Beyond the Darkness

by Angie Fenimore

  Hearing the acid in my voice, Richard shrugged and headed back out the door. Then he paused for a second, turning to look at me with an expression of tired resolve. "You know, Angie," he said, "ultimately, it's going to be up to you. I could go either way. I'm as tired of fighting with you as you are with me."

  Richard left, and I shook my head in annoyance that he would try such an obvious manipulation. I finally had the guts to get out of my marriage, and nothing was going to stop me. But then, two days later, when I was out apartment-hunting, I stopped at a red light. I allowed my thoughts to wander back to Richard's insistent words. Then suddenly I felt a powerful burst of energy that began in my chest and spread throughout my body, filling me with an undeniable certainty that what Richard had told me was true—that he had received a message from God. The certainty was confirmed when I went to see my minister, who told me that he had been expecting me. He'd had a hunch that I needed to talk.

  And so on the very eve of what was to be our final breakup, Richard and I made the commitment to stick together. A few weeks later came a sign—or so we thought—that we had made the right decision. Richard got a new assignment in Okinawa, Japan—far away from our families, my political action group, and all the other triggers of trouble in our marriage. If there was anything we needed then, it was the chance to start over; and we'd been granted it.

  TEN

  Okinawa is a jewel of the Pacific, a tropical paradise. When Richard was off duty, we loved to explore its caves and to snorkel in the jade-green water. Even the scary typhoons that would sweep over the island helped knit our little family together. We would spend hours, sometimes days, nestled together in our home as storms raged outside. My sons loved it when the typhoons knocked out our electrical power, so they could wander with flashlights through the darkened house, making ghost sounds that were all but drowned out by the howling wind and the deafening torrents of rain. Richard and I would snuggle up on the couch and watch the boys play for hours. When they were tired, we'd drape a sheet across the dining-room chairs and let them sleep in the homemade tent, while we stayed up yakking all night. In these relaxing times Richard's natural humor would bubble to the surface. Sometimes he would get me laughing so hard that I would cry.

  Outside our window was a huge tree—or at least huge by Okinawa standards, in that it was big enough to climb. By the time we left Okinawa, it had been reduced to two slim sticks by the typhoons.

  We quickly found a new community of friends at church who introduced us to the fascinations of the Japanese culture. A beautiful landscape, a new world to explore, warm genuine friends who made us feel that we belonged—our new life was absolutely perfect.

  And so I was crushed when, right around Christmas, just like clockwork, I found myself in the grip of "the cycle." This time I was determined to beat it. I was coming to recognize that my depressions were seasonal, coming every January and June, and that they bore little connection to the events of my external life. Something inside me would open the floodgates of memory—of drunken holidays with Dad, of Mom's desertion, of JoAnne's furies, of my abuse—and with the memories would come the obsessive thoughts, the wash of self-hate. I would barricade myself indoors to sleep all day with alternative rock music playing on autorepeat. Even having to carry on a conversation could bring on an anxiety attack. But I thought that if I could weather the cycle this time, life would return to normal.

  My best friend in Okinawa, Jennifer, would call, and I would make excuses to get off the phone. I couldn't even face going to the grocery store with her. But she persisted, refusing to take my rejection personally, realizing that something was making me perilously fragile. One afternoon she stopped by the house and, ignoring my protests, dragged me out into the sunshine. She simply would not allow me to disengage entirely from those around me.

  Obviously, I needed help, but I was afraid to consult a psychologist on the base. The Air Force community was such a small world, and the last thing I wanted was for my problems to show up on Richard's service record. So I enrolled in an anonymous support group for survivors of sexual abuse. Again, hearing the other women's stories strengthened my tide of memories; and worse, it made me feel that my problems were impossibly grave. None of the other women had the cyclical disorders that I did; all that we had in common was a tendency toward anxiety. I felt like a freak, and that feeling was as frightening to me as my state of agony, and it made me fearful of confiding in anyone. Later I learned that my symptoms weren't so atypical, but they just didn't happen to be shared by the members of that little support group.

  Now I told Richard that I needed a break. I wanted to go back to the States to see my family and to see if the depression would lift, but Richard was afraid that if I left again, I wouldn't come back. Still sure that my mom and Toni had helped me leave him the last time, he worried that, given my precarious state of mind, they might influence me again. So he refused to sign the paperwork that the military required for me to leave the island.

  So I went through the motions of coping, dragging myself through the days, trying to deaden the destructive voices within me. One night when I went out to get milk at the convenience store on the base, I couldn't even bring myself to get dressed. I just slogged out of the house in my slippers and a pair of sweats. But when I got home, I couldn't make myself go in the house. I thought that if I did, I would explode.

  So backing out of the parking lot, I drove until I found a place to hole up for the night. The next day I bought some clothes and toiletries, then washed my hair, brushed my teeth, and dressed in the store bathroom. I was moving in a fever of obsession. Unsure of what to do or where to go, I bought a ticket for the movies. The film was Flatliners, a story about death and a pretty apt reflection of my internal state. When it ended, all I could do was wander until darkness fell. Then I had no choice but to go home.

  When I got there, Richard and the boys were in a panic, praying that I would come home. My heart broke at my sons' relief. Alex bounded to his feet, crying, "Mama's home," his eyes swollen with weeping. He ran to me and clutched my legs, refusing to let go. Richard jumped up to hug me, saying, "Are you all right?" in a trembling voice. Jacob, my toddler, stretched out his arms, crying for my embrace. "Mama, Mama," he called to me.

  What evil impulse had made me hurt them? I couldn't believe I had been so cruel. Before, I had always announced my departures, but my leaving them for a night and a day without a word, without so much as a hint that I was alive, was so deeply unsettling that I had shaken their innocent trust to the core. My poor children—I feared that I had damaged them in a way that would lie dormant until, finally, when they had children of their own, it would emerge, too powerful, too massive to harness, and so they, too, would be consigned, as was I, to a dark, torturous existence. I couldn't control my urge to flee, and I could see, suddenly, its tremendous potential for harm.

  "Where did you go?" Richard was asking me, without cas-tigation or anger. This man loved me so much, but he didn't understand how sick and how angry I was. "I'm so glad you're home," he said, tears welling up in his eyes.

  But what could I say to him? That I had spent twenty-four hours shopping and seeing a movie? All I could do was choke out, "I don't know."

  The next morning, the repercussions of my cruelty persisted. Jacob woke up early and insisted that I hold him all day. He clung to my neck as I made breakfast, balancing him on my hip. Alex, being older, woke up angry. As I bent to kiss him, he shoved me and retreated into the corner, where he crouched into a little fuming bundle. He masked his face with his hands and peered at me through his fingers. How could I convince him that I hadn't meant to shatter him? How could I know that I would never do it again?

  At my survivors meeting that night, we talked about how important it was to delve deeply into our painful memories. I was reading a self-help book that corroborated our approach, counseling me to confront every detail of my childhood nightmares. But I couldn't—my psyche just wasn't ready to carry that burden�
�so I was overwhelmed with feelings of helplessness and failure. If the only way to overcome my past was to face it head-on, then I was doomed.

  Understanding that my depressions were cyclical didn't help me withstand it either. Instead, the recognition made me see the future as a long string of destructive periods when I would wound everyone I loved. How could my husband and children accept the fact that these bouts were uncontrollable? How could they not hate me if I slipped into these states over and over again? And how could I, myself, stand having the misery return, year in and year out, for the rest of my life?

  Such a future would be unbearable, impossible. And now I felt myself pass into a deep, profound, black abyss of despair. I saw myself as dead in every sense that really mattered—unable to enjoy the many blessings of my life, to love my husband and children without causing them pain, to move forward in life, surrendering the past. I had seen that leaving Richard was not the answer when I had "escaped" to Southern California. And finally a way out began to open, a vision of a more permanent escape. It was the only thing I could do to make things right, if only I had the courage.

  ELEVEN

  The morning of January 7 dawned clear and cool. I had been wrestling with my feelings for most of the night, finally drifting off to sleep on the couch only an hour or two before sunrise. I could hear Richard moving around upstairs, dressing for the early shift at work, then creeping down the steps as quietly as his combat boots would allow. He made his way into the living room, where I lay with my soft old red blanket crumpled beneath my feet. Pretending to be asleep, I tracked him through my eyelashes. I frequently watched him this way in the evenings and the mornings; his movements were sure and solid with such a comforting sense of purpose. I loved him so much. How long would it take for my craziness to exhaust his willingness to love me? If he did give up, even after enduring more than most husbands would, it would destroy him, I knew. He so keenly and clearly defined his own worth by how honorably he fulfilled his roles as father and husband. He was bending over me now, fumbling with the blanket at my feet. He pulled it up over my shoulders and tucked it in around me. Kissing me on the forehead, he whispered, "I love you."

  When he left, I roused myself just long enough to pour some cereal for the boys, change the tapes on the stereo, and take the phone off the hook. Moving, even breathing brought an excruciating awareness that I was still alive and able to do damage. Hiding under my blanket for most of the day, I watched my boys play on the living-room floor. Their faces were so sweet. The thought that I had caused my sons suffering made my heart and stomach ache. This final act I was now contemplating would be a terrible shock to them, and though there had been so many signs along the way, it would be a shock to Richard too. I hoped that they would understand that my solution was an act of love, offering them all the chance for a happier life. Perhaps this was how my mother had felt, that leaving would save her children. I had become poisonous to everyone around me.

  Richard brought home dinner that night, and pleading a touch of the flu, I stayed on the couch until he and the boys went upstairs. I could hear Richard moving fitfully about for hours, getting in and out of bed, pacing the floor. Finally, at two a.m. he came down the stairs and stood over me. "Are you coming to bed?" he asked.

  "I don't feel good. I slept all day. I think I'll just lie down here awhile," I replied. His hesitant concern sharpened the tension between us. He knew that I was in trouble, and he wanted to make me come upstairs with him. But after my recent disappearing act, he was afraid to press the issue. "Go on, Richard," I told him. "I want to be alone."

  He left, and I waited till the house fell silent to change the tapes in the stereo and sit down at the dining-room table. If I was going to execute this final act, I couldn't lose my resolve. It was all so unfair. I didn't want to leave my children, and I had wanted desperately to be a good mother. I cried bitterly, searching to imagine some way that I could stay with my family and keep their love. But I was convinced that my lingering would only cement their unhappiness. I had to set them free.

  I picked up a pencil and my college-ruled notebook, spattering the pages with cold tears. Blackness had pried its way deep within me, paralyzing any goodness. I was so tired. Sick and tired. I started to write a farewell note: Fm sorry, Richard, I began. The tape clicked over on the stereo, hushed sounds that I realized I'd been hearing over and over. Hugging my old red blanket, I got up to change the tape. The soft, seductive lullaby hung in the air. I knew it well. The singer's lilting, sympathetic voice whispered affectionately of death. Oh yes, I thought, rock me to sleep. My voice joined his, blending harmony and purpose in our perfect duet of death.

  Returning to the table, I sat half draped across it to finish my good-bye note. The tragic words I scrawled looked a little melodramatic, but so what? After hiding the shameful truth about myself for so long, I could finally stop pretending and accept who I really was, a person who was spiritually dead, embittered, used up.

  Uncertainty stabbed me for a second as I thought again of Alex and Jacob, but then I gave myself over to the music. It caressed my weak and exhausted spirit, promising relief from my suffering. I drew the words and melody into my mind, breathing deep and full. My hesitation and fear were soothed by the sounds. I was ready.

  Climbing the stairs, I called to mind the morbid tableau that I had envisioned from time to time since Bear Creek. They would find my body lying in the tub amid swirling streams and clouds of blood. . . . The grotesque image of my own discarded body in my mind had brought instant satisfaction during the worst of JoAnne's assaults, and during the past few days, this picture of my death had been with me constantly.

  I tiptoed into my bedroom to get the white cotton dress I'd left draped across the chair. It seemed so appropriate for this moment. Then I crept into the guest bathroom, locking the door behind me. With a pair of pliers, I crushed the casing around the safety razor to extract the blade, then I ran the bathwater and slipped on my white dress. As the tub filled, I stared at my face in the mirror. My eyes were black and empty. That made things easier—not seeing myself in my eyes. As I stepped into the warm water, I had a flash of triumph. Finally! It was time.

  I cut along the veins in my wrists with the flimsy razor blade. It took ages even to draw a little blood, never mind the crimson spill that I had imagined. What a joke, I thought to myself, I couldn't even do this right. Pressing my bleeding wrists against my pretty cotton dress, I climbed out of the tub and headed downstairs, trailing water behind me. In the kitchen I rummaged through the drawers for a good knife, with no luck. I was such a lousy cook that the sharpest thing in my kitchen was the can opener.

  Then I noticed a new prescription on the kitchen counter. In one frantic sweep, I swallowed the entire contents of the bottle. Blood was still running down my palms and dripping from my fingertips, but I was thrilled to have discovered the pills. They'd make it easier. While I waited for the drugs to work, I cleaned up the bloody mess I'd made of the kitchen floor, then went upstairs to drain the pink water from the bathtub and to change into a robe. Wrapping my wrists with towels, I curled up with my blanket on Alex's empty bed. He had crept into our bedroom as usual. Now all I had to do was wait. . . .

  Good, I thought, as I started feeling dizzy. Before long the room was flying around me, spinning like a carnival ride. I had a terrible thirst, and my body was slow and heavy as I stumbled heavily to the bathroom for a drink of water. Coming back, I was hit with a blast of nausea. I made it back to Jacob's room just in time to grab an Easter basket. How appropriate, I thought, grimly. Easter, the celebration of death and rebirth.

  Since part of the prescription had come back up, I needed another dose of drugs. So, rummaging through the medicine cabinet, I created a more palatable and possibly more deadly concoction. This time I poisoned myself slowly, taking small but frequent doses throughout the early morning, so that my body wouldn't throw off the drugs.

  At daybreak the sharp blare of the alarm clock from my bedroom
was muted by the ringing in my ears. The shower started running, my signal to roll out of Alex's bed and crawl into my own. When Richard came out of the bathroom, he stopped and asked me, "What's the matter?"

  "Nothing. I'm just sick," I slurred.

  He accepted my explanation and left for work. When the boys woke up, I packed them off to a neighbor's house with a note asking her to watch them since I wasn't feeling well. Then I reestablished myself on the living-room couch, still clutching my blanket, the sweet friend of my childhood. I continued to dose myself with drugs, consuming as much as I could stand at a time without vomiting.

  Finally, I got the sense that it was happening. I could no longer stand or sit up. My eyes fell on the clock. It was eleven a.m. A bright warm sun filtered through the thin drapes and gleamed on the white tile beneath. That would be my last glimpse of life, I thought. My nose and lips were numb, and it was quickly spreading to my limp arms and legs. My tongue was thick and dry as I tried to swallow. I felt myself going— separating from my heavy, sluggish body.

  TWELVE

  I was passing over into a different sphere. I could feel a tremendous energy enfold me with a deep rumble, as if I were lying in the aisle of a Boeing 747 during takeoff. I lay motionless beneath my thin red blanket. My soul was disconnecting from my body with a hum that kept growing louder, rising to a whine as the vibration of death pulled me deeper. I could see what looked like the inside of my eyelids. Peachy-rose light softened the intense sinking, rushing sensation.

  Morbid intrigue beckoned me to watch my death, so I lifted my heavy eyelids, and instantly I felt a huge surge of energy pull me back into my body. I could see the decorative pillows scattered around me on the couch. Shallow quick breaths and the thump of my heart told me that I wasn't quite there. Okay, I thought, I'll have to try again.