Charles and Victoria continued their sporadic relationship for several years. I am not sure if it was her doing or if someone else intervened on her behalf, but ultimately, having a relationship with the man who had been her psychiatrist seemed to become too much for her. She sued Charles, and he lost his medical license. This, of course, was another reason for him to not have any money.
Because of my job, when this happened, I was not beholden to him. When he agreed to things I thought the children needed, he contributed, but when he didn’t, I found a way to pay for those things myself, even if it was a struggle.
Throughout all of that time, I wrote. At first, it was cathartic; it was the raw expression of the pain and anguish that were my life. In time, though, my writing became more focused and became a way to give meaning to my story. And with increased understanding came increased distance from the pain, and the narrative of my life began to unfold, and then that, too, began to change.
I continued to see Dr. Putman for a while, but scheduling became difficult and she then moved to New York. Over the next year and a half, although doing better in some ways, I remained very depressed and was more than ever in touch with the long-term emotional abuse that had existed in my marriage. I had never thought about in those terms until I was ill and it was no longer subtle, and then I could see clearly that my marriage had been an abusive one for years and that I was still experiencing the effects of the traumas of that relationship. I did still need help to sort through all of that. After Dr. Putman, I tried seeing a couple of different therapists briefly, but neither was the right fit.
“Do you know Sarah Weinstein?” my friend Peg asked when we were talking about experienced therapists I might go to.
I laughed. Of course I knew Sarah. She was one of the first psychologists I had met when I arrived in Baltimore to do my postdoc. She had been a few years ahead of me in the program and was one of my supervisors during my postdoc year. Now she was an internationally renowned trauma specialist.
“I never thought of calling Sarah. We’re not really friends, but I’ve known her forever. I always refer people to her.” The more I thought about it, the more I thought it would be a good idea to give her a call, which I did do that afternoon.
Sarah evidently knew that I had been ill; in fact, she was surprised and relieved that I was still alive. Evidently, there had been rumors that I had not survived.
“Sarah, I don’t know if this would be appropriate or not, but I want to ask you a question. I need to find a therapist for myself. Charles and I just finalized our divorce, and it has been a very traumatic few years for me. On the surface, I’m doing okay, but I’m really still a mess. I wanted to know if you’d be willing to see me.”
There was a pause, and then she said, “Wow, I’m really flattered that you would ask me.”
Those few words were to have a tremendous impact on me; there was a distant memory that I could almost touch when I heard them. She’s flattered that I called her. That must mean she thinks I have value. I hadn’t realized how long it had been since I’d felt valued.
Sarah wanted to think about whether there would be any reason it would not be a good idea, and she said she’d get back to me by the next day. When she called me, she said that the only concern she could think of was whether I would be uncomfortable if I ran into people I knew when I went to her office, which was still on the hospital grounds where we had both worked.
“No, I don’t think that will be a problem at all.” In fact, there was something very therapeutically comforting about coming back to a place where my successes had been all mine, where my memories were entirely separate from Charles. I enjoyed running into people I had known years before. We were all much older now and had a lifetime of stories to share, but I felt a connection to a part of myself with which I had lost touch, from which I had been isolated for many years in my relationship with Charles, and I began to realize even more clearly that he had isolated me from many people in my life.
Working with Sarah, I began to see the reflection of myself in her eyes. In my relationship with Charles, I saw the reflection of what he wanted me to be. Now I was seeing a reflection of who I was, of who I had been and who I had become. Gradually, Charles was no longer a part of the internal landscape of my life.
I was still working for the school system when part-time office space became available at the hospital. It was a lot less expensive than the rent I was paying for my current office, and I decided to take it. My practice began to flourish. In 2013, I retired from the school system and even had a pension.
Upon my retirement, I picked up this book, which I had started to write before Charles and I separated. In the four years since I began writing again, I’ve realized that I still don’t have all of the answers about why things happened as they did. What has changed, though, is that I no longer feel compelled to know the “whys” of what Charles did. With that understanding has come a great deal of freedom. Letting go of the need to have answers to unanswerable questions—accepting that there were things that were, that are, and that will always be beyond my control—has allowed me the freedom to move on, to find myself once again.
I also have a much deeper understanding of what it means to be in a relationship with a narcissist, with someone for whom I could have been anyone, as long as I met his needs. I was truly interchangeable with anyone else, even after twenty years and the two children we struggled so much to have, and once I wasn’t useful, I no longer existed. For me, it was a relationship; for him, I was a need-gratifying object.
There are times when something wonderful happens with one of the children that I would like to be able to talk about with Charles, as friends. But it isn’t possible, and so we have no contact with each other at this point in time. Am I still angry at him? No. My life is filled with friends and family, with writing and traveling. I’m open to falling in love again, although I am cautious in that regard, perhaps overly so. Whereas before I may have ignored things, I can’t anymore. I just don’t get involved when I see something that is a red flag. I realize that speaks to my continued vulnerability, but now I take care of myself.
Something that is often asked of women who are in abusive relationships is, “Why don’t you just leave?” Or, once you have left, people say, “Get over it.” The reality is, it is not so simple. By the time Charles and I separated, I was in a state of post-traumatic stress. My disentanglement and disengagement from Charles was a process. It involved not only taking off blinders and seeing what was happening in the relationship but also looking at and absorbing what I saw. Sometimes it was painful. It took time, a long time, which I needed to allow myself. I found that I needed to be kind to myself, which is not easy when you are encased in an abyss of darkness and internal turbulence and people around you want to see you “get over it.” I worked hard to view each step as practice, so when there were setbacks in my responses to Charles’s behavior, I would not plummet into self-loathing and recrimination. I also needed solid support systems. It took time for me to see how much of myself I had lost and to understand what was happening in the relationship. My diagnosis of cancer both complicated and clarified the picture. I did not have the emotional, physical, or financial resources to “just leave.”
And do I forgive Charles? Forgiveness is such a complicated subject. Before Charles and I separated, and then afterward, I asked him if we could sit down and talk—if we could try to process what had happened to our marriage, to us. His response was always the same: “I’m willing to talk to you; I’m willing to tell you my point of view. But I have no interest in hearing what you have to say; I’m not interested in your truth.”
While I believe that the capacity to forgive is important and hope that I have demonstrated that to my children, I question whether it is always warranted as a universal principle. Are there times when it is counterproductive to forgive? Does universal forgiveness lessen the meaning behind the act?
For me, forgiveness comes when I can talk abo
ut what happened with the other person involved—when we can listen to each other. It is a relational process. Forgiveness comes when we are each willing to understand the other’s point of view. Charles has never been interested in or willing to do that, nor has he shown any signs of remorse. And he has never taken responsibility for how he treated me while I was ill. For me, there is no way I can forgive him, because we have never had a genuine conversation about what happened. Yet, I don’t feel anger toward him and I don’t wish anything bad for him. I have moved on.
Writing continues to be an integral part of how I process my life experiences. Putting the words on paper, objectifying the experience, has allowed me to distance the pain enough that I can see the pictures of my life with greater clarity. Occasional waves of sadness wash over me, but then, just as quickly, the tide changes and a new day comes. Understanding, not just theoretically, that feelings shift and change has helped me to know that even on the darkest of days, the sun will always shine again.
Now I use writing not only for myself, but as a tool for healing within my practice.
Suddenly, I’m startled out of my reverie by a familiar voice and a hand on my shoulder.
“Hi, Momma. Sorry, the train was late. Let me give you a hug.” Sammy throws his arms around me and embraces me tightly. He’s always been such a great hugger.
Elli pecks me on the cheek and sits down, laughing affectionately at her brother. “Are you going to always call Mom, ‘Momma’?”
“Yes, I am, because my momma loves it—she told me so!”
“I’m afraid he’s right, sweetie. I do love the way it sounds. Just like I love when you call me Mom.” We all laugh.
“So when’s the book going to be done, Momma?” Sam looks over at my laptop, smiling.
“Soon, I hope. I’m working on the edits now. Oh, I meant to tell you about this; I already told Elli. It’s not a novel anymore, and I’m not using a pseudonym.” I look at him closely for his reaction.
“Oh, okay. . . . How come?” He moves his chair closer to me.
“Well, I decided that I really wanted to take ownership of my story, of my experience. Maybe someday you’ll want to read it. Elli has read a few parts of it.”
“Mom, I really am glad you’ve done this and that you’re finishing it, and I want you to publish it. Maybe someday I’ll want to read it, but not right now. I lived through it once; right now, I don’t need to go through it again.” He smiles his crooked smile, and his eyes shine.
Elli and I both hug him at the same time. “That’s fine, Sammy, and it’s fine if you never read it. You need to trust what you know is good for you.” I say it, and I mean it.
“Okay,” Sam says. “I’m hungry. Let’s go over to the Corner Stable. I need some ribs.”
“Sounds great to me. I’ll drive,” Elli says, and picks up her car keys.
I pay my bill and follow behind them; it’s funny to remember Elli towering over her little brother when they walked together as kids.
I get into the backseat of Elli’s car. The two of them are catching up, and it’s comforting to hear the familiar rhythm of their voices. There was a chance I might not have had the opportunity to watch them grow to adulthood. I feel blessed. There is no escaping pain and disappointment. There are no guarantees. There is only life. Miraculous, isn’t it?
With Gratitude
Writing this book was a journey with many starts and stops. It necessitated long periods of contemplation, introspection, and, frequently, just sleep. With that, it took many years. Along the road, many other travelers influenced my wanderings and the reality of this book. My deepest gratitude to all who have touched my life in the past twenty years; you are a part of this story, and I thank you.
I am deeply grateful to my editor, Annie Tucker, who deftly helped me pare down my word count and thread together excursive ramblings into a readable manuscript. I looked forward to and enjoyed our weekly telephone meetings.
To the people at She Writes Press and SparkPoint Studio who have worked assiduously on behalf of this book—Brooke Warner, Lauren Wise, Crystal Patriarche, Morgan Rath, Maggie Ruf, Kristin Bustamante, Cait Levin and everyone else who has made its publication possible—I give you my heartfelt thanks.
To Victoria Rodriguez, my breast cancer and soul sister, I thank you for allowing me to use the image of Broken for my book trailer and for your friendship. To B. Lynn Goodwin, Judy Mandel, Peg Moran, Marie White Small, Susan Moore Blackman, Elyse Garlick, Beth Golding, and all those who read, edited, and commented on the early drafts of this work: your input made the final product possible. And to my friend Steve Eisner: you provided the support, encouragement, and food that motivated the final steps of this journey.
If it had not been for my extraordinary medical treatment, I would not be here to tell this story. Dr. Katherine Tkaczuk, Dr. Sherry Slezak, and Dr. Lauren Shnaper, along with all of the medical and ancillary personnel at the University of Maryland’s Marlene and Stewart Greenebaum Cancer Center, words alone cannot express my gratitude to you. My thanks is not only for what you have given to me personally, but for your daily dedication to providing compassionate, respectful and genuinely caring treatment for all who come to you.
There were periods of time when life was unbearably dismal and gray. Dr. Alicia Guttman, you provided a safe haven during the darkest of days. Dr. Sally Winston, you offered me pivotal opportunities to rediscover my strength and my own reflection. I am forever grateful to both of you.
Elyse Schneider, Valerie Eisman, David Rosen, Carolyn Hokanson, Linda Scher, Steve Heckman, Marsha Wolf, Aliza Stewart, Martha Haile: without your love and friendship, this book could not have been completed. And my gratitude goes forever to my lifelong (in-the-womb) friend Gail Wenger, who supported this book, and me, from the moment I put pen to paper to my closing words.
To my children, with unending love, I thank you for accompanying me on this journey. You didn’t really have a choice, but you provided me with the purpose to keep traveling with your resilience, laughter, and love.
About the Author
credit: Chris Loomis/SparkPoint Studio
For more than thirty-five years, Dr. Diane Pomerantz has been a practicing psychologist, teacher, supervisor, and speaker in the Baltimore-Washington metropolitan area. Dr. Pomerantz has published articles on topics of childhood trauma and personality development. This is her first book. She has two grown children and lives in Maryland with Rug, her shaggy dog.
SELECTED TITLES FROM SHE WRITES PRESS
She Writes Press is an independent publishing company founded to serve women writers everywhere. Visit us at www.shewritespress.com.
Not Exactly Love: A Memoir by Betty Hafner. $16.95, 978-1-63152-149-2. At twenty-five Betty Hafner, thought she’d found the man to make her dream of a family and cozy home come true—but after they married, his rages turned the dream into a nightmare, and Betty had to decide: stay with the man she loved, or find a way to leave?
The Full Catastrophe: A Memoir by Karen Elizabeth Lee. $16.95, 978-1-63152-024-2. The story of a well educated, professional woman who, after marrying the wrong kind of man—twice—finally resurrects her life.
Letting Go into Perfect Love: Discovering the Extraordinary After Abuse by Gwendolyn M. Plano. $16.95, 978-1-938314-74-2. After staying in an abusive marriage for twenty-five years, Gwen Plano finally broke free—and started down the long road toward healing.
Pieces of Me: Rescuing My Kidnapped Daughters by Lizbeth Meredith. 978-1-63152-834-7. When her daughters are kidnapped and taken to Greece by their non-custodial father, single mom Lizbeth Meredith vows to bring her them home—and give them a better childhood than her own.
Loveyoubye: Holding Fast, Letting Go, And Then There’s The Dog by Rossandra White. $16.95, 978-1-938314-50-6. A soul-searching memoir detailing the painful, but ultimately liberating, disintegration of a twenty-five-year marriage.
Scattering Ashes: A Memoir of Letting Go by Joan Rough. $16.95, 978-1-63152-095-2. A da
ughter’s chronicle of what happens when she invites her alcoholic and emotionally abusive mother to move in with her in hopes of helping her through the final stages of life—and her dream of mending their tattered relationship fails miserably.
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