One of the reasons I didn't want to get a divorce? God.
No, seriously. My religious upbringing drilled it into me that divorce wasn't just a failure. It was a sin. That leaving meant I was giving up, and giving up meant I wasn't faithful enough, strong enough, worthy enough.
That I wouldn't be forgiven.
I was raised to believe that a good woman sticks it out. That love is patient. Kind. Willing to suffer quietly. That sometimes men lose their way, and it's our job to guide them back, quietly, prayerfully, sacrificially.
And God forbid I say anything out loud. God forbid I scream. Because screaming makes you the angry wife. The rebellious one. The unsubmissive one.
The kind no man sticks around for. The kind no church knows what to do with.
And somewhere along the line, I bought into the idea that I was less than.
That I was made from a rib, not a backbone.
That I should be seen, not heard. Loved, but never prioritized.
Let me remind you: It was normal, like culturally acceptable, for husbands to spank their wives in the 1950s. Not in the cute, consensual way. In the sit-on-my-lap-you-naughty-girl way. In the shame-you-into-silence way. In the you're-my-property way.
And somehow, we were the ones expected to be grateful.
Grateful that we had husbands. Grateful to be chosen. Grateful to be "led."
It's disgusting.
And yet, I still went back. Because he promised. Because he cried. Because he said, "I'll be better." Because he whispered all those pretty, pretty lies.
And I believed them.
Because I was taught that if someone is trying, you stay. Even if the trying hurts you. Even if the trying comes in fists, in silence, in manipulation wrapped in a love letter.
I thought love meant endurance.
But love without respect isn't love. It's a cage.
God, I wanted it to work.
I wanted the fairytale ending. The redemption arc. The part in the movie where he changes, realizes what he's done, and holds me like he never wants to lose me again.
I wanted the version of him I thought I saw once, the one who smiled at our babies, who played video games with me, who made me laugh before he made me cry.
I wanted to believe the lies. Because the truth? Was too heavy. Too ugly. Too final.
But here's the thing no one talks about: You can want something to work while simultaneously dreading every minute of trying.
Because I did.
Every time he moved back in, Every time I forgave too soon, Every time I smiled for the sake of peace, I was holding my breath. Bracing for the snap. Counting the days until the next explosion.
Love didn't feel like love anymore. It felt like a trap I was too loyal to leave.
So yeah. I wanted it to work. But I was terrified it wouldn't. And even more terrified it would.
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I didn't know it then, not really. But looking back, I do now. I had already shut down.
There wasn't some big fight or final straw. No screaming match. No dramatic suitcase on the porch. It was quieter than that.
Just… stillness. Numbness. A version of me going through the motions while the real me quietly packed her soul into boxes and locked the door behind her.
I said yes. Yes, I'll try again. Yes, we can do this. Yes, I forgive you.
But it wasn't a yes with roots. It was a yes made of obligation and ashes. It was a yes hoping he might become the perfect liar I needed him to be, charming enough, sorry enough, changed enough to make it feel worth it. But he wasn't. He never had been.
There's a statistic I once read: If you break someone's trust, it takes twice as long to earn it back. And I believe it. Because by then, he wasn't just starting over. He was dragging every failed promise behind him like a parade of ghosts. And I was tired of watching the reruns.
He came home in August with all the usual theatrics, gentle hands, big apologies, a redemption arc that barely lasted a month.
Then, in September, the military handed him an Article 15. Another one. I'd lost track by then. Too many, too close together. It didn't matter how many chances he got. He blew every single one. So they did what I hadn't yet: They let him go.
He was kicked out. Discharged. Fired from the only identity he ever really held onto.
And we? We moved. Back to my hometown. Into a house my parents owned.
Because once again, I was the one who had to clean up the mess.
I think that's what hurt the most.
Not the screaming. Not the gaslighting. Not even the way he ripped my heart out, threw it back at me, and laughed like I was ridiculous for having feelings in the first place.
No, the part that gutted me was the potential.
Because I knew exactly what he needed to do to be better. He knew it, too. He just… wouldn't.
And that's a different kind of heartbreak.
It's one thing to love someone broken. It's another thing entirely to love someone who refuses to rebuild. Especially when you're handing them every damn tool.
I wasn't asking for perfect.
I was asking for effort.
But instead of healing, he doubled down. Instead of trying, he resented me for hoping. And slowly, quietly, I started to shut down.
I felt hollow.
He didn't try to put my heart back in my chest. He didn't even reach for it.
He just watched me bleed and called it drama.
Losing his job crushed him.
At least, that's what I told myself. That's how I justified what came next.
He stopped trying. Completely. He spent his days sitting in my house, playing video games and collecting unemployment like it was a full-time job. And for a while… I let it slide. I told myself he needed time. That this was temporary. That things might get better.
They didn't.
I don't remember what we were fighting about that night. I just remember how fast it escalated. One second we were yelling. The next, he had me pinned. His hand around my throat. His fist through the wall, inches from my head.
I heard the drywall crack before I even felt the air shift.
That was when I kicked him out.
That was the third time I tried to leave him.
We filed for legal separation. I was done. Or at least, I wanted to be. But wanting and being done aren't always the same thing.
After I kicked him out, there was a legal order: he had to stay a certain distance from my house.
So he parked just across the street.
Exactly within the legal limit.
Every. Single. Day.
He'd sit there in his car for hours. Waiting, watching, making sure we saw him. And every time we'd leave the house, whether it was a grocery run or just trying to get some air, He'd step out. Just to be seen. Just to remind me he was still there.
Do you know how hard it is to tell your kids they can't go hug their dad?
They'd see him and run to the door, faces lighting up. "Can we go say hi? Can we go hug him?"
And I'd have to be the bad guy. I'd have to say no.
One time, as they cried at the window, he stood there too. Just watching. Big crocodile tears rolling down his cheeks like I was the monster.
Like I was the one breaking their hearts.
He just stood there. Crying. Soaking in their pain. Soaking in mine. Like it was a performance.
Like maybe if he cried hard enough, I'd forget why he was gone in the first place.
But I remembered.
I remembered the wall. The choking. The threats.
I remembered the fights. Because by then, that's all we did, fight. That was our pattern. That was our legacy. He'd beg, I'd cave. He'd promise, I'd hope. And then he'd rage, and I'd break.
Over. And over. And over.
Until I stopped breaking and just stayed broken.
God didn't leave me.But I had to leave him.