Finding My Voice

I lost my voice years ago. Peter and I married a few weeks after my 18th birthday. I felt isolated as a young bride, especially when our peers began to leave for college. I was so in love with Peter (and so naive) that all I wanted was to please him. I compromised critical parts of my personal identity in order to "make it work." Our dysfunctional marriage has been filled with various co-dependencies and insecurities. Early on, I dismissed our issues simply as immaturity. I thought, We're so young. We really love each other. Eventually, as we grow older, we'll work these things out. I need to remain committed, faithful, and patient. I was wrong. Sometimes, love just isn't enough.

In our mid-twenties when we began to discuss having children, I trusted that everything would be all right. Peter initiated the discussion. He expressed a genuine desire to be a father. He said that he wanted nothing more than to settle down and "be a real family." We discussed a traditional division of labor. The roles of breadwinner and homemaker were agreed upon, because, "...You really wouldn't want someone else raising our children, would you?" He even said, "We shouldn't space having our children too far apart, so they can grow up to be pals." Motherhood brought new levels of isolation into my life. First, I felt isolated from my friends and family. Then, I stopped speaking up, speaking out, and reaching out. I was quiet. I was in denial that I'd been hoodwinked. My husband came and went as he pleased. I felt inadequate and was embarrassed that I couldn't meet his expectations. I was scared. If I objected to his whims, he threatened to leave for good. Again, I rationalized, He wouldn't treat us with this much of disregard--be so disrespectful--if he wasn't stressed out. I just need to be more empathetic, focus on the "greater good" of keeping our family together, and try harder. WRONG, again!

It's been said that Michelangelo's sculpture of the young David is clearly a depiction of the very last instant of David's ordinary life. He is posed with a sling resting over his left shoulder and a rock is clinched in his right hand. In that instant David had a choice. He could choose to blend in, become one of the nameless faces in the crowd, or he could act. When I pulled my minivan into the parking lot of my neighborhood car wash the wee hours of a March morning my hands were trembling. My head was pounding. I was sobbing, and I was scared. I had a choice. I could continue to silently suffer as a victim of domestic violence and mistreatment like millions of other ordinary women around the world, or I could act. I took a deep breath, dialed 911, and the course of my life was forever changed in that instant. I found my voice. I spoke out. I made the difficult choice to report Peter's behavior. I faced my fears and realized that there are worse fates than being a single mom. Today, I'm no longer a timid housewife, but a strong woman who's standing up.