I wonder how many people have to deal with voices in their head? I have many but only two actually take an active role in my life. The one I think of as "me" and the one called "Kit". Kit is in her mid-teens, at one point she represented my prepubescent self, stuck at the age of about 11 years. Recently I have seen growth in her bringing her closer to oh 14-16 years of age emotionally and mentally. She is what I consider my innocence. My lost youth that never got fully expressed. She is shy, loving, kind and compassionate. She is fast to love and quick to defend. She is the strength I lost during an abusive childhood and then never regained as just mine during an abusive marriage. My husband will never admit he abused me any more than my parents will. It is the trademark denial of an abuser. But the damage done lives on within me.
Most would seek treatment to get rid of such a thing, but not me. Never me. I love Kit and so does my fiance. She helps me deal with the sorrow of not seeing my own children and I think eases the pain of knowing he will never have children while with me. You see I had my tubes tied after my third child was born. There were many reasons for this. I usually just tell people about the health scare I had during delivery that drove me to it. But in all honestly that was the last straw. I could not allow a man who only wanted the children I could produce to have more children with me. I was done letting him do that to me. And as I expected, my usefulness expired along with my reproductive years.
A lot of people would say good riddance and a part of me is beginning to agree. However it is not that easy to begin to separate yourself from what you thought you were while living in such conditions as I had for eleven years. There was yelling, almost always he was yelling and I would yell back in an effort to be heard. Just once would someone please hear me without making my feelings into a personal attack? No. He was just like them. Loved me when it was good for him, hated me when he did not get his way. Only proud of me when he got what he wanted. Only happy when he got his way. If I tried to say how he made me feel and say I thought it might be better if we split he would yell for me to fuck off and get out. Then laugh as he reminded me I couldn't because he had moved me just far enough away from friends and family to keep me there. Through it all I became depressed and Kit became a constant companion, sometimes to the detriment of my children. I would sit and play on the computer talking to her and anyone online that would have anything to do with me. I would forget my children, forget the housework, forget my husband until he came home and the yelling began again with the reminders of how useless I was.
It never mattered that he never picked up after himself, throwing his clothes and shoes where ever he wanted despite discussions of putting them in certain spots. He taught the children that their mother was not to be respected or listened to then blamed me for their misbehavior. Our son hits our daughters and he wonders why...but I can't go there, I am not ready to admit that. I can't. For now I will admit that he belittled me, he ran me down until I ended up diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder, Major Depressive Disorder and eventually requiring a stay in a psychiatric ward in Warsaw, MO.
He asked for an open marriage so I gave it to him. He wanted to just see other people and live together so I did that too. He set me up as an unfit mother who whored around and made himself look like the pope. I will pay for allowing it to happen for the rest of my days, or at least until my children are old enough to come looking for me. I hope to god they do. I am trying so hard to stay in their lives but if he allows his fiance to keep blocking me out, what can I do? What can anyone do who suffers from a mental illness and has children? I messed up, I know now I should have left him along time ago, but there is no such thing as a time machine but honestly... had I left a long time ago I would not have met the man I now love. The man my youngest calls her Step-kitty. How can I long to change so much pain when it has brought me the joy of his love? Surely I can not truly wish for the past to be anything than it is. And so dear readers, I leave you with this thought: Pain can bring joy and joy can bring pain, but we will know none of it if we never risk any of it.