Sure As Sin

Sitting on the screen porch of the cabin in the cool of the evening and listening to the wind make its way through the trees, I was once again of thinking of leaving.


It was an easy enough thing to do, a voice in my head kept repeating - pack your things, get in the car, go and don't look back.  Everybody makes mistakes and there's still time to correct this one.  Write it off, clear the slate, get on with your life and free yourself.  This marriage is going to bury you if you stay.


I'd been having this same conversation with myself for years, so many in fact, that it was beginning to feel like a novel I'd read and reread a hundred times.  I'd memorized both the pros (real) and the cons (imagined) and though the smart ending was clearly to start a new book, I kept coming back to the old, familiar one where I knew the plot and every word of dialogue, chiefly because it never changed.  I tried desperately to believe each new pledge of sobriety, each tearful breakdown with its sorrowful old promises of change - and just as I was close to thinking it might be real this time - I'd open a cabinet or a closet or the washing machine and discover a fresh cache of empty beer cans.  The following fight would rage for days or weeks, sometimes even for months, and then wear itself out.  There might be a luke warm apology, there might not be, but in the end, exhausted and out of energy, I'd give up on the threats and ultimatums and tantrums and agree to start over.   A few days or a few weeks later, the cycle would repeat all over again - it was as sure as the sun coming up each morning, as reliable as rain.  And still, though I knew it was the right and only solution, though I'd witnessed the same sorry drama between my mother and daddy, still I couldn't bring myself to the exit, couldn't face and make public one more failure.  Shame survives and rules because it's kept private - it's power was in my mind and my pride - disclose it and everyone would know the secret, might even pity or judge me.  The thought was paralyzing.


I tried to rationalize my staying with fear.


I had nowhere to run.
I'd taken vows.
He wasn't evil, just sick.
I was loyal.
I was right.
I was not at fault.
I was afraid.
I'd be alone.


It took several more years but I did get out in the end - I didn't die of shame, didn't starve to death or end up homeless, didn't have to part with a single one of my animals.  It was hard to admit that every reason I had for staying was wrong, harder still to finally realize that I'd been taken in.  I'd confused love with sickness and codependency.


And now, as I watch this happen to a friend, I feel dragged back into the past.  I want to shake her to her senses, want to scream at her.  Instead, I focus on my work, my music, my photography.  I set boundaries for our friendship, explain unacceptable behavior, define limits.  I try to be gentle without pitying her, try to be there for her without enabling.  Detachment isn't the same as abandonment, I remind myself, but sure as sin, it's hard to watch as everything slips away.