About 10 months after my daughter was born, I found myself wishing my husband (her father) would die.
This thought took me by surprise at first, because I don’t consider myself an evil person, nor do I think I am capable of carrying out any act of taking someone’s life. Still, I had a clear thought that if my husband would just die, my life could become so much easier.
I would not have to explain to everyone that I had made a mistake by marrying this man. I would not have to worry about divorce or the scary thought of shared custody and how he might try to do as much harm to me and my relationship with my daughter as he could.
I would not have to worry about my parents who would still love me, but somehow I would feel like I let them down. I would not have to explain the abuse to anyone.
Instead, I would be a widow with a small child. Society embraces someone like that. Just look at the greeting cards; there are hundreds of cards for the “Loss of Husband,” but how many “Loss of Marriage” cards are there?
If my husband died, friends would feel sorry for me. They would do everything to make sure I was okay. I would be martyred. I could live with that. I found myself fantasizing about his death. I would imagine how I would react when the police knocked on my door and told me he had been in an accident. Or how I would find him in bed, dead of course, and how I would call the police and tell them, tears on cue, that my husband wasn’t breathing and could they send someone to help?
I would find myself rehearsing these actions and emotions in the shower as I washed the filthy, behind-closed-doors life off my body.
With each day that passes, I would think about these scenarios and bask in temporary relief that it brings. Before I have to get out of the shower and go face the disaster that is my marriage.
Once again, I am not an evil person, but with so much deaths, I wonder what kind of God would let a useless, no-good man like my husband live.
Yes, I do wish my husband would die.