My mother had been dead for four months. I had become the matriarch of our family in one fell swoop. At only 34-years-old, I felt alone on the planet. I had finally gotten my independence from an alcoholic, unfaithful husband, but my dependent nature clung to me like soot after a fire. I wanted to wash it off, but a residue remained, leaving me longing for someone…anyone…
…but especially for the type my church seemed to suggest I should look for…a strong leader…a man to submit to.
As I worked the microfiche machine at my desk at work, searching through other people’s family stories, I yearned to be part of a family and have a story of my own. I issued birth, death, and marriage certificates for other families daily. The County Clerk’s office had also promoted me to “Commissioner of Civil Marriages,” allowing me to perform civil wedding ceremonies for anyone wanting to either get married during the week at the courthouse or hire me for weekend weddings in homes, the park, or at the beach. Performing marriage ceremonies seemed to feed my loneliness even more, leaving me empty and vulnerable. Everyone else was finding their person.
I was working at the vital records counter, listening to the good-natured chirping between my co-workers. Suddenly, everyone stopped talking. The only sound in the large room came from the overhead fans and the rustling of paperwork on the desks near the open door. Curious, I glanced up from the microfiche machine.
At first I thought everyone else recognized a movie star I had not seen before. Now I noticed all eyes were on me. It was my turn to work the counter. I fumbled around with the switches on the machine and walked up to the counter to wait on the man standing there.
“May I help you?” I looked up. Our eyes met. “Hey, I think I know you,” I said.
“I doubt it,” he said, dripping with sarcasm. I took a step back.
“Well, I mean I think I’ve seen you. Do you go to church?” Wow…what was I doing?
He glanced up quickly, seeming to see me for the first time.
“Yeah,” he said, sounding a little friendlier.
I helped him with his paperwork, trying not to stare at him. After he left, several of the women standing close by tittered and made little comments about his gorgeous good looks. I was already thinking about how I could sit nearby him at the next church service and try to catch his eye again.
Within two weeks he had volunteered to head a committee of men who would help me get my newly rented home ready for move-in. It needed paint, some electrical work, and the carpet ripped out, and he was handy. He came over every day, bending, stooping, and reaching. I admired all 6’4” of him in all of his various positions. He talked about the Lord constantly, incessantly in fact. I tried to admire this, but it felt off and more than a little odd. That cognitive dissonance again, only I wasn’t ready to heed the warning.
One day, coming back from running errands together, I asked him for a hug (sneaky strategy, huh?). He sat there for several moments, not moving, not speaking, his eyes closed. My stomach lurched. I wondered if I had just made some terrible faux pas. Suddenly he reached over and hugged me so hard it hurt and whispered, “The Lord told me I could.”
At first we found ways to spend time together without really calling it a date. It was important to him that we went about this the “right” way for the Lord. Nearing Christmas, we made a plan together (I thought) to take my children to get a Christmas tree. My kids and I got up early. They were clearly excited as we scrambled around the house, getting ready for the big day. Then we waited. And we waited. He didn’t show up. He didn’t call. Finally, I called him.
“Hi, what are you up to?” I feigned cheer. “I thought we were going to take the kids to get a Christmas tree together?”
“You sound exactly like my ex-wife!”
My breath caught in my throat and my eyes widened as I tried to process what I just heard. A sound came out of my mouth, but instead of forming a word, I slammed the receiver down on the cradle. I began to hyperventilate. It felt like something was being ripped away from me. The kids and I remained home for the day while I wrestled with my anxiety. We were disappointed, and I felt totally confused…like I had just met Mr. Hyde.
Of course his next phone call smoothed away all my fears. He was just tired, busy, something had happened at work that had upset him, he was sorry, and he’d make it right.
One night we double-dated with another couple. He had planned the evening around dinner at a sushi bar and then it would be off to the Sycamore Mineral Springs Spa in Avila Beach, California, one of the most romantic places for a date. Each oak barrel tub is separated enough from the others for maximum privacy. Little lights line the dark paths winding up the hill through a sycamore grove. I was looking forward to showing off my new bathing suit I bought, just for this occasion. When I saw the truck drive up, I ran out to greet my friends. I opened the passenger door, jumped in, shut the door, and turned to smile.
“Don’t slam my door like that!” he glared. Everyone went silent. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to.” My face reddened, but I struggled to normalize the request in my mind. Of course he needs to make sure I don’t slam his door. It’s a new truck. I worked hard in the next minutes to pretend I didn’t notice his anger in front of our friends. It was clear they were as surprised as I was.
We ended up having a wonderful time and I let myself relax. But my mind began to compartmentalize my experiences. One part held fear, caution, and lots of confusion. The other part held the picture of the six foot, four inch, romantic man with the movie star looks. He had a good job; he was handy around the house and good with money. He was a gourmet cook and loved to grow orchids. And he was a super spiritual version of what was on my top 10 list. He was everything a good Christian woman should want, right?
It seemed like every woman in the church, single and married alike was riveted on my relationship with this mysterious man. I was suddenly catapulted into a type of churchy celebrity status. For the first time in my life I had something that others wanted too. Other single women approached him, and asked him out for coffee or for lunch. He turned them down and I felt pride that he had chosen me over so many others from our large church. Only I never felt I had a firm grip. My stomach began to do a play by play of events and I ended up in the doctor’s office almost weekly after being diagnosed with colitis. I dropped 13 pounds in less than a month. My feelings were on hyper alert. Is this what love is? I still had no idea.
The next time we argued, he again told me he was just tired, busy, something had happened at work that had upset him, he was sorry, and he’d make it right. And besides, I had pushed a button of his, and if I just had not done that, this would never have happened. I would have to try not to do that.
He planned beautiful, romantic dates at the best restaurants, including roses and wine, and ending with long walks on the beach. He drove me up to the mountaintop late one afternoon. He brought a quilt, champagne and flutes, smoked salmon and cheddar cheese, and spread them on the ground. He helped me out of the truck and gently wrapped a blanket around my shoulders. We sat and ate and talked until dark. He tipped my chin up towards the sky and whispered, “Just wait.” Soon, a trail of light blazed across the sky. One shooting star, then another. Then another. Then he kissed me. I flung my doubts out to the sky and let them disappear into the black ink.
Our relationship became a series of conflicts, retreats and pursuits, the pattern repeating itself over and over. I grew up in chaos. I was used to never knowing what would happen. Adrenaline rushing through my body was familiar. I believed the only way to bring a stop to my insecurity was to marry him. I was sure my own fears about his love were what were causing problems. I believed it would be good for my son to have a strong male figure in his life. If the church wanted me to be a submissive wife to a strong leader, this guy would make it easy. I wouldn’t even have to try. It was his way or the highway.
The night we got back from our honeymoon was a turning point. Now that we were married, Mr. Hyde quit playing hide and seek and decided to stay for dinner. I felt helpless for several minutes while I listened to him bully my children about helping. They weren’t doing anything right. The silverware didn’t go the way they put it on the table. They weren’t fast enough and dinner was getting cold! He looked at them as if they were stupid. They became quiet, and nervous, giving each other sideward glances.
“I sure hope you are listening to the Holy Spirit right now.” I said. He glanced down and seemed embarrassed. My chest swelled a little. I had stepped in and taken care of it, just like that! I am a good mother.
Soon, none of us were doing anything right. Nothing happened without his approval. If it wasn’t originally his idea, the answer was “no.” No. I could not take my daughter to the store with me. No, I could not start the laundry. No, I could not invite my son’s friends to his birthday party. If he did say “yes,” he then would change his mind at the last minute. My friends could come over when he said they could. They came less and less. My sister could visit, but she walked on eggshells and spent time crying in the guest room. He always answered the phone on first ring, screening all our calls. He wouldn’t let my teenage daughter lock the bathroom door.
Then we were battling over how to cook ground beef or when to start a load of laundry. He was disgusted when I didn’t know to put two slices of cheese on a grilled cheese sandwich instead of just one, so he threw it in the trash. I began to filter everything I did or said around what the consequences would look like. What would he say if he knew I thought this, said that, or did this other thing? What would he do? Mostly I knew what he would do, and it wasn’t pleasant.
At times I escaped by hiding in the tree house in our backyard. I took long walks or I got in my car and drove to a nearby gas station and cried to a friend from the payphone. My anxiety attacks and depression worsened and I needed medication. I began seeing a psychiatrist. My mental illness came roaring back. I had to quit my job.
My children were miserable. I started calling some friends to see if we could come stay with them for a while and no one could help. I began stashing change from the market in a shoe along with a spare set of keys. I ordered a credit card in my own name. I knew I had made another stupid, stupid mistake, and I felt ashamed. I stopped looking into my friend’s eyes when I went to church. I lied to everyone. I’m fine, how are you?
My church family and pastor seemed to turn their eyes away, as if they couldn’t stand to watch the train wreck happen. No one called; no one came to help. The church counselors knew I had bruises, but by this time his charisma and charm had landed him a position on staff at the church. They believed him when he told them I was out of control. Many times I drove onto the freeway and just screamed out to God in desperation. But I didn’t believe I deserved his help. After all, I had done this…with eyes wide open.
My oldest son was married and had my firstborn grandson. He didn’t like my new husband and the dislike was mutual between them. True to a narcissistic’s nature, my husband attempted to cut him out of my life. He told me I could no longer see my own son. I went to the pastor and asked what to do.
“This is a sad situation, but all you can do is pray and hope God changes his heart. You need to submit to his leadership and if he says you can no longer have anything to do with your son, then you need to stop communicating with your son.”
By this time, I knew this was bogus and there was no way I was going to be obedient to my pastor. There was a little bit of fear in going against “one of God’s anointed,” but I didn’t care at this point. I saw my son almost everyday on my lunch break from work.
One day, my husband mentioned to one of the church counselors that after I had gone to bed one night he walked into the bedroom and “saw” me both in the bed sleeping and standing next to the bed at the same time. One of the counselors called and asked me to come in and see her.
“Linda, you have multiple personality disorder,” she told me.
She may be right, I thought. I certainly felt split in two right there in that counseling room. One part of me was sitting across from a woman I had highly respected as someone who was good at “hearing from God.” The other part of me knew that what I was hearing was absurd. As I drove away from the church, I thought about my past experience with mental illness and how, if she had convinced me I had multiple personality disorder, it would have destroyed my life.
The people in the church, people I believed were my friends, believed a narcissistic controlling charismatic man over me, someone they had known for years. My parents and grandparents were all gone. My brother was gone. I had a sister in Los Angeles with enough troubles of her own. But no matter if God was going to be angry with me for this marriage and my thoughts of divorce, I was going to get out of this.
After one big fight, my husband had left to stay at his mother’s. I was filled with fear that he would come home. I decided to make my move. I called my husband and asked to meet in the middle of a parking lot at the shopping center. With others around for protection, I told him I was divorcing him. It had been two and a half years of pure hell. I was a shell of who I had been starting to become. I was thin, hollow-eyed, and defeated. I was filled with guilt over what I had allowed to happen to my children and myself. I believed God was so disappointed in me that he had turned his back altogether. In one month’s time I had managed to lose a husband, my home, my car, and my job. It was my third divorce. I was wrecked.
So I did what I did best. I ran. There’s a story in the Bible about a concubine of Abraham’s. Her name was Hagar. She gave birth to Ishmael, before Abraham’s wife had her own son, Isaac. In Sarah’s jealously, she mistreated Hagar to the point of desperation. Hagar ran out to the desert with her son, alone, and seeming without friend or protector.
I thought of her as I ran out to my own desert, away from church, friends, family. I ran empty-handed. And then, just like God met Hagar in the desert, God met me there too. He picked me up and carried me like a wounded little bird in a cardboard box. He was gentle, tender, giving me little sips of water. He slowly restored my spirit and eventually, he restored everything I had lost.
And then he began to teach me how to fly on my own.
This account of your experience with your third husband is some of the best writing you've done. I constantly marvel at your survival abilities and the magnitude of endurance. This really explains how much you understand others that have been gravely effected by narcissists.
Your experience was so unfortunate, my own pales in comparison. But you came through it a stronger person with a clear sense of purpose. I admire you. And your writing tells the story clearly and with empathy. Of course, I’ll subscribe.