Flashback/The Ignition Point

August, 1979

Searching through the pockets of his shorts lying in a heap on the chair, I turn my attention to his wallet on the dresser, next to the car keys. With a feeling of shame, I look at the pictures in his wallet of me and our two young sons, happy moments. For weeks, maybe months, I have had a deep foreboding that something was very wrong. I do not like this suspicious version of myself. I prefer to see myself as a trusting, loving wife as I dig through his sock drawer for evidence.

Stop! I scream to myself. Collapsing in the bed, I pray. “Please reveal to me what needs to be known.”

As an answer to prayer, I retrieved a letter in my mailbox from Hilton Hotels. Addressed to Mr. & Mrs. I tear it open. An unpaid phone bill for a call made from the room on a day he was “working late.”

Just to be sure, I call the hotel to confirm my husband’s stay with his “wife.” I pay the phone bill. My stomach, the first to sense my emotional state, churns with anger, vindication, and relief.

My mother calls it “second sight,” an inheritance from our Irish ancestors. Whatever it is called, I do know things. I have an inner guidance that, my father told me long ago, was a voice to be trusted.

Picking up the phone again, I called a divorce lawyer and scheduled an appointment for later that day. Against this lawyer’s advice, I filed for divorce. The trauma of confirmation has activated something primal in me that does not even want to wait until he gets home before taking this step.

With tears streaming down my face as I drive, I turn the dial of the radio. The Camadores are singing Sail Away. The words seem like an affirmation of something I haven’t wanted to admit to myself.

I gave you my heart
And I tried to make you happy
And you gave me nothing in return
You know, it ain’t so hard to say
Would you please just go away?

I hear the car pull into the driveway and try not to pounce as he swings open the door. The fragrant aroma from the chicken cacciatore bubbling on the stove wafts through the kitchen. The house is spotless, and the boys are happily playing with their friends in the backyard. I am wearing a cute pair of shorts and tee shirt that shows off my trim figure. I have passively-aggressively staged this scene. Why would he throw all this away? Look what a perfect wife and mother I am.

Looking him in the eye, I hand him the hotel bill as I take off my wedding ring and, with a force that comes from my gut, I throw it clattering across the kitchen floor.

“When trust is gone, the marriage is over,” I whisper with the force of a scream. It is oddly exhilarating and deeply painful.

One part of my mind cannot believe this is happening. We have been together for 25 years, since 8^th grade; married for 10 years; and have two young sons. I always called him “my rock” because he provided a stability that I didn’t have growing up. Could I have been so wrong that he had been devoted to our family, our marriage, our children?

His reaction, I now know, is called “gaslighting.” Denial. Calling me crazy. I want to believe him, but I know I can’t.

The next day, I called my mom, and she came over right away. She hugs me with that deep mommy hug that reminds me of when I was a child, and she kissed my boo-boos.

“Connie, please do not make the mistake of thinking this is all his fault.” She says, leaning forward with conviction and urgency. “Don’t make yourself a victim. You played a part too. Making yourself unaccountable robs you of learning and growing and keeps you stuck in feeling helpless.”

This thought is jarring. It is satisfying to make it all his fault, his failing. I was the good wife, the good mother. What is wrong with me that he would choose someone else and throw away his family?

My mother’s question haunts me. I don’t like it, but it nudges me to admit I am relieved the marriage can come to an end. I have felt alone for some time. All our conversations are transactional. I am invisible. He doesn’t talk to me about the science fiction books I devour or why I am crying in the morning. He doesn’t understand my deep spirituality. He has never made an effort to wash the dishes, prepare a meal, or do the laundry. He considers that my job. To be honest, I thought I had found a way to make the marriage work by doing things with friends that he did not want to do—skiing, traveling, and theater trips to New York. Maybe he felt me withdrawing and being less dependent on him, especially since I started working full-time and making my own money.

My mother tells me that no matter what, everything is actually in divine order, and somewhere inside, I trust that.

A few years before, I watched her reaction when my father left her for a woman my sister’s age. She took a five-month trip with a friend, camping and tramping across Central America. When she came back, she was glowing, 20 pounds thinner, and walking with a new confidence.

“I should have left him years ago,” she confessed.

A voice in my head, like a recurring chant blaring from a megaphone, repeats “let go and let God.” I do not know what this means, but it soothes me that I will find a way through this. The first step is shown. Let go and trust.

I look back on this memory from so long ago and am astonished by the opportunity and life path it opened for me. I see now that I would never have gone to graduate school, established a career I loved, met, and married my true soulmate, or learned who I am. It was hard, exhilarating, exhausting, and scary, but it was the fire needed to cultivate strength and resilience and discover what truly mattered.

It gives me hope that, out of the pain and suffering our country is experiencing right now, something beautiful and unexpected is emerging. Perhaps it is from the trauma of watching government agents murder, kidnap, and lie that something deep is activated. Something primal is saying, “This is not okay.” And in that space, love begins to flow. Neighbors organize a “network of care” to bring groceries and help to those too frightened to leave their homes. Thousands across the nation

put on their puffy jackets and warm gloves with signs that read Be the salt, love melts ICE, and No Hate, No Fear, ICE Has No Business Here. People are rising from complacency to action and finding each other. Such a refreshing model of not bowing and kissing the ring. Of course, we all want “the worst of the worst” found and exported, but not law-abiding friends and neighbors. Not demonization of protestors and journalists. Not cruelty. A new community of labor unions, pastors, neighbors, teachers, and youth is uniting and rising for immigration rights and justice. We, the people… are waking up and maybe something wonderful is being born.

I recognize this activation point in myself, the one born from trauma, is the same at both the micro and macro levels. I see it clearly now. When things are not okay, as much as we wish they were, it is time to risk everything and make a change. Do you feel it too?