Girl's Got Some Issues

It was three o'clock in the morning, and I remember it like it was yesterday. Sitting in his mother's den, I was frantic that Rob (my then-boyfriend, now ex-husband) was not home and had not called. As I cried to his mother and wondered aloud whether we should call the highway patrol and the emergency rooms, she seemed surprisingly noncommittal. Did I really think that something had happened to Rob? She supposed that he was just out having a good time with friends.

"No," I fervently protested. "That's just not like him not to call." I was only 19 or 20 at the time and didn't realize then all of the scared, lonely nights that lay before me. The reality was that he was out with friends having a good time that night and had not thought to call. In the years to come, it became "my" issue. Didn't I know better than to think he was dead in a ditch somewhere?

Over time, the problem escalated to the point that despite my worry for him, I did believe that it was more likely than not that he would make it home sometime late into the night, extremely intoxicated and not in the least sorry for the concern that he had caused. As the years went by, my fear was slowly replaced by anger and bitterness that were kept at bay on all but the worst nights when he'd come home drunk and amorous and not wanting to accept no for an answer.

This came to an abrupt end three years into our marriage with a phone call I received in the middle of a sunny, hot Texas afternoon. "Ask your husband about Diane," was the first thing the anonymous caller said.

"What?"

"Ask your husband who he was with last night."

"Who are you and why are you calling here?"

"Because I think you should know that your husband was out with Diane all night."

I stood there shocked and appalled as the caller hung up. In the midst of all my previous feelings of fear and anger, it had never occurred to me that Rob would actually be out with another woman. I know that sounds naive, but despite any other issues, we were really good friends who enjoyed each other's company and an active, adventurous sex life. What reason would he possibly have for stepping out with someone else?

When Rob returned home that evening, he answered my questions with, "Don't be ridiculous. I may have been dancing with girls at the club last night, but I wasn't out with anyone." Pressed further, my fears were deemed "crazy," and I was warned not to become one of "those controlling, obsessive wives."

To my credit, the latest escalation was enough to make me demand we go to marriage counseling. It was a grueling, weekly process with each session ending in a near-migraine headache. Rob stood his ground. He was not having, nor had he ever had, an affair.

Life-Changing Phone Call

After nearly six months in marriage counseling and sober, responsible, repentant behavior on Rob's part, I came to the conclusion that we were ready to phase out of the counseling. There hadn't been any more anonymous calls, unexplained debit charges, or late nights out. Rob was as attentive as he had been when we first started dating.

And then the break-through bleeding started. At first, I chalked it up to the stress of graduate school, but when the issues continued, I made an appointment to see my gynecologist. Dr. Casanova's office (yes, that was his real name) called me at work with the news that I had Chlamydia. Thankfully, Chlamydia is a curable STD. Let me qualify: The physical symptoms are curable. The emotional after-effects of being infected with an STD by your husband last years after the antibiotics have killed any bacteria.

I sat in my office, mouth agape, as I asked the doctor's office to explain again my diagnosis. Was it possible that I had been infected prior to my marriage, more than three years ago? No. Was it possible that I could have contracted it from some public place, like a restroom? No. The facts were these: I had been in what I thought was a committed relationship for more than seven years (three of those married), and during that time, the man I was committed to had exposed me to an STD.

We've Got Something We Need to Talk About
Rob arrived home from work to find me waiting at the kitchen table that evening. "We've got something we need to talk about," I said quietly.

"What?" the abrupt response.

As I told him the news from the doctor's office that day, he looked at me without flinching and said, "So who have you been screwing around with, because I don't have any disease!"

I'm quite sure it would have stung less to have him punch me in the face than to hear those words. Rob was the only man with whom I'd ever had sexual intercourse. Within a matter of hours, I'd been forced to face the fact that not only was that not true for him during the course of our marriage, but that he was going to try to blame me for this.

For once, I got angry. Furious. When he realized that I was not about to accept that, he made his way back to our bedroom. Still sitting at the kitchen table, crying quietly now, I heard a distinct noise. Sprinting back to the bedroom, I found him sitting on the side of the bed with a gun, cocked, against his temple. Tearfully, Rob admitted that he was the one who'd had the affair but swore that it had been a one-night stand. (I've never understood how that was supposed to make it better, even if I'd believed—even then—that it was the truth.)

Within a matter of weeks, he was battling an issue that appeared to be cancer of the lymph nodes, and I retreated fully into co-dependent, nursing role. Following surgery, recovery, and a good prognosis, we decided to reconcile. We traveled to Las Vegas on our wedding anniversary and renewed our vows at Graceland Wedding Chapel with an officiant who was dressed as Elvis. (Yes, really...) Life leveled out and stayed on what seemed to be a pretty even keel until I became pregnant with our son.

The Reader's Digest version of the story is this: With Austin's birth came Rob's jealousies for my time and attention and the old drinking behaviors. Within two years, he was staying out again, and all of the red flags were back about extramarital flings. This time, however, things were worse. He now became obsessed with the idea that I was having affairs, that men were hitting on me, that I was looking for a reason to leave him. After 12 years of marriage, and another failed attempt at marriage counseling and reconciliation, I came to the conclusion that the only thing I could do was divorce. The terror and difficulty of those times have been discussed in other blog posts, but the last straw came one night when he broke into the house, and I thought he would kill us both.

The Ghost of Terror Past

Flash forward seven years and an emotional and spiritual lifetime. Here's why I'm sharing this ancient history with you. Because, to my dismay, the feelings of those memories are not quite so ancient. Surprise (and not a good one)!

"John" and I have been developing a friendship for a little over a month now. I really like him and respect him. He's kind, brilliant, and gentlemanly with a dry wit. I enjoy time spent with him, and I can imagine us developing a lifelong friendship—or more.

We've now been out as friends on several occasions, and we often text late into the night just sharing life with each other. In all regards, physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual, it would be impossible for him to be any more different from Rob.

Last week, I was on a family vacation to Mexico for the week. I returned Sunday afternoon, and that evening and the next, we resumed our routine of texting late into the night. Tuesday was my first day back to work, and celebrating the end of the day, I sent him a text to proclaim that I'd survived and to inquire about his day. No response.

As the evening progressed, I started to feel a spiritual heaviness for him (not relating to the two of us but to him particularly). I've been given the gift of intercessory prayer so it's not unusual for me to begin to feel a real burden for someone. By nine that evening, I was so concerned that I sent him an encouraging email and pasted in one of my blog posts (about God bringing life to the dead areas in our lives) as a pick-me-up. No response.

By the next afternoon, the old panic was back. I sent another text—with a funny, light tone—asking him to let me know that he was okay. No response. Thirty minutes later, I called and left a short voice mail, expressing the same concern and request. No response. The fear that began to grip me was distracting. "John" lives by himself. While he's in good general health, he does have high blood pressure. What if something had happened? What if he was hurt or injured and there was no one there to help?

Suddenly all of the old scripts began to play in my head. He's off with another woman. He's drunk somewhere or in trouble with the law. (Rob had three DUIs in an 8-year span.) I had absolutely no reason to think any of these things. He's not had any behaviors to indicate that he would do these sorts of things. The reality was, here were old hurts for which I still need to receive healing. Ouch!

Let's Get Real

Around six o-clock that evening, "John" texted to let me know that he was out of town working in Pensacola. He had received my Facebook message and "had no time to process and respond." He apologized and wished me well for the day. Of course, he had mentioned to me on Monday that he was trying to pull a work trip together to the Panhandle. This was not his issue. It was mine.

As I related this to a Christian girlfriend of mine, she reminded me of one of the passages that God keeps bringing to mind in this process: "Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things" (Phillipians 4:8, NIV).

As this relationship develops, time and again, I've had to remember these two things:
(1) Satan is a liar, the father of all lies, and there is no truth in him. Of course, he'd like nothing better than to destroy a beautiful friendship with fear and doubt.
(2) God is faithful. I don't trust myself to make relationship decisions yet, and I don't know "John" well enough to trust him. But I do trust God to lead me where I should go in this, to speak to me about His will for me, and to work all things together for my good.

Who would have thought that receiving the very thing you've been waiting on for seven years might demand more faith than the wait itself. Thankfully, God is with me—and you—every step of the way!