The silence is deafening. It roars. As we try to avoid yet another fight, we opt for silence instead. All the ‘tricks’ of getting past these rough spots, as counselors refer to them, have been ineffective. Neither person feels they can give any more of themselves than they already have. They are fairly whittled to the bone.
Gone too, are all or any attempts at civility – no more bothering to be polite – what point is there in that now, you say. You don’t want to be mistaken for wanting a reconcile. Especially if it means you have to give even more of yourself. You try not to let hate to creep in, but those slippery little feet find their way in regardless. In a moment of brevity, you think “Well isn’t this a fine kettle of fish I’m in.” But most times you’re hurting too much to see any humor in the situation.
My name is Kristenaux and this is where I am at this time. Kristenaux, by the way, is what the French Canadians called the Mistassini Cree, of which I am a descendant. The Crees called themselves Kinistenoags [men of the woods] which the French voyageurs first changed to Kristenaux and later shortened to “Kris”. It’s funny how things that start for one reason will end at another – yet here I am too – Kris.
It is also funny how I got to this eventual place. It took a lot of years and frankly not many of them were happy ones. Why I allowed myself to continually be coerced into ‘giving it another try’ I don’t know. Circumstances played a large role, of course. Not being able to strike out on my own due to a poor education left me unable to earn a decent living wage, and adding a disability to that makes it more difficult still because most jobs available for high school grads are low paying jobs that entail manual labor. This I share not as a complaint, but rather to explain why leaving wasn’t as easy for me as it might be for others.
My marriage provided me with financial security. But it extracted so much more from me. Living with the verbal and emotional abuses were demoralizing, still, I managed them. In fact, after so many years, I’ve forgotten what it’s like to receive a genuine compliment or praise from the man who is suppose to love me. I don’t know exactly when he transferred the abuses he showered on his mother over to me either. But somewhere along the way he did. And I felt as long as the physical abuses didn’t begin, I was somehow alright. Sticks and stones…
But the physical hurts have started. Simple pushes or the grabbing of an arm at first, but now escalating to kicks and choking. Being thrown to the floor. At this point, I am going to blog it all as a record of my life and my marriage – beginning middle and end, and hopefully a happy future post marriage. I will be keeping this as a diary – a journal of sorts, so I can add to it as I need to.
The photo at the top by the way, is my pondering place. It is a beautiful quiet, serene place in Chester County PA, where I can go and feel safe.
Rorschach's Cusp 