Confidant: (n.)

Something about being a confidant brings fullness to life. The shame one shows you, the things one would never say out loud, intimately entrusted into your care cultivates deep connection. It opens eyes to a deeper sense of humanity, grace, and wisdom. To trust a confidant is to trust a foundation on which vulnerability and honesty create healing and build a sense of home only found in one another. This trust engrains memories of tears, pain, and laughter. It is a journey of a pair, documented, for all of time, special to the two of you.

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January

I'm not sure she's okay. She's not. I don’t know her well, we just met, but listening to her, it sounds like she hasn't been okay for a while.

I can’t believe he hung up on her. Really? She’s alone, in LA, it’s midnight and he hangs up. Through gritted teeth and healthy disdain, all he can manage is, “Because of you, I have to be ready to feed your baby in a few hours. You probably planned this. You're fine.”

Call over.

She left LAX in an Uber, made her way to a run-down hotel only to find herself in an incredibly shady room.

“This is how every episode of Criminal Minds begins…” she whispers to herself.

She quickly locks the door and pushes a chair up against the handle. Nice, American Airlines. The missing square of carpet in front of the sink and the lack of drywall in the bathroom really communicates “sorry we delayed your flight for six hours then canceled it with no way out for two days.”

She hears sirens, locates them on the news accompanying a high-speed chase on the 405, a football field from her window, and gets comfy. So far, her experience with LAX feels like Undercover Boss had a baby with an episode of COPS. She seems to enjoy the Payday, Doritos, and Vanilla Coke she scored out of the vending machine for dinner. She won't sleep tonight. All the lights will stay on for fear of some sort of bug running across her pillow, but also in anticipation of the high-speed chase becoming a hostage situation where the guy in the car crashes into her room and takes her away. She wonders if she’d be safer in his car. Probably. Maybe he’s an Uber, his car is super clean, and has all its carpet. At least there she’d be surrounded by law enforcement.

She doesn't seem surprised at her husbands’ words, that he hung up, or that he blamed her for the broken airplane. Her loneliness doesn’t seem to bother her. I bet they could be in the same bed and she would still be totally alone. It seems like just another day in the life. This isn’t good.

I just hope he feeds their baby.

March

I don’t think she’s okay. She’s lost so much weight she looks like a young girl. Her long, shiny brown hair started falling out in clumps in the shower and is now half missing in front. The top layer left down and pulled back in a low pony is the only way to hide what her home life is doing to her body. Weeks ago, he gave her hell for asking to spend money on a haircut. “Win the lottery and you can do what you want,” he said. Now he gives her hell about how much hair is left in the shower drain. Every move she makes is measured, every word she speaks is torn apart. Mostly, though, she is ignored.

We spend a lot of time talking in the middle of the night. Her heart aches most when everyone sleeps. She dreams of what could’ve been and cries over what it’s all become.

Her home is totally and completely broken. She is ignored, resented, and detested. He doesn’t see her effort, or the way she lays her willingness across his feet. The way he looks at her is an icepick to her heart. She can’t help but believe she is all the terrible things he says she is. The hope in her eyes dwindles. She can never be good enough, make enough, or give of herself enough.

She’s been sleep-training the baby. She puts him in bed, kisses his sweet forehead, pushes back his precious curls and sits down . She slowly scoots closer to the door and out of the room little by little. If the baby falls asleep quickly, she sits on the cold tile and sobs where she can’t be heard or seen. When the baby doesn't sleep, they cry together. After work, she gets the kids from the sitter, makes dinner, does baths and bedtime with little to no help. He makes his own dinner, with groceries he bought special for him. Between her second job and toddlers allergic to sleep, she's lucky to sit down before 10:00 pm. Their house, as warm and welcoming as it looks on the outside, is cold in all the ways a house—a home—can feel cold.

Her tears are quiet, yet somehow, the silence screams.

August

Finally. She sees it. This is the last counseling appointment he will skip, the last of the blaming, the shaming, the ignoring or using the kids as pawns. As soon as she can afford it, she will leave.

She has the raise she received placed into an account only she knows about. No more excuses of why he deserves a new flat screen, more video games and custom shaving kits to justify zeroing out every paycheck. No more asking the babysitter if she can wait a week to be paid. No more hiding cash back from the grocery store to make sure there is enough money for formula and diapers. He hasn't asked how she is or anything about their household in months. He won't miss a dime.

It is just a few hundred dollars every two weeks, but it’s enough to keep up, and most importantly, it's enough to take control of her future.

She is empowered. The bank account was the first step of freedom from his control and abuse. Home is still a minefield, but she isn’t an innocent civilian anymore. She is a colonel in her own army, fighting for her dignity, protecting her children, and standing up to her bully.

“What’s wrong with you? Why are you acting like this lately? Who are you?” he asks.

You mean strong? Opinionated? No longer questioning myself? she thinks.

She looks him dead in the eye and smirks. “‘Who am I?’ Why? Does she scare you?”

He rolls over and turns out the light.

For the first time, she finds herself in bed with her husband alone and not one bit lonely.

She gets out of bed, walks down the cold hallway and turns up the heater.

Tomorrow, she will wake up to a warm house.

March

She says, “I’m leaving,” and he asks why. Why? Seriously? After five years of counseling and work they tried to do?

He panics.What if people think he is a bad husband? What is he supposed to do? How will he manage?

A week ago in counseling he was unable to utter the words “I love you.” Figure it out, boo. I’m gone.

Almost painfully, should he feel the weight of truth dripping off her words, she answers him. “You should've thought about that before you neglected our marriage.”

August

The more someone tells you all the terrible things they believe you are, the more you start to accept them. That's the tragedy of domestic abuse. Your safe place becomes a court, crime and punishment exacerbated and inflated. You're made to feel like you've created your own prison simply by leaving recycling on the countertop, or drinking out of the wrong bottle of juice. It nearly caused her collapse. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally.

Nearly. But it didn't.

The papers were signed, the dust began to settle and they listed their house. In thirty-six hours their realtor called.

“We’ve received an offer…I don’t think you’re going to believe this…”

She goes room to empty room and sobs. She brought her babies home to this house. They learned to walk, had first birthdays, played peek-a-boo in the kitchen cabinets, and water time in the backyard in this house. Her marriage broke in this house. She nearly broke in this house. She cries for what was, what could have been, and what never would be. She cries for the strength to pick herself up and walk out the door. Out of the life she’d lived. All she has to do is step out into trusted hands. So, she does. She collides into mercy. Finally, wrapped in love, reminded of who she is, she has found another chance. A chance she will have over and over again.

She walked away with $20,000 from the house they owned together. Considering the home that crumbled under its roof, the house served her well in the end.

The treasure she received wasn't money. The treasure was in what the money bought her. It paid their debt, but it bought her something entirely different.

It bought her a life with only one job. It bought time with her kids to create a home full of grace and forgiveness in a new life together. It bought birthday parties; memories made at aquariums, museums, and water parks. It bought pizza night and pool toys. It paid for stuff to play with, but it made sandcastle engineers, cannonball aficionados, and backyard gem and crystal hunters. It curated Halloween Princesses and candy-hungry Dinosaurs. It gave her a jump start to a full life. A healthy life. Full of laughter and a lot of freedom to be exactly who she was made to be.

That $20,000 was priceless.

Her old house had paid for a new kind of home.

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The privilege of being a confidant isn’t simply knowing a secret. The privilege is knowing the true nature of someone's journey. The intimacy and vulnerability involved in opening up is sacred.

That leaves me.

Her closest confidant.

To me she can say things she could never say out loud. She can acknowledge, grieve, and yearn for hope. I know her intimately, and our journey is precious. I go where she goes. In her hands, the depths of her purse, and on her nightstand. I'll be there until I'm full, then she will keep me on a shelf where I will remain a trusted friend, always.

Just a little black book. Placed with purpose in a safe place to return to, to reflect on, to remember. One day she will pick me up again. I'll catch tears of sadness, tears of thankfulness, and tears of growth, just as I always have.

I am now, and forever will be, her confidant and the keeper of her story.

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Years Later

I heard from our girl today. She looked good. Really good. Her hair is long and shiny, her cheeks are full and pink, and she smiles. She smiles a lot. She gently pulled me off the shelf and traveled back for a moment. Like coffee with an old friend, we reminisced page by page, chapter by chapter the painful journey we traveled. Tears dripped on my pages, but this time, she wasn’t grieving, she was full of hope. Her fresh tears dripped over the old, the ink blotted around them, and she was at peace. She was thankful for the person she has become, the person, with help, he has become. She is thankful for the person she is able to be for their kids, and the acceptance and love she has found for herself.

To trust a confidant is to trust a foundation on which vulnerability and honesty create healing. There was healing here. I’m proof.