What I couldn’t understand was how did I miss the warning signs of my husband’s substance abuse or were there any? Funny thing about being in love with someone whose flaws are destructive and poisonous. Either you are too close to see them or just in denial. Either way, my marriage to an ex-con was spiraling out of control and it was affecting my job performance, school work, and ministry. On top of the bills piling up, my husband decided that stealing my debit cards and removing somewhat expensive items from the house were not enough to destroy my peace of mind. On one occasion, he dropped me off at work ( at that time, we were down to one car) claiming he had a job interview later that morning. He assured me that he would be back in time to pick me up from work. A person’s intuition can be a lifesaver. That quiet voice that whispers to us not to do something is there for a reason. Had I listened to mine, many of heartaches and anguish, I could have easily avoided. For some reason that morning, I did not want to turn my car over to him. Yes, I know; in a marriage; nothing is completely his or hers. It belongs to both. However, I did not like the feeling I had in the pit of my stomach telling me that giving him the keys to the car was not going to end well.
It was the end of the work day and I had a class in Atlanta that I needed to attend. I waited patiently at first for my husband to pull into my job’s parking lot. After 15 minutes had passed, I decided to call him. Nothing. I left a voicemail. Then another one. And another one. And sweet Jesus, he finally answered! He lied to me telling that he had been in a car accident and was right down the street and he would be there in ten minutes. Twenty minutes had passed and nothing. His cell phone went straight to voicemail. I must have dialed his number one hundred times within the hour. A light rain began to fall and so did the tears. My perfect attendance in class was ruined. I had a homework assignment due that evening. My throat burned and my eyes itched. My heart lurched into my stomach. I watched as so many of my co-workers got into their cars and drove off. Some even offered me a ride home. I assured them that my ride was on the way knowing full well that he wasn’t coming. I called a friend of mine and asked if she could take me home. Because my husband had both sets of keys to the house, even when I got there, I wouldn’t be able to get inside the house. I had to call a locksmith to open my front door. Thankfully, I had just enough money to pay for it.
My husband didn’t show up that night. Or the next. When Saturday came, I asked another friend if she could take me to my Saturday class. She did one better. She and her husband allowed me to use his car for the weekend. Needless to say, I was happy on the outside, but miserable on the inside. How could someone do this to me? What have I done so horrific to someone for this to happen to me? It was bad enough that a person who I have entrusted secrets with had turned his back on me at the command of his wife and now this. I had never felt so alone and empty inside. At that moment, not only did I want to die; I wanted my husband to suffer. Despite my faith in God, my heart shattered into tiny pieces and I beg for God to take my life. If I had to suffer like this, I didn’t want any part of it. I couldn’t look my family in the face. I couldn’t sit in the pulpit at the front of my church with the type of feelings I had buried deep inside of me. My homework suffered. My love for life was slowly diminishing and I knew in my heart that something had to give. I had to get a handle on my feelings or my feelings would get a handle on me. My prayer life was all I had left and Jesus was my lifeline. I needed Jesus just like a heart that stopped beating needed a defibrillator. I wanted my life back and I refused to allow the devil to turn me into a bitter and angry woman.
Just as God had breathed life into the nostrils of man; God breathed life back into me. I didn’t want my marriage to end but I couldn’t allow my husband to continue to abuse me. I had to make a plan and stick to it. Amazing how God reveals to us that any plans we make on our own are useless because little did I know that it would be three years and two children later, when the bough would break. My separation from my substance abusing, crack loving, thief of a husband was one of the best things that could have ever happened to me. It was during this time when I was able to regain my sense of self-worth. I was able to accomplish more in the eight months of our separation than the four years of marriage. The old adage “I can do bad all by myself” spoke volumes and became my mantra. With two extra mouths to feed, a mortgage, a car note, car insurance, and childcare…my gait was set despite the rising tide. I knew that whatever challenges I face, I could do it in stride because I no longer had a live-in thief to worry about.
It is during those quiet moments in the early or late hours of the day that I am able to dance on my broken bones. I am able to see into the heart of God and remember my true calling in life. Married or divorced will not make any difference. After all, it is the essence of my pain that keeps me afloat and humbled. It is the agonizing memories of being left a work without a ride home or a negative balance in my bank account that I am able to rise out of the ashes, kick the dust off my shoes and move forward.
Satara Newton