Profound Recognition

Profound Recognition

Today I was washing dishes. Dusting. Washing clothes. Watching TV. And as I was wiping the counter—another mundane task—I thought, “Wow… I’ve normalized my ‘new’ life.”

In that moment, I was grateful for how mundane everything felt. Grateful for how boring felt like a warm blanket accompanied by a comforting cup of hot tea. It was such a profound moment, I almost cried. I thought about all the changes I’ve made since 2023. All the mistakes I’ve made and the reality that my life is different—completely and irrevocably—from what it once was. That moment was just as profound as the moment I finally realized and accepted the fact that I was abused. I remember where I was that day. Standing in the kitchen of my new apartment – my new home, making coffee. It hit me like a ton of bricks. 

Let me provide a little bit of context. While our divorce was being finalized, I was staying in an extended stay because being at home felt like hell. There was a constant interruption of my workday because he wanted to have conversations about what he did wrong and how he could and would be better than he had ever been before. He would profess his love for me repeatedly and beg me not to leave. I mean, he would literally bury his knees in the carpet of our bedroom, form his hands as if he were ready to pray, tears in his eyes, and proceed to ask if I could give him another chance.

Between the time I revealed my desire for a divorce and the time I finally decided to leave, he was going above and beyond by doing things he wouldn’t normally do. He suddenly became an avid runner, a coffee lover, a romantic. Buying me flowers. Buying dresses and shoes for me. One time, after a long day of begging, I caved and agreed to go on a date to a Dave Chappelle show. Another time we went to Vegas and saw Beyoncé. He paid for my concert outfit and even gave me cash to spend at the casino. We had a good time. It felt like we were enjoying each other again.

This sudden, out-of-the-ordinary effort felt good on the surface, hopeful even. And then I had this nagging discomfort in my soul. After more thought around that discomfort, I started to feel like my insides would protrude outward if he got on his knees again or tried to take me out on another date. It confused me at first. Why would this make me feel so sick?

Well, during our marriage, he would repeatedly refuse to run, walk, read, drink coffee or wine, sleep, talk, or pretty much exist with me—unless I was threatening to leave. There were several moments like this throughout the 18 years of our marriage.. Each time I felt I had enough and found the courage to leave, he would perform a song and dance, beg…and he would fool me into forgiving him for whatever monstrosity had pushed me to my limit.

When I would try to leave he would show me all the things he could give me. In those moments, he knew exactly how to make me feel important, seen, respected, and loved. But when things calmed down and he no longer felt the threat of me leaving, he would pull the ripcord and strangle me with emotional silence.

I became afraid of the song and dance at some point. So there were times I tried to sneak away—to avoid the chaos. But that only made it worse.

This pattern goes back to the first time I ever tried to leave him. We were “going together” as we used to say back in the day. He cried. And I don’t mean a small tear—I mean a wailing, snotty-nosed, red-eyed, sobbing fest. I had never seen a man cry before, which is why it was so easy for me to forgive the fact that this boy—we were 19 or 20 years old—whom I had left college for was entertaining another girl – a mutual acquaintance. This was the first time I denied my instincts.

The conversation in the car that day started by me asking about a mysterious text message from a number I didn’t recognize. His explanation? They were “just going on car rides” because he had a Mustang, and so did she. I knew the truth—but I didn’t want to know. I could see what was happening, but my broken heart was deceiving me. I snapped. I started flailing my arms as I yelled. He had probably triggered a manic episode, now that I think about it.

He got out of the car. I jumped into the driver’s seat and waited for him to get his things. I heard a sniffle. Then a teardrop—just before he closed the door. I put the car in reverse and backed up,ready to pull off, but I saw him wailing. He sat on the curb with his knees pulled into his chest, balled up like a toddler in the middle of the parking lot, facing the street.

My windows were up, so I could only see his lips moving. When I rolled the window down, I heard him shouting that no one had ever loved him like this since his grandmother.

At that moment, I felt the need to nurture him. I felt like he was hurting more than I was. I felt like if we could just talk about it and stay together, then it was meant to be.

My big-girl self told my little-girl self, I thought you said you would never stay with someone who cheated on you.

The big girl was ignored.

The little girl, the one who believed she would never be loved so deeply by someone who could make her feel seen, someone willing to accept all of her, believed she would never experience this bond again.

I didn’t know that moment was the conception of our toxicity.

I let him back into the car. I called off work the rest of the day so we could talk. We spent hours—days—arguing about what he did. There was a moment when I realized he didn’t believe he had done anything wrong.

He convinced me I was overreacting. That they really did just drive their Mustangs around the neighborhood. Racing each other. Just the two of them. They would set up meeting spots. The text message I read on his phone—from her, asking when she needed to be ready for him to come pick her up—was completely innocent. I conceded.

The whole time, he would tell me how much he loved me. I love you so much. I would never do anything to hurt you like that.

I believed him.

There are so many moments like these involving other women. 

To make matters worse I allowed him to convince me to ignore my instincts and doubt myself with simple things. For example, he was always driving when we were together. I was never allowed to drive when we were together. He would say, “You never have to drive when I’m around.” Looking back now, I realize it was control disguised as chivalry. How do I know this? Because later he would tell me what kind of cars I could drive…nothing too fast, because I wasn’t the greatest driver, and I didn’t pay enough attention to my surroundings. He would get luxury cars, BMWs, Lincoln’s,  meanwhile I’m stuck driving an old Ford Escape, or a Ford Explorer that was also old. It had over 100k miles on it when we bought it. Can you believe I had to fight for that shit? 

He would jokingly destroy my character and have me laughing while he did it. Once, during a conversation about a promotion I’d received—which was due to an organizational change at work—he said, “They were just giving out manager positions, huh?” I laughed in the moment, but afterward, I became angry with myself for laughing.

My reality was that shit was always wrapped in ice cream.

Those little, seemingly harmless comments became a second voice in my head—like creeping whispers through a cracked door. Generally, people see abusers as charming, loving, generous, even kind. Husbands with that outward appearance are seen as strong leaders. But the wives being abused often find themselves doubting every decision and holding resentment for the Jackle/Hyde demeanor.

Fast forward to the day I was standing in my kitchen remembering these self betraying moments, and mid-reverie, I realize those memories feel like a very bad dream that happened in another time dimension. It doesn’t feel like my memory—it feels like I’m watching a movie. It was a surreal feeling – an epiphany. I got out! I am no longer betraying myself. 

It’s like I was living a lie then, and reality is where I am now. So as I stood there, thinking of the life I am living now, I damn near toppled. Remembering that life, I felt pain for that woman—for that girl.

The clarity was..that woman..that girl…was me.

While the epiphany was jarring, after a tear purging session, I realized it was also refreshing. Refreshing because I realized I could use this knowledge to heal. I used to think healing meant I wouldn’t feel hurt anymore. But what I’m learning is that these past experiences would always hurt, but they are also blessings.

If I hadn’t gone through any of that I wouldn’t appreciate the silence in being alone. The peace in the mundane. I wouldn’t be falling in love with the boring moments. 

I finally feel free to explore myself. To redefine success, love, friendship, romance, happiness—everything. 

Sometimes I turn my music up so loud it feels like I’m bathing in music notes and my heart its thumping at the same beat of the rolling deep bass.

I eat ice cream in the middle of the night. 

I spontaneously take road trips.

I am free to control my life as I see fit. And I get to decide whether that freedom is a burden or a blessing.

I choose the latter.

I choose to look at all of my experiences as experiences with hidden goodness. Even the toughest days can shape you into becoming the best version of yourself.

I protect my heart now because I understand the value of the love I can give. I am learning to trust my gut again. I am growing everywhere! In my relationships with my family with friends and in my spirituality. 

I can live…I can do any and everything my heart desires…this is HEALING.