissistic, foolish crack addict? The fight she experienced within herself during group therapy was foreign and upsetting. Her therapist asked her several different times if she was really ready to let go of him and move into recovery. Uncertainty choked her with a death grip. Sometimes she would say, “Yes, I can move on.” Then, other times, the sense of overwhelming fear would pull her back to the fetal position for a little more growth. She just wasn’t ready to be re-born yet.
Her days at the psych unit made her re-visit the hard days she endured. The last few years that had passed had been difficult. She mustered up the courage to share something that would help her to realize what she needed to do. Telling of her 2004 summer would be a turning point. They lived in a single-wide with two bedrooms, which was a pretty small place for four people and a dog, much less an added fifth person who was about ready to come into the world. For nearly three years that little trailer was their home. It held secrets of deception, rejection and infidelity in between the paper walls and, ironically, it also held a sort of sanctuary.
