It was also true no one in my family knew about Daniel’s drinking, the never-ending fights, the violence. Not even my best friends knew what was going on.
Now I was sitting in a therapist’s office, discussing the unbelievable.
“Let me draw you a picture,” she said. Taking a black felt pen, she drew a circle. Inside, she drew a tiny bottle. “That’s alcohol, your husband’s one true love.”
Then she drew a large circle around the smaller one. “That’s your husband, revolving around his one true love. Whether he’s drinking or not, he’s always
thinking about his alcohol, there’s little room for anything else.”
She looked at me. I stared at the picture, then into her brown eyes.
“What about me?” I asked.
Now she drew a third circle, neatly trapping the first two circles inside.
“This is you, revolving around your husband, revolving around the alcohol. This is you, revolving around the love you want to have, but can’t, because he is not free to love you.
“No matter how long you stay, how hard you try, how much you love him, your husband will always revolve around the alcohol. Even if he stops drinking, he’ll always think about that last time, the next time, the ‘if only’ time.”
“What should I do?” I asked in a whispery voice. Close to tears I asked, louder: “Just tell me what to do.”
Dr. Angela sat back in her chair. “Have you ever heard of an intervention?”
I shook my head.
She explained: Family, friends, boss, co-worker, me, others —anyone, everyone— corralling Daniel into a corner, telling him he needs help, he needs to quit drinking, he needs to be better to himself, better to me. And at the end of it all, a treatment program, maybe in-house, if he can’t stop on his own.
“What the f*** are you talking about!” I bellowed. “You’re telling me, after everything I have been through and – I told you, I told you what he’s like, what he has done, can’t you see what he will DO to me once he gets back, oh my god are you crazy? An intervention! Oh my God, no!” I smacked the table, crumpled that piece of paper. Now I was standing, leaning over her.
“You think I should ride in on some white horse and rescue him? WHO THE F*** is going to rescue me? Where is MY white horse? Where is MY white knight? How come I always have to be there for him, to do for him, goddamitt, WHO is going to DO FOR ME?”
Dr. Angela draped her warm hands over my balled fists. She gave them a squeeze and looked directly into my eyes.
“I guess you’re getting a divorce.”
I left my ex December 1993. Those words, that moment, still electrify me to this day. She led me straight to the painful—and critical—conclusion abused women hate to face: We are the agents of our rescue.
by Susan Rich, (c)2014 All Rights Reserved
