Foreword
Eighteen years have gone by since my husband ended his life (now, 26 years). Eighteen years of confusion, reflection, and celebration of the life he led and the lives his family has to lead. Months after Nick killed himself his angry images continued to stalk me. I prayed for a peaceful night’s sleep. It doesn’t matter whether or not his images were dreams, terrors, guilt, or visits from the other side. They changed me. I had an eerie feeling going to bed. I closed my eyes, blinked, opened them and continued to meet his angry glare.
"Till death do us part,” he charged out of clenched teeth.
Our son's eighth birthday party was doomed from the start. Nick brought home a BB gun for him and another fight ignited. "No guns!" I screamed. Balloons and birthday cake filled the house while threats and fear ruined the air.
The children and I left to stay with my parents for a few days.
“Nick and I are having problems and need some time apart.” Outside of the boxing ring would have been more accurate.
Late the second night the phone blared through my sleep. The usual obscenities cut through the wires and I laid the receiver down on the table. I didn’t hang up. The sickness of codependence and addictive love stuck the phone back up on my ear.
“Are you there?”
Silence.
“I swear I’ll kill you if you ever hang up on me. You can tell your parents to watch out too.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked.
“You can’t leave me. Not now. We've been through too much together. What about the kids? Don’t you care if they have a dad? Or, do you already have someone lined up?”
Silence.
“Come home tonight. Alone. We need to talk. I promise I won’t hurt you."
I sighed, hung up and told mom I had to go. I was just as sick as he was. Mom’s eyes sank back, heavy and black. She couldn’t stop the obsession. I was out of her control. She must be content with keeping her grandchildren safe.
God, what was I doing? I married him. I thought I owed him. The thirty minutes on the highway did not clear my mind. I turned the key to our little three-bedroom ranch. The night air had cooled to a perfect 68 degrees. Stars lit up the night sky and I looked around our neighborhood. There wasn’t a soul awake who could help me and I walked inside.
He was waiting, naked, for me in bed. We made love that night or some sick variation of obligatory sex and solved absolutely nothing. Neither one of us knew how to get beyond ourselves. Many years later I can label the love we shared. Addictive love. The cycle of violence had circled throughout our twelve-year marriage. The honeymoon stage with chocolate hearts, red roses, and spontaneous sex flowed into the tension-building stage filled with vulgarity and insults which crashed into the explosive stage cram packed with screams, broken flower pots, and overturned bowls of chili dinners... and then? The honeymoon stage all over again, and again, and again. Memories twisted into nightmares.
Nick's eyes chased me from his grave as I trembled for the lights to turn on and scare the demons away. There had been so much fear, depression, and anger prior to our separation. I’m not leaving for someone else, I thought. I’m leaving to save my life. Selfish? Around and around the images flew, old dialogues, new additions. Exhaustion eventually awakened a willingness that brought hope for a peaceful night’s sleep.
Norman Cousins once said the capacity for hope is the most significant fact of life. It provides human beings with a sense of destination and the energy to get started. I knew deep inside of me that Nick had loved each one of us and we still loved him.
One night I cuddled up all of the love I had for him, looked into his rage and held my heart up to him. Night after night love melted the icy scare of madness. Every time his eyes met mine I focused on the love that had brought us together, gave us children and brought laughter into our home. At one time, our life had fullness, excitement, and beauty. It had been much more than arguments and addictions. I offered Nick the only thing that mattered. Love. I slept.
