It didn’t help that he left for work so early in the morning. He didn’t return home until late afternoon, and that was no real comfort either. Technically, we didn’t spend a lot of time together. But he was always there.
I crawled out of bed by myself each morning, but I was never alone. Oh my, I’ve slept too late. What if he calls and asks what I’ve been doing? Quick! Start doing something “busy”.
Except for the sounds of the children, there was not a lot of noise in the mornings, but still I could hear him. Why are you putting on makeup? Isn’t that expensive? I can’t even tell when you put it on. It’s just a waste of time. You know you don’t need it. You shouldn’t use a blow-dryer; it’s bad for your hair. Why do you take so much time to get ready? Why is the bathmat wet?
During the day, I liked to think I could do as I pleased, but he was always there, making sure I did my job to “please him”. I must remember to run the garbage disposal long enough. I must not forget to bring in the mail today. I must make sure to have supper ready. Did I move anything of his? I must be more careful. There. I’ve been talking on the phone. Now where did he leave it last? Don’t want him to see it’s been moved. I guess I should clean out the refrigerator today. He would want me to. But what if I get it too clean? He’ll say I wasted food.
I had always been very good with children, especially my own, but his “remote presence” was constantly chiding me to do it his way. Don’t put soap on the kids. You’ll just dry out their skin. They don’t need this many baths per week. Why are you putting them in shorts? I always wore jeans when I was growing up. Why is this diaper still out? That was irresponsible. Why isn’t he eating his food? Make him eat. Keep him quiet! Can you take him out of the room? Turn up the fan so I can’t hear him crying. Stop going in there with him. You’re feeding him again?
Even until a few months after I left him, every waking moment of my life with that man was with him. I couldn’t see him or touch him, but his presence hovered around my every move, wafted out in every breath, and often even spoke for me. It challenged every decision, no matter how menial, and caused me to question my own judgment on the simplest of issues. My days became filled with dialogue like the above; plotting the answers for the questions I knew would begin when his body came home.
This is, perhaps, a commonality between good marriages and abusive ones: a constant feeling of the presence of the “other one”. The difference, though, is in the feeling. My image of marriage was always one where I looked forward to my husband coming home, enjoying each other’s company, but respecting each other’s space. My reality? I was a caged animal, pacing back and forth, looking for that safe corner where I could truly be alone.
The concept of marriage itself implies a certain understanding. You are a couple, two people made into one, a single-minded unit, a blending of hearts and hands, a companionship where the strengths and weaknesses of both people are recognized and understood. It also implies a desirable togetherness. So these questions may seem out of place in most contexts, but it may yet be worth asking: Just how alone are you allowed to be? What about your thoughts? Are they yours, or are you forced to change them, for fear of being asked, “What are you thinking about?” Are you you, or are you becoming someone you don’t even know?
Are you lonely, but never alone?
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