I was married for 37 years. I tried to leave--well, let's see--in 2002, 2007, 2016. I was lured back into the relationship three times. Lured by need that wasn't love-based. Also by my stubborn sense of loyalty and duty. After each attempt to flee, I believed things would change, get better. They didn't. I began having anxiety attacks. Panic attacks. Dreadful feelings like I was in prison and couldn't escape.
A year ago, one panic attack was so bad that I thought I was going into cardiac arrest. My heart was banging in my teeth, echoing through my skull. I couldn't lie down to sleep. So, I sat in a chair and tried to calm down. But I couldn't. Perhaps I was feeling an overwhelming urge to run. You know, that old fight or flight thing? The fights weren't making life any easier for me. As much as I was winning them, I was the only one who knew it. That meant I really wasn't.
So, the only thing left was to imagine I was running away since I couldn't get up the courage to do it. But, it was only my heart that was moving. The rest of me was standing stock still.
I finally gave myself permission to leave. A cardiologist told me the stress I was putting myself through would only make the anxiety attacks worse. And more frequent. And eventually lead to that cardiac arrest I thought I was having.
So, I'm in a safe place now. A loving place. A place I can do whatever I want. A place where I can heal, develop a sense of inner peace. A place I could leave at any moment if I so desired.
Tonight, I began having another panic attack. One of my kids is having a baby and wants me to live with them and be the babysitter once the child is born. What woman wouldn't enjoy being a part of a new grandchild's life? I would jump at the chance if I were another woman. But, that old fear that I would find myself back in prison again came rushing back, drowning me in doubt and apprehension.
I never lived solely for myself. I married as soon as I could while in college to escape a strict and stolid childhood. My first husband was mentally and emotionally wounded before I met him, and he took his angst out on me. I was actually glad when he met another woman and walked out. My second husband was no better. I guess I felt like I didn't deserve "better".
I served. Parents. Teachers. Husbands. Children. Bosses. I gave and gave and gave. Whatever I did for my own edification I did in secret. When I finally retired, I figured it was my turn now to do the things I'd always wanted to do. In the light of day. In the open.
That's when things got really messy. That's when the panic attacks got way worse. That's when I realized I was shackled to a role I'd created long ago in the screenplay of my life that made me feel little more than subservient. My freedom was within reach, but I couldn't allow myself to grasp it.
Until a cardiologist reminded me that the time I have left in life is mine to live. Every beat of my heart drums my personal plan. If I'm not on the path I need to be on to feel fulfilled in and of myself, my heart lets me know.
Tonight, my heart let me know I am not in an emotional place to care for a baby forty hours a week for however long the child's parents would desire it. I fought the good fight from the moment I drew my first breath until the moment my divorce was final. I ought to feel free now, free to pursue my private dreams. Free to feel like I deserve to.
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