Facing Truth
I was mad at him when he died. I was past the point of empathy. I no longer had it in me to turn a blind eye to who...and what he had become. In the months leading up to his suicide I had endured enough. My kids had seen enough. We were at our breaking point.
For nearly ten years prior to his death my children and I were on the receiving end of whatever was brewing in his mind. My husband had PTSD. At the time of his death he had just retired with 20 years in the Marine Corps. In that decade I had lied for him, made excuses for his behavior and actions, covered for the kids to save them from his rage, denied my own intuition and good sense and watched him slowly fade into a stranger. He had become emotionally and physically abusive to all of us. I finally said ENOUGH.
You see, while he was on active duty I accepted the excuse that "work" was the reason for the stress. In the moments he realized he had a problem he said he couldn't seek help. He could lose his job, his reputation or rank. Those moments were few and far between. Mostly his anger was blamed on my parenting or the kids behavior. There was always something. I walked on eggshells. I tiptoed around him. I always made sure the house was clean and dinner was ready and I was at the door to welcome him home each afternoon. I shooed the kids upstairs so he could come home to quiet.
At the time he died he had been out of the Marine, retired, for over four months. He had absolutely no excuse for refusing he needed help. I could not let him keep hurting us in his denial. I could not force him to see a professional or admit it was a problem. All I could do was protect my kids and myself. I finally told him he had a month.
He had 30 days to get help or he had to go. I could no longer leave him alone with the kids. He would explode at them and strike or intimidate them for no particular reason. I slept on the couch because he had taken to waiting until I was fast asleep to have "sex" with me. Before that, some nights I would wake up and he didn't even bother to pull my pajama bottoms up. It was such a violation. I just laid there and cried quietly.
I told him he could no longer torture us because he hated himself. I realized I wasn't protecting him, I was enabling him to abuse my kids and stay sick. He was nearly 40 years old. He was a grown man. My priority was no longer appeasing the monster inside him. I had to help my children. I had to shelter them from what he'd become.
It is really hard to admit that. I knew in my heart that the man looking at me through those cold vacant eyes was not the man I married. I just knew he was in there somewhere. I prayed that he had the strength to fight his way out but after ten years I knew it was a dream that would never come true.
It was two weeks after I gave him the ultimatum that our lives changed forever. It was a Sunday. One like so many others before it. I made a roasted chicken that day. The house smelled amazing. I sat in the floor and crafted a Fall wreath for the front door. There was a calm in the house that day. My husband actually came up out of the garage that afternoon. He helped our middle son with his school report on Big Cats. It was just like old times. It was only weird in how wonderful it was that day.
At 11:19 PM he was gone. He used a rifle his father bought for him for Father's Day. The twisted irony in this will stay with me forever.
When I think of him I remember the man he was before the illness took hold of him. He was funny, and kind, he taught me unconditional love. Despite it all I do and always will love him. He is the reason we celebrate Father's Day. He gave the holiday it's meaning. Because of him two little people are here with me today. I am not alone in this but I am sad that they are beside me in the loss. We will never "get over it" but together we will "get past it".
He will always be a part of our family. He is safe now. We are all safe now. His mind is finally still.
For nearly ten years prior to his death my children and I were on the receiving end of whatever was brewing in his mind. My husband had PTSD. At the time of his death he had just retired with 20 years in the Marine Corps. In that decade I had lied for him, made excuses for his behavior and actions, covered for the kids to save them from his rage, denied my own intuition and good sense and watched him slowly fade into a stranger. He had become emotionally and physically abusive to all of us. I finally said ENOUGH.
You see, while he was on active duty I accepted the excuse that "work" was the reason for the stress. In the moments he realized he had a problem he said he couldn't seek help. He could lose his job, his reputation or rank. Those moments were few and far between. Mostly his anger was blamed on my parenting or the kids behavior. There was always something. I walked on eggshells. I tiptoed around him. I always made sure the house was clean and dinner was ready and I was at the door to welcome him home each afternoon. I shooed the kids upstairs so he could come home to quiet.
At the time he died he had been out of the Marine, retired, for over four months. He had absolutely no excuse for refusing he needed help. I could not let him keep hurting us in his denial. I could not force him to see a professional or admit it was a problem. All I could do was protect my kids and myself. I finally told him he had a month.
He had 30 days to get help or he had to go. I could no longer leave him alone with the kids. He would explode at them and strike or intimidate them for no particular reason. I slept on the couch because he had taken to waiting until I was fast asleep to have "sex" with me. Before that, some nights I would wake up and he didn't even bother to pull my pajama bottoms up. It was such a violation. I just laid there and cried quietly.
I told him he could no longer torture us because he hated himself. I realized I wasn't protecting him, I was enabling him to abuse my kids and stay sick. He was nearly 40 years old. He was a grown man. My priority was no longer appeasing the monster inside him. I had to help my children. I had to shelter them from what he'd become.
It is really hard to admit that. I knew in my heart that the man looking at me through those cold vacant eyes was not the man I married. I just knew he was in there somewhere. I prayed that he had the strength to fight his way out but after ten years I knew it was a dream that would never come true.
It was two weeks after I gave him the ultimatum that our lives changed forever. It was a Sunday. One like so many others before it. I made a roasted chicken that day. The house smelled amazing. I sat in the floor and crafted a Fall wreath for the front door. There was a calm in the house that day. My husband actually came up out of the garage that afternoon. He helped our middle son with his school report on Big Cats. It was just like old times. It was only weird in how wonderful it was that day.
At 11:19 PM he was gone. He used a rifle his father bought for him for Father's Day. The twisted irony in this will stay with me forever.
When I think of him I remember the man he was before the illness took hold of him. He was funny, and kind, he taught me unconditional love. Despite it all I do and always will love him. He is the reason we celebrate Father's Day. He gave the holiday it's meaning. Because of him two little people are here with me today. I am not alone in this but I am sad that they are beside me in the loss. We will never "get over it" but together we will "get past it".
He will always be a part of our family. He is safe now. We are all safe now. His mind is finally still.
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