Broken Dreams

clearly remember that dreadful moment when I stood over my husband, Tom, the gun still smoking and blood dripping down the side of my face. He lay there lifeless, calm, serene as though he were the most wonderful human being on earth. When blood began to seep from underneath him to stain the ivory kitchen floor, I screamed and pointed the gun to my head. I felt the cold steel on my temple pressing against a pulsating blood vessel and was about to pull the trigger when a little voice behind me said, "Mommy." It was my four year-old daughter, Cindy. Instinctively, I placed the gun down and grabbed her. I held her tightly against me keeping her view away from her father's body. I went into the living room and called 911.

I had done a terrible thing. Killing another human being is the worst sin I could think of. I was troubled for a long time because all my life I had always thought that if it ever came to a situation where it was my life against someone else's, I would rather give up mine than take someone else's. If a robber had entered my house and threatened my life and then I had shot him many would have considered me a hero. But I killed my own husband and now his relatives and a lot of other people hate me. It does not matter to them that I endured ten years of abuse, mental physical and sexual from a man who once vowed to stick with me through thick and thin.

I remember the medics and police arriving and rushing to try to save Tom's life. I remember them taking the gun and pulling Cindy away from me. This was the beginning of a horrific nightmare. I wanted to die. I wanted to escape the pain, the guilt, and the shame of facing my daughter years later and telling her I killed her father robbing her of his love and affection. Who knows, maybe someday he might have been capable of love and affection. We will never find that out because I killed him.

I knew about spousal abuse years before I was married. I vowed it would never happen to me. How could I let a man control me to such a point that I did not have a life of my own? How do women allow that to happen? Well, it happened to me. Tom's control over me was a gradual process that began with him snapping at me whenever I said something he did not like. It progressed to little slaps in the face quickly followed by apologies as though they were accidents. Later on he did not apologize. Instead he blamed me for making him hit me.

Blames ran the gamut from not answering him soon enough when he called, to giving him food that was either too hot or too cold. Nothing was good enough for Tom. Either I spoke too loudly or too softly. I did not make love right. I did not smile enough for him. I looked at other men. I dressed too provocatively. Tom simply drove me crazy. I did not have a life anymore. I spent every waking moment trying to figure out how to please him, how to be the best wife for him. In the process, I lost my sense of being, my dignity and in effect, my life.

How did my life get to this point? I was a degreed, professional, executive secretary for a law firm. I made enough money to support myself without ever needing anybody's help. Why then did I become so emotionally dependent on this intellectual adolescent of a man?

I met Tom in college. I fell for him hard and fast. Maybe that was the problem. I did not give myself a chance to stand back and examine him objectively. I was too enthralled with his pretty boy looks; blond hair, blue eyes, come-hither smile. Tom was not physically imposing. Only five ten with a lean body, he was not physically threatening. It was his tone of voice; low, guttural and sometimes hissing that turned me into a lump of jelly. It was what he said to me repeatedly that rapidly scraped away my self-dignity, my sense of worth.

"What man would want you?" He often said. "You're too old, you're sagging in too many places, you got wrinkles all over your face, you have a child. No one wants you. You're lucky that I still want you. "

Even though most of what he said was not true, I blindly believed him. I would look in the mirror and hate myself when in fact I was still a young, vibrant, beautiful woman. I could not see myself through my eyes. Instead I saw myself through Tom's eyes. That was what destroyed me; that I could only see me through his eyes and not my own. I allowed him to speak for me, think for me control my very being. I thought constantly about him. I defended him when people accused him of abuse. I wore makeup to cover up the bruises thinking nobody would notice when it was obvious to anybody who glanced at me.

When friends and family begged me to leave him I would say:

"He's working on changing. Most of the time he is a very loving husband and father. He just goes through these moods sometimes. Furthermore, he needs me." Of course even I didn't believe that crock but I said it anyway.

After years of abuse, I began to fear for Cindy's life. When Tom hit me she would scream and run to me. He would violently push her away sometimes injuring her. I wanted to leave him. I told him so and he promised he would kill me before I left him. He claimed I was his and his alone. No other man would ever have me. That is when I though of buying a gun. I had to protect Cindy. I was no longer the only one in danger here. I could not bring myself to let my baby suffer abuse and probably die from the man she called, daddy.

Buying the gun was easy. The man at the store gave me a few lessons on how to use it. I hid it in the back of the closet making sure neither Tom nor Cindy could get to it. Two weeks later, I used it. Tom was particularly angry with me because he was drunk. He came in late and rattled on about dinner being cold. I told him I could not stay up all night waiting for him to come home. He grabbed a plate and hurled it at me hitting me on the temple. I fell down and began to lose consciousness as blood spilled from the side of my head. He walked towards me, kicked me a couple of times in the ribs then went back to the kitchen to get something to eat.

I struggled to stay conscious as I crawled to the bedroom to get the gun. When I got back, he was making a sandwich. His back was turned to me but I did not want it that way. It had to appear as though I shot him as he hit me. I also wanted him to see me kill him so I called out to him. He turned around and laughed.

"What do you think you're doing?" He asked.

"I'm going to kill you, Tom. Cindy and I can't take it anymore." I said confidently.

"You are going to kill me?" He asked raising his voice. He took a step towards me and I pulled the trigger. There was a loud pop then Tom jerked backwards and slowly fell to the floor.

Eventually, it was ruled as self-defense and Cindy was given back to me because they figured I was not a threat to her. The whole ordeal still bothers me because I did kill a human being. Not only that, I killed my daughter's father. I will live with that guilt forever. But I keep telling myself that I did it for Cindy. If he had killed me, which happens to a lot of women, he would have gone to jail and Cindy would have ended up with neither parent. This was the best solution.

We had dreams, Tom and I. We dreamt of raising our children in a happy, healthy environment. We dreamt of growing old together and reliving wonderful memories of our youth. Now all I have are broken dreams and nightmares.