There were just a few words, but they were words that will forever separate the time before from the time after. Some have wisely said that words are like toothpaste: once squeezed out in the open, there’s no putting them back inside the tube. These were definitely those kinds of words.
Today marks four years since my child came to me with a brave, brief mouthful of toddler sized things to say that meant no going back to the way things were. There was no putting them back in once they were out.
Usually writing was my comfort in uncertain times, but I couldn’t will a single word into my journal at all for two full days after the disclosure. Even then, when I finally mustered the courage, all I could say about the words was “I can’t write them again.”
They came with such depth of emotion that even with the passage of time, I keep them locked away in the same special box inside my brain. I don’t access the box unless there’s no way around it. When I do have to open it and look inside, it’s like I momentarily switch to being someone else–merely an unconnected onlooker–not the deeply impacted mom that I really am inside. This beloved imposter friend of mine is like the darker version of my own personal super hero.
She puts on her mask and cape and speaks the words I can’t with only a tiny fraction of the giant iceberg of grief visible above sea level over the stolen and consumed bodies that still keep the score.
She speaks for me while holding onto a tiny pebble of cooled lava at the bottom of the volcano of anger that threatens to explode and bring destruction over the gross denial of justice. There’s only a puff of the great clouds of ash over the betrayal of all those who could have helped, but found they couldn’t look inside the box, either.
When my breath catches in my throat, she speaks with a mere wisp of the all consuming fog that came from being falsely accused of coaching into existence these words-that-changed-everything.
Four years later, and I still don’t know what to do with this box I cannot look inside. Four years later, and the same words from my journal, so fresh at the time, still ring true:
“I hate this.”
“I’m so angry and sick over it all.”
“I believe [child] and want to protect them.”
“I’m scared of retaliation.”
For four years, I have smiled and nodded when others, well meaning as they may be, remind me once again how important it is for kids to have both parents in their lives, while underneath I am both frozen and boiling over in an agonizing dance where no one takes the lead.
For four years, I have, from within the fog, considered myself lucky to have my children at all since so many important people believed that the false accusations about me inventing the story were true. Those closest looked the other way as they said of him, “he’d never do that,” and of me: “how could you,” and “you’re crazy.” It was easier for them this way, I suppose. It’s scary to reckon with evil, but evil hidden in plain sight is far scarier.
The rules say that if I let the grief, anger, betrayal, and confusion show, I’ll act as crazy as they say I am. The volcano will explode. The iceberg will sink ships. The fog will blind us all until we can no longer see the way forward. And through it all, I’ll just be proving their point.
So, for four years, I’ve carried this box I never wanted and cannot look inside. And, for four years, I’ve lived with my super hero friend, the beloved imposter, who speaks for me so it doesn’t all come spilling out at once and endanger my children’s chances of remaining with their protective parent.
Even as I write publicly for the first time about this day, it must remain censored. What if he somehow discovers my blog? What if in exploring the fullness of these emotions, my words get twisted in court and used against me? Though I have left the oppression of the abusive marriage, I still face the imprisonment of censorship. It’s all to keep from losing my children, so for now my superhero provides the mask, and I keep her close. Though volcanoes, icebergs, and fog have their place in the natural cycles of this world where we live, they cannot be a part of the natural cycles of my life as a survivor of domestic and post separation abuse. I can’t speak as freely as I desire to speak. At least not yet.
Though the box and the things that go with it are heavy, I hold tightly onto the hope that one day the truth will speak for itself and I won’t need my super hero mask or my box anymore. One day, I’ll be free to feel fully and speak about it. And best of all, so will my children.
Resources:
Protective parents can check out Tina Swithin’s blog onemomsbattle.com, and young adults who have experienced coercive control as children can submit their stories to Tina’s project at http://the children are coming.com