Navel Gazing

A Harsh Reality

I rose early that Sunday morning despite staying up nearly all night after revealing my desire to leave the marriage. She still slumbered, so I quietly left the house for a morning walk. When I returned, I went upstairs to see if she had woken, only to find an unmade, empty bed. This immediately concerned me, as her normal weekend routine was to sleep in and join us later for something to eat. However, this was not a normal weekend. Fortunately, the three older boys were away, having spent the night with friends and local family, while John, our youngest, whose closest sibling is four years his senior, still slept peacefully in his room.

I found her downstairs, sitting on the couch. She held a serrated-edge kitchen knife and methodically sliced it along her wrist, staring forward without focus in her gaze. Time froze within the surreal moment until Samantha extended her wrist outward, as if saying, "This is what you drove me to."

Awakened from my daze, I moved into action and wrapped her wrist in a kitchen towel. There wasn't a lot of blood. Her skin was scored with many fine crisscrossed cuts, as though she had only applied light pressure as she worked up the courage to go through with it. Samantha continued to stare vacantly forward and eerily whispered the words, "I want to disappear."

I dialed 9-1-1, and the operator instructed me to call for an ambulance or take her myself immediately to the Emergency ward. I arranged for my brother to watch over our sleeping Johnathan, and drove Samantha to the hospital.  After a blood sample was analyzed, we were interviewed by a social worker.  The questions for me were few, and once answered, I was asked to leave the area. It had been a long time since seeing Samantha look so scared and vulnerable.

A memory flashed in my mind from better days, where a much younger Samantha held herself tightly against the handrail of a catamaran anchored off the shore of Molokini—the crescent-shaped islet near Maui Island where we planned to snorkel. It was our honeymoon destination. God, she was beautiful, and frightened, nearly to the point of hyperventilating. Samantha was convinced that if she let go of the railing, she would slip off the stairs and sink to the ocean floor vividly seen below. No one could convince her otherwise. She resigned herself to watch from within the safe confinement of the watercraft.

Something in the way she looked reminded me of someone younger than the memory. She looked like a lost child. I was told that she'd be without food for hours after being transferred, that it would be a good idea if I went out and brought her back something to eat. It was the first time alone since finding her that morning. I sat in my car in the drive-thru line and slowly made my way forward toward the take-out window. I was lost in thought, caught off guard by the sudden tears that streamed down my face. Embarrassed, I attempted to shield myself from the bewildered employee as she handed me the drink and bag of fast food.

Of course, I wouldn't leave Samantha like that, but I also wouldn't commit to staying in the marriage. After three days of evaluation, no longer believed to be a threat to herself, she was released and allowed to attend an outpatient program. I stayed at the house with her through duration of the program.  She asked me to agree to keep an open mind.
I did, but agreeing felt dishonest.

We watched over Samantha. She was not left to care for the boys on her own. My parents stayed some nights, but her brother Bob and wife Lindy helped a majority of the time when I couldn't be there. Between July and early August, she completed the program. She returned to work, and I returned to class. Soon after, we shared our intent to separate with the boys. It was much too close to his birthday, my son Noah divulged to me years later. Before the decision to separate, we went to several therapists, but to everyone involved in the counseling, other than Samantha, it was clear that my days married to her were numbered.

One night in September, she had enough and told me to go. Nobody wants to feel rejected, and my presence was a constant reminder of that fact. Samantha wasn't clueless, and any time a notification sounded from my phone, it reinforced the existence of an outside influence. It must have been incredibly painful for her. It's hard to distinguish between pity and love when love once endured.

In my mind, the marriage was long over. I stayed to help her be whole again, but at some point, no further progress was possible while I was there, not with the chosen direction. My detail of events leaves out plenty. During the years that followed our separation, there were relapses and additional outpatient programs. I felt forced to seek, and was eventually granted full custody of our children. It was the final action that stopped Samantha's self-hurt attempts. From the outside, I can see how it might have seemed to be an easy decision, taking the children from her, but I struggled, thinking I was passing on a death sentence.

Time, thankfully, has proved me wrong.