My Story, Part II -Abuse and Victimization
MY MENPATHIC JOURNEY - FROM LONELY VICTIM TO SUPERHERO, PART 2
Anxiety continued to be a dominant theme in my life. I also possessed a proclivity for making poor decisions.
As I entered my life as a divorced father of two young children, despite my advanced degree in medicine, I was continually underemployed and financially overextended. I was still feeling the devastating effects of my divorce when I met, dated, cohabited with, and married my second wife.
Looking back, there were many things in our relationship that I should’ve taken as signs that trouble was ahead, but I didn’t pay attention. At the six-month mark, despite having already suffered two broken ribs in what I described to others at the time as simply a fall, I was convinced we could make it work.
At the one-year mark, I’d moved out three times, each lasting a few weeks. I was always certain the worst was over. But that was never the case. The worst was always right around the next corner.
In hindsight, it was not unlike the reprieves I felt when my mother was hospitalized. For those few precious weeks, I was in control of my life without the fear and hyper-vigilant awareness that was the norm for most of my second marriage.
My wife hid her substance abuse from me for a few years. It’s true what they say that the closest ones to the addict are usually the most clueless. In my case, it was also true that I’d become co-dependent on her addiction for my sense of purpose.
Who would I be if I wasn’t the one trying to hold the family together? It was a tricky question to ask and an even harder one to answer.
The heaviest toll was on my children. My two kids from my first marriage were growing up and were aware that my hybrid family life wasn’t healthy.
At age 13, my daughter decided she didn’t want to continue bi-weekly weekend visits. I was hurt, but I couldn’t blame her. It was a wise decision on her part. My son continued to visit every other weekend until he was 18. I’ve never been able to express how much that meant to me fully.
The breaking point
Fifteen years into our marriage, the pattern of violence was as permanent as slabs of granite, and I felt there was no escape.
I’d suffered lacerations, body slams, concussions, and so many betrayals that I was an emotional corpse, barely hanging on to protect my six-year-old son.
I’d lost my job a few months before after my wife called my supervisor, threatening her if she showed romantic interest in me. That there was none didn’t matter in my wife’s state of mind, as hers was a mind scarred by substance abuse.
It wasn’t until after she left home to spend time at a local bar one day that a Sergeant in the San Jose Police Department approached the house and knocked on the door.
When I answered, he said he’d waited until she left before approaching; he indicated he wanted to talk to me.
“You’ll die here, Barry.”
I’ll never forget the compassion he expressed, even though what he said was hard to hear.
”Barry, if you stay much longer, you’ll die here. And that cute little boy over there will go into the system. Is that what you want for him?”
The tears streamed down my cheeks as he spoke, and for the first time, I knew beyond any doubt that I was powerless to change the situation and give my young son a somewhat normal life as long as I stayed with his mother.
The possibility of leaving him behind in her care never crossed my mind. That wasn’t even a remote possibility.
A few days later, I made the hardest decision I’ve ever made: to leave with only a backpack full of belongings and forever change our concept of family.
We drove to the home of my parents, where we camped out in a spare bedroom for over a year while the courts made their final determinations as to the fate of my son’s custody.
After a few court hearings, one restraining order, and one protective order, I was awarded sole physical custody of my youngest son and embarked on the long road to recovery for both of us. The road held many complicated twists and turns, but we hung on and built a life together.
Not long after our new life began, he started second grade, and I worked as a yard duty supervisor at my son’s new elementary school. It was for only 90 minutes daily, but it was just what I needed.
I needed to be near my son, and this seemingly unimportant, wonderfully life-saving job was the most therapeutic experience I could hope for. It allowed me time to walk to and from school each day, lose some weight, and sort things out in my head and my heart.
I also learned much about my son by watching him with other kids.
The peacemaker
I observed many wonderful moments in this job, surrounded by children, some troubled and some not.
I proudly watched as my then seven-year-old son, who’d observed so much violence in our home directed at me, became the protector of bullied kids on the school playground.
He was the peacemaker on the playground and a protector of the bullied. Little kids being chased by older kids would run to him for protection. On one occasion, I saw him move a small child behind him and stand his ground with his arms crossed, daring the perpetrators to go further.
I can only imagine the dialogue, but the visual made my heart overflow with compassion for him.
I saw myself in a lot of those small kids.
Over the years, it became clear that my youngest son had been ‘my’ protector, not the opposite. In many ways, he finished raising me, and in doing so, he became my greatest teacher.
Throughout our recovery, therapists were instrumental in helping us move on and grow into the next phase of our lives.
When he started the 4th grade, we moved from San Jose, California, 40 miles west, to Santa Cruz County and lived in a small bungalow two blocks from the Pacific Ocean for the next 12 years.
I maintain that 12 years by the ocean can heal anyone of almost anything.
As I mentioned above, my son—also an empath and HSP—has been my greatest teacher in many ways since a tender age.
A lasting peace
You might think that I dislike or even hate my ex-wife, but I don’t. I don’t have any ill feelings toward her at all anymore. It’s been 25 years since we split, and I see her occasionally when circumstances involve our son.
We exchange text messages every now and then, and I’m grateful that she’s come a very long way on her own path of recovery.
My son deserves a good mom, and she became one. She will always be my son’s mother, so we will always be in one another’s lives. For many years, we were both victims. We embraced the victim mentality and blamed the others for our pain. But as time passed, age taught us valuable lessons, and our son taught us more.
He taught us how to be family again. Though we remain apart, separate, and on our paths, we are still—and will remain—a family.
The bond of a lifetime
My son is still a peacemaker at heart. He’s an accomplished musician and songwriter. He also made a practical lifestyle choice and adopted the straight-edge (no alcohol, drugs, or tobacco) mode of living. I couldn’t be prouder of his choices and the man he’s become.
