I was childhood sweethearts with my husband from the age of 14. When he left my North Island hometown, for Medical School in the lower South Island of New Zealand, I panicked. Some trick had been run through my mind as a child, leading me to believe
that if I was not married by 19years old then nobody would have me. I could not fathom a long distance relationship.
Being 18 and not world wise, I fell for a 31yr old divorced man (with a young child) who actively pursued me. I had no clue about personality
disorders (Narcissism) or life outside the exclusive church I grew up in.
This man had dreams.
He belonged to a Pentecostal church. I was intrigued with the freedom, as I could not reconcile myself to the God of my childhood experiences as being
obsessed in the worship of Him on only one specific day, i.e. the seventh day Sabbath.
This man was a talker. A visionary. A man desiring complete control and who was frustrated at the world for not seeing things his way.
I became pregnant. We
arranged to be married against my families consent. I miscarried. My parents deregistered the marriage celebrant so the marriage could not go ahead. (I still don’t know how they managed this! I will have to ask them one day.)
We ran away to big
city Auckland (7hrs from home).
This man had spent the year of these events telling me how deceived my parents were. He kept me awake for long dark hours most evenings, to be sure I understood how much I needed to get satan out of me. This emotional
abuse grew more frantic and sometimes became physical.
I developed an eating disorder to cope. I was compared physically to his ex-wife.
I became suicidal.
On moving to Auckland, I moved in with an elderly millionaire couple from a church
he knew. They were dear and generous and worried for me. I found a job as a receptionist and grew thinner with anorexia and bulimia.
The distance work gave me from him, helped me see his insecurities for what they were.
I found a flat nearby
with some Christian guys who didn’t ask questions but protected me anyway. With the help of that man’s own pastor I grew strong enough to break away from the love I believed I had for him. For five months I worked alone and struggled to grow strong
as a 19 year old.
For five months I was growing something else as well. I was pregnant. The doctor had assured me earlier I had no periods because of the eating disorder. I thought I was bloated and went to see a nurse on my lunch break months
into my job.
Two days before my 20th birthday, I saw my first glimpse of my oldest son via ultrasound. The next night my old sweetheart called from the South Island. He had wanted to be the first to say happy birthday as it turned midnight.
We had managed to remain friends. I told him I was pregnant. He was excited when I told him it was a boy. !?! His love still astonishes me.
I managed to be a bridesmaid at one of my brother’s wedding, without anyone guessing - except my mother’s
close friend, who was a midwife whom I had trained with in my first year of nursing (a degree I gave up for my son'd father).
She guessed my condition. Then she helped me tell my loving parents.
My lost sweetheart (now husband) arranged
for me to move to his parent’s home (close friends of my parents) to wait out the pregnancy. This was for my safety. We couldn’t let 'him' find out as I was so emotionally rollercoasting, and he wouldn’t know where to find me there. I did
not want his influence over me in such a vulnerable time. God knew best.
He was still a good man inside – just dysfunctionally troubled. I believe he does love God with all his heart, just has not worked out his past yet. I pray for him.
it very short, my husband (now) came to visit home during his holidays and we worked together selling vegetables on the side of the road, my belly growing ever bigger. He gave up his current girlfriend and proposed. He wanted my boy to be his own, he
What would you have done?
He was my history, my hope, my restored sense of worth, my ongoing true love.
I woke up the morning after our engagement party with contractions 3 minutes apart. Our son came five hours later - two weeks
Moving down south, with my soon-to-be-husband and young baby, I coped alright for a month or two until after the wedding. Then depression hit. The eating disorder grew dangerously close to caving me in.
To heal (I told myself that lie)
I phoned my son's father and in anger and over-boiled pain told him everything. I wanted him to feel the burn. I wanted him to be sorry. I wanted him to know I was strong without him. I wanted him to suffer from another child lost to his influence.
hardly helped. I regret that phone call. I know how much that would have broken him as he loved children dearly.
Only God helped, but I took my time letting Him.
Today, I yelled at my now 14yr old son. He is much taller than me at nearly 6 foot.
He is the ideal son most of the time. He truly is. The 5% personality trait (either classically teenager, or inherited from his biological side) is my worst enemy however. I react against his display of visionary defeatism. My instinctive response at seeing
myself, or anyone else around an unthinking woe-is-me personality, is wrong and damaging. I have to be careful.
Today my son is at home because I have had to enforce his dishes punishment for deliberately breathing all over a sister’s face. Truancy is illegal but I could not wait for him to decide to get in the car as we were already late for school. 5% is not much and his life is a miracle
that saved my own at a troubled time. I am certain the calming pregnancy hormones helped me gain perspective when I was my most desperate to not live. He literally is God’s gift of life to me, 5% sandpaper rawness and all.
I do not think any other
personality could hurt me as much as the one that nearly destroyed me. My back gets up when I see ‘talk’ hurting my girls and them watching me lose control in those fleeting and rare times that I see Brad's father there before me using his coercing,
fundamentally flawed 'gift of the gab' to avoid responsibility for his own life decisions.
You do not have enough information to take sides, so don’t please. I assume you as the reader will grasp that my last piece of open wound is surrounded
by healed and painless scars. I hope you will comprehend that my son is innocent, and I am the flawed one here. He is 14. I am 34. He is gentle and kind, a gifted musician with a heart yearning for everything of God. I am hormonal and creative with an
impatience for even 5% stupidity, with a heart yearning for all things of God. And his father is forgiven also.
Together (and mostly because of my unflappable God-send of a husband who adores me) the nine of us (my family and God) will
make it through another day.
I am destructive without God’s wound healing salve and composure blanketing Holy Spirit.
This is not a pretty game I am playing. It is real life.