March 1987. He was getting ready to explode. Again. I could see the storm clouds on the horizon. Drunker and drunker as the days went by.
In a bold move, the boldest I had ever made in my 24 years of life, I left a note on the face of the TV. It essentially said we were finished, he should pack his stuff, get out by the end of the day. I had the USAF on my side. He had no one.
At the end of the day, I picked the baby up from daycare, drove home, not a little terrified to see what I would find. Sweet and merciful Jesus! He was gone!!! At least from my house.
I filed for divorce shortly after this. It would take a year to be final.
The drunk phone calls started immediately. I’m sorry! He would cry. I can’t live without you! You’re the best thing ever! I’ll change!
He agreed to counseling. It was just manipulation to get me into bed. That was the final straw! I was determined to never take him back. He played me for the last time.
He spent that whole year of separation harassing me, calling me, threatening to take the baby. I was constantly terrified.
In the meantime, the boy turned 2. I neglected him terribly, resenting his existence because he tied me to a man I never wanted to see again.
March 1988. The divorce was finally final. Suddenly the harassment stopped. He finally gave up. I was so relieved.
I was also traumatized. I had zero love for myself. Zero love for my boy. Zero love for anyone.
To be continued…