Rose Miller 
I sat in our dimly lit living room, late into the night with my husband and marriage counselor, trying to piece back together our failing marriage. My insides were still stirring as the rage slowly settled within me. I lost my temper yet again after I promised myself it wouldn’t happen again. I pulled at a piece of leather on the torn couch beside me, straightening it out to cover the green foam padding underneath as if that would cover up the humiliation I felt about my outburst. I couldn’t remember the reason I lost it, it just escalated so quickly.
I wanted to repair the marriage, I insisted on marriage counseling but something about resolving conflict with this man made me extremely angry. Maybe it was months of sessions with no change, maybe I was just tired of hearing the lies. Maybe it was the fact that I was so fed up with this life that I was being unreasonable. Or maybe it was just beyond repair.
Maybe he was right. Maybe I was crazy. Maybe it was time to just stop fighting it and accept the obvious. After all, every time I found myself in this exact scenario. I just can’t control myself, there must be something terribly wrong with me. Everything he accused me of kept proving true. I just can’t explain myself, I can’t make them understand, no matter how hard I tried to.
I looked at my husband. He had his sleeves rolled up, rubbing his palms slowly together to remove the sweat. I knew that gesture very well. He was pleased with himself that he proved his point yet again and was satisfied with the way things were going, not interested in a solution. But how do I show the counselor what he was really about? I can’t accuse him of a hand gesture that will surely confirm I was crazy.
I searched the counselor’s face for a bit of compassion or understanding, after all, he was there to support, to give hope. The blank stare I received left me feeling alone. We sat in silence. Sometimes silence is golden, sometimes it speaks louder than words and tonight it moved me.
Something shifted inside. Maybe this was the answer I was looking for. The idea I kept trying to disprove, the one thing I feared the most settled deep into the core of my being. I’m crazy. I resigned to the new reality before me. If this was my truth, I’ll adjust. I always do. I wasn’t afraid of that. I’m a survivor.
But where does that leave me? What exactly is crazy? Does crazy mean that I am tossed aside like trash? Disrespected? Does it erase everything else that I am? That I could be?
The tension in the room was thick, I leaned back on the couch as if to remove myself from it. I folded my arm deep in thought. I could feel their eyes on me, suspicious of my unpredictability, which normally upset me but at that moment I felt empowered. If I was indeed crazy then there is nothing left to fight for. If I learned anything from relationships it’s this; I can’t make anyone do anything or believe anything. We clearly weren’t on the same page and at that moment I felt we weren’t even in the same book.
I could feel my heart beating fast. Why didn’t they see my worth? Why didn’t they see how hard I work? I knew who I was and I wasn’t crazy. Maybe I just sucked at communicating it. Or maybe it wasn’t for them to understand since they were so determined to misunderstand. A small voice inside my beating heart whispered, prove them wrong. I instantly knew what it meant. Prove them wrong but leave them behind. I didn’t come this far to stay here. I inhaled deeply. No more. I promised myself. I deserved to be happy. I deserved more than this ripped couch, I deserved respect, acceptance, and understanding and I was going to get it.
I mustered all the courage I had to say four words that were to pave the way to a new life. “I want a divorce.” This was the calmest I felt all night.
My husband pushed his chair back in shock. He wasn’t rubbing his hands anymore. “We have 6 kids. You can’t handle a divorce. You’re crazy.” And that was all the confirmation I needed to follow my heart.
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