Saturday, February 1, 2014
By Susan Knight
January 9, 2010
I stood in the shower tonight when the thought came to me, “This will be the year of my divorce.” I’m fifty-six years old, my mother was fifty-six when my dad died, my grandmother was fifty-six when she divorced my grandfather. I believe it’s inevitable this time.
The hot water flowed over and around my body like a veil, metaphorically hiding me from the cares of my new world. But, instead of calm, only fear and foreboding found me. Perhaps nothing short of drugs—artificial perception changers—will help me lessen my pain . . . my heartache. I’ll need to up the Prozac.
My hands held up that tiled wall under the shower faucet as I tried to comprehend what was going to happen to me. I don’t know how long I stood there; water pulsing on my body. My mind begged for relief, wanting to wake from the nightmare, have it all go away.
Thoughts of my mother and grandmother—and myself—filled up my baffled brain. The three of us all married abusive husbands. My grandmother probably had the worst of the lot, what with the physical abuse my grandfather dished out, but can abuse really be measured or compared? The results are the same—mistrust, guilt, agony, grief, and bruises, whether inside or out.