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Abstract

her, knowing full well how she tortured me.He was only two years older than me and had a lucrative engineering position at the local utility. But when he was home, my husband behaved like a perpetual grump in his late thirties who hated to have fun.While I loved dancing and listening to music with friends all night, my partner wanted none of that action. Lee only wanted to stay home, smoke his stinky pipes, watch the evening news, and be in bed by 10:00 p.m. He rarely talked to me about anything unless he belittled or criticized me. He didn’t seem to enjoy spending time with me, preferring to spend time alone.The guilt, anger, and deep despair I felt about my failing marriage was overwhelming. I couldn’t talk about it to anyone. Not to my best friends. Certainly not to my strict Catholic parents, who believed marriage was forever.I thought I was prepared for the onslaught of contradictory emotions, but I was wrong. It was impossible for me to anticipate how I’d feel when my marriage ended — even such a terrible one.But I felt strangely ambivalent as I rushed back to work with all my worldly possessions stuffed into my tiny car. Where was the instant relief, the emotional collapse, or the tears?Later that evening, as I unpacked my meager belongings, waves of sadness washed over me, and tears spilled over my cheeks. My body shook with sobs as I rode a roller coaster of emotions.Over the next few weeks, my enraged husband vacillated between begging me to return home and threatening to ruin my life if I didn’t. The louder he screamed, the more resolved I became about my decision to leave him.When none of his promises or threats failed to work, he took drastic measures and called in my horrified parents to run interference. The three of them ganging up on me was more than I could bear. I finally agreed to accompany Lee to couples counseling with one of the clerical therapists in my parent’s Catholic parish. It was an exercise in futility.After just one session, the priest bluntly informed us our marriage couldn’t be saved. Our best action was filing for a church annulment and legal divorce. He offered to help us with the official annulment papers. At that moment, I saw the fight go out of Lee’s eyes. We both knew it was over.When I told my parents the outcome of our counseling session, my mother flipped out. She blamed me for the collapse of my marriage. Mom accused me of bringing embarrassment to her and shame to our family’s past, present, and future generations. I had the unique experience of being the first person ever divorced

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in the extended family tree.My father remained silent while my mother ranted and raved. He seemed genuinely sad about my marital change but didn’t want to upset my mother further. When it came to the resident family monster, he made a wise choice.Our divorce was a simple, no-fault matter since we didn’t have children or much property to divide. Lee had long stopped speaking to me. Everything was handled through our attorneys.The last time I saw my husband was as he walked out of the courtroom on the day our divorce hearing took place. It was exactly one year after I drove off from our house on my lunch hour. He didn’t look at me or make any contact.Two years after the civil divorce, on the exact anniversary of our original wedding, a cardboard envelope arrived by express mail, requiring my signature. I didn’t want to, but I signed for it. The letterhead was from the local Catholic archdiocese office. Curious, I stopped and read the enclosed paperwork confirming the official marriage annulment.A note in the local cardinal’s looping cursive was paper-clipped to the front of the packet: “By obtaining a Catholic annulment, you are, in essence, saving yourself from sin and receiving a cleansing in God’s eyes.”I was amused. Somehow, I had been restored to virgin statue. That meant I was also free to remarry because I was officially considered pure in the eyes of the Church once again. Just as I was before my first marriage.Tears trapped deep inside my soul suddenly escaped. I cried for the husband I’d married, who was gone forever. I grieved for the marriage I wished we’d had instead and all the mistakes I’d made during our time together. I forgave myself for any unkindness I’d displayed leaving the union so suddenly.I appreciated what I’d learned about myself during the marriage and the divorce. I celebrated the personal growth. Finally, I mourned the absolute end of the marriage, dried my tears, and filed the annulment papers away.Four years later, I met a wonderful man completely different from my first husband. We fell deeply in love and married for all the right reasons. I applied all the lessons I learned from my failed marriage to my new one. Although not perfect — no marriage is — we enjoyed 23 years of happiness until my husband died suddenly from a heart attack.

That beautiful union and those amazingly happy years could never have happened if I hadn’t worked up the courage to leave my bad marriage on my lunch hour. Even though it was a difficult decision, I have never regretted spending my lunch hour leaving my husband.</article></body>

THE WIND PHONE

Why I Left My Husband on My Lunch Hour

I finally found the courage to stop lying to myself

Image of author as a bride cutting into the wedding cake — courtesy of Karen Marie Shelton

It was my lunch hour, and there wasn’t a second to waste. There were no farewell parties or champagne toasts as I jammed my favorite jeans and tees into my old college trunk.

No one wished me “good luck” in making the most heart-wrenching decision of my life.

There I was, alone in a deadly silent old brick house built before my birth. I glanced around the master bedroom I’d always hated, trying to ensure I’d grabbed anything necessary for the new life I was embarking on.

I dragged my overstuffed trunk to my car and closed the door behind me. My four-year marriage was over just like that.

I was a 23-year-old bright-eyed, bouncy blonde with a shiny new master’s degree in public policy, a great new career, and a stodgy husband I’d never truly loved.

Lee was in total denial about our decaying marriage, which should never have happened in the first place. My husband had caught me at a vulnerable time in my life. I was desperately searching for a permanent escape from homelessness.

My life was further complicated by dealing with my toxic terrorist mother, who’d been perpetually abusing and torturing me with her narcissistic and misogynistic behaviors since my birth.

Lee aggressively pursued me from the minute we met at a party when I was 18. As our relationship deepened, he implored me to marry him, claiming he wanted to rescue me from all my difficult life challenges. I thought he was my Prince Charming when he offered to financially support me and pay all my college tuition. He seemed genuinely committed to helping me finish my undergraduate degree.

The ink on our marriage license wasn’t completely dry when he started reneging on every single promise he’d ever made. He advised me that if I wanted to remain in college, I’d have to find multiple sources of employment to pay my tuition. Plus, I had to cover my share of our living expenses. Lee expected me to do all the housework besides working and going to college.

When I was recruited for an elite graduate program, my spouse aggressively attempted to block my attendance. He lectured me on why women didn’t need advanced degrees. Lee also went out of his way to arrange social events with my mother, knowing full well how she tortured me.

He was only two years older than me and had a lucrative engineering position at the local utility. But when he was home, my husband behaved like a perpetual grump in his late thirties who hated to have fun.

While I loved dancing and listening to music with friends all night, my partner wanted none of that action. Lee only wanted to stay home, smoke his stinky pipes, watch the evening news, and be in bed by 10:00 p.m. He rarely talked to me about anything unless he belittled or criticized me. He didn’t seem to enjoy spending time with me, preferring to spend time alone.

The guilt, anger, and deep despair I felt about my failing marriage was overwhelming. I couldn’t talk about it to anyone. Not to my best friends. Certainly not to my strict Catholic parents, who believed marriage was forever.

I thought I was prepared for the onslaught of contradictory emotions, but I was wrong. It was impossible for me to anticipate how I’d feel when my marriage ended — even such a terrible one.

But I felt strangely ambivalent as I rushed back to work with all my worldly possessions stuffed into my tiny car. Where was the instant relief, the emotional collapse, or the tears?

Later that evening, as I unpacked my meager belongings, waves of sadness washed over me, and tears spilled over my cheeks. My body shook with sobs as I rode a roller coaster of emotions.

Over the next few weeks, my enraged husband vacillated between begging me to return home and threatening to ruin my life if I didn’t. The louder he screamed, the more resolved I became about my decision to leave him.

When none of his promises or threats failed to work, he took drastic measures and called in my horrified parents to run interference. The three of them ganging up on me was more than I could bear. I finally agreed to accompany Lee to couples counseling with one of the clerical therapists in my parent’s Catholic parish. It was an exercise in futility.

After just one session, the priest bluntly informed us our marriage couldn’t be saved. Our best action was filing for a church annulment and legal divorce. He offered to help us with the official annulment papers. At that moment, I saw the fight go out of Lee’s eyes. We both knew it was over.

When I told my parents the outcome of our counseling session, my mother flipped out. She blamed me for the collapse of my marriage. Mom accused me of bringing embarrassment to her and shame to our family’s past, present, and future generations. I had the unique experience of being the first person ever divorced in the extended family tree.

My father remained silent while my mother ranted and raved. He seemed genuinely sad about my marital change but didn’t want to upset my mother further. When it came to the resident family monster, he made a wise choice.

Our divorce was a simple, no-fault matter since we didn’t have children or much property to divide. Lee had long stopped speaking to me. Everything was handled through our attorneys.

The last time I saw my husband was as he walked out of the courtroom on the day our divorce hearing took place. It was exactly one year after I drove off from our house on my lunch hour. He didn’t look at me or make any contact.

Two years after the civil divorce, on the exact anniversary of our original wedding, a cardboard envelope arrived by express mail, requiring my signature. I didn’t want to, but I signed for it. The letterhead was from the local Catholic archdiocese office. Curious, I stopped and read the enclosed paperwork confirming the official marriage annulment.

A note in the local cardinal’s looping cursive was paper-clipped to the front of the packet: “By obtaining a Catholic annulment, you are, in essence, saving yourself from sin and receiving a cleansing in God’s eyes.”

I was amused. Somehow, I had been restored to virgin statue. That meant I was also free to remarry because I was officially considered pure in the eyes of the Church once again. Just as I was before my first marriage.

Tears trapped deep inside my soul suddenly escaped. I cried for the husband I’d married, who was gone forever. I grieved for the marriage I wished we’d had instead and all the mistakes I’d made during our time together. I forgave myself for any unkindness I’d displayed leaving the union so suddenly.

I appreciated what I’d learned about myself during the marriage and the divorce. I celebrated the personal growth. Finally, I mourned the absolute end of the marriage, dried my tears, and filed the annulment papers away.

Four years later, I met a wonderful man completely different from my first husband. We fell deeply in love and married for all the right reasons. I applied all the lessons I learned from my failed marriage to my new one. Although not perfect — no marriage is — we enjoyed 23 years of happiness until my husband died suddenly from a heart attack. That beautiful union and those amazingly happy years could never have happened if I hadn’t worked up the courage to leave my bad marriage on my lunch hour. Even though it was a difficult decision, I have never regretted spending my lunch hour leaving my husband.