When Being the Perfect Wife Isn't Enough

At seventeen I became pregnant and thought that getting married was what I was supposed to do. Just like I thought staying married in spite of the abuse was what I was supposed to do. For me, everyday was a new day to try to be the perfect wife. I looked forward to the sun coming up because I knew that the storm was over. Our relationship was great as long as it was daylight. It was when the sun would go down that the storm would start.

The day after we were married was the first time I got hit. I had ironed a shirt and missed a small wrinkle. For that I got slapped. From that day on it was an everyday thing that continued to get worse. Alcohol played a part in the abuse and I soon realized that. The next day when he was sober he would sincerely apologize and no matter how bad the beating was the night before, he would do something extremely nice for me. Several times he had huge bouquets of flowers delivered to me at work. My bruises didn't show and everyone thought I was the perfect wife and married to the greatest guy in the world. Somehow I wanted to believe them.

I was beaten through my pregnancy and it's a wonder that I didn't miscarry. The first time I felt some kind of compassion from another person and control in the situation was when I was in the hospital and the doctor threw him out and told him to come back when he was sober. My daughter was delivered by caesarian almost seven weeks early. After she was born and I was recovering at home I got the longest break from the beatings I'd ever had. It lasted about two weeks. Then they became even worse than before. No amount of makeup could completely cover the visible bruises and my co-workers quit believing that I'd ran into a door or gotten hit with a ball while playing tennis.

There were several times he promised to quit drinking and a few times I thought he actually did quit for almost a week. He had only managed to hide it really well, mainly because he was able to exercise some self-control over feeling the need to hit me. Because I knew he did have some will power buried deep inside, I honestly believed him every time he promised he would stop drinking if I would stay. Just like I had started believing him when he told me I was worthless, stupid and no good.

Apparently the alcohol was stronger than he was. Soon it became my fault that he drank. It should have been obvious that there was nothing I could do right to keep him from drinking, but I tried so hard not to give him a reason. Once I corrected one thing he said I did wrong, he would come up with another. I had seen my mom deal with my alcoholic father and she hung in there for a long time. Of course they ended up getting divorced and he moved away, but I thought I could be the perfect wife and keep that from happening to my marriage. There must have been some mistake she made that I wouldn't make.

A mixture of emotions that I thought were love and the urge to not give up kept me there. When I finally quit caring about being a quitter and realized that this wasn't love, the threat of "if you leave, I'll kill you" lurked in the back of my mind. The day I realized that he was going to kill me if I stayed or left was when I was finally able to let go and end the relationship.

I don't remember what had started the fight. I only remember lying on my stomach on the floor with him on top of me beating me. The windows were open and I could see the neighbors across the street in their front yard weeding their flowers. I screamed for them to please help me, but they just acted like they didn't hear me. Somehow I got away and ran to the other end of the house only to be drug back by my hair and a telephone cord wrapped around my neck. He kicked me out the back door and slammed the door closed. I was naked, bloody and bruised. I heard my baby screaming and crying and then I blacked out.

The next thing I remember was my neighbor wrapping a robe around me and taking me inside her house. When the cops got there, they told me that I would have to stay there if I wanted to stay with my baby because he wouldn't let me take her and it appeared that he could take care of her. I told them that he was standing there drunk holding her and she didn't even have a diaper on and to explain to me how that is showing that he is capable of taking care of her. They agreed and made him give her to me.

After I gathered up some things I left. His parents told him that I agreed that if he went to rehab I would stay and work things out. He admitted himself into an inpatient 30-day program and I went to visit him a couple of times. With him out of the house, I started cleaning and found over 150 empty vodka bottles that had been stashed throughout the house. They were stuffed deep in the couches, hidden in the back corners of cabinets and inside the tanks of the commodes. I even found them stuffed under the mattress of my daughter's crib.

By the fourth week he was in the rehab program I'd decided that I didn't want to take a chance and let him come back. That was one of the smartest decisions I think I'd made in a long time. Over the next 10 years he went to several rehabs, including a few that were out-of-state and ended up in detox in numerous jails. It took 15 years, but he eventually did change. He's now remarried and is a Sunday school teacher. I'm happy for him, but I'm happier for me because I decided not to give him another chance.

Like I said before, I looked forward to when the sun came up because I then could have the relationship that I longed for. It was when I realized that I might never see another sunrise that finally convinced me to get out before it was too late. I still look forward to the sun coming up because I can now enjoy it going down as well.