I’ll admit I felt pretty good this morning about having stood up to my husband yesterday. Telling him no, telling him I had a legal right to live in an apartment with my name on the lease, and that if he wanted me out he could get a court order – but he’d have to prove there was a valid reason for it.
I was also pretty mad, to be honest. Mad at him for thinking a new car – and not even a pricey new car – is more than ample repayment for 16 years of my life. That I don’t even deserve that much.
Mad at him for showing that the only thing he actually valued in our relationship was sexual access to my body, because literally nothing has made him melt down like the idea that some other person might get to have sex with me eventually.
He would have surprised our kids with the knowledge that we were divorcing 6 days before our second son turns 13 because he was so furious that I balked at him getting to set terms on my sexuality after our relationship has been declared dead.
You know what’s funny? I’d already agreed to the terms. What, when I’m struggling just to keep my head above water on the mental health front, struggling just to write a resume, submit an application or make a phone call, I’m gonna be out there making myself vulnerable? Inviting more emotional trauma?
But he trusts me. Trusts me so much he’s sure I’m up to something nefarious and will try to kick me out of the apartment before two birthdays and 4 major holidays, without even trying to find out if his fears are true.
I’m going to hold on to this ember of anger, and I’m going to use it as fuel when I need to flip the switch from the despair of flight, to the energy of fight.