Guest Post

The following piece was contributed by a member of the public.


"What Goes Around Comes Around"
by Anonymous

“I don’t know how to tell you this,” his brother said, “Jon died six years ago, you didn’t know?” How would I, I haven’t spoken to him in over 15 years. “What goes around comes around” were the last words that Jon ever said to me, as if my husband’s cancer was the result of some karmic energy paying me back for leaving him. The only thing that I can remember from that phone conversation with Jon’s brother is me singing the song from the Wizard of OZ in my head “Ding dong, the witch is dead.”

It is hard to describe exactly what I was feeling when I first heard the news. It hit me a few days later. I cried, but it wasn’t because I was grieving his death. I cried because I thought I was a terrible person. I was glad that he was dead, and relieved to know that I would never see him again.

There were times with Jon that I lay in bed, wondering how I could kill him and make it look like an accident. Others may have become suicidal, but that thought never crossed my mind. He hadn’t beaten me down that far. He wasn’t going to win. It had to look like an accident because I didn’t want to pay for his life with the rest of mine. He had already taken enough of my life.

Jon was very clear that I wasn’t going to leave him. He would never let me go. If he couldn’t have me then no one could. The .357 Magnum kept next to our bed enforced that point clearly and he didn’t hesitate to pull it out of the nightstand on a regular basis to remind me.

An opportunity presented itself when he moved out of state for his work and had been gone for about a month. I was absolutely insistent that I would not get married until I finished my college degree so I didn’t go with him. It was probably the one thing that saved my life, the one thing that he knew that he could not get me to change my mind on. It scared him to think that I wasn’t going with him and he called me every day and night to check in on me. Even from a distance he frightened me, he knew where I was and he knew how to find me. At one point I believed that he was having me watched. I could only hope that I would have some warning before he actually arrived back in the state.

I remember watching a movie one night, “Sleeping with the Enemy”. The title resonated with me and it was chilling. Too close to home but not quite the same story. I had never spoken with anyone about what was happening. Not even my best girl friend. How could I have gotten myself into this mess? It was at that moment that I realized even strong, confident women get drawn into abusive relationships. I never thought I was one of “those women”. You know, the weak woman with the bad family history, the one who was raised in violence and expected nothing less from her relationships. It was her own fault, right? She didn’t have to take it. She could leave any time. How naïve. I wasn’t any better than anyone else, I had been drawn into the same pattern of abuse, and I just didn’t realize it.

He had been dead six years and I didn’t realize how much he affected my daily habits, how frightened I had been, and watchful. I am still living with the effects of that relationship and the experience still haunts me in ways that I don’t expect. My husband occasionally experiences the aftermath of the lingering emotional damage. Every once in awhile he will do something that sets me off and I will scream at him at the top of my lungs as he stares blankly at me, having no idea what he has just done. He knew that I had issues as a result of my ex but I never really discussed them in detail. There are just some things he doesn’t need to know.

I was sitting in the airport the other day when I realized that for the first time in years I was relaxed. I wasn’t looking over my shoulder wondering if he was going to sneak up behind me. He is gone and I never have to worry about him again.

He died of a gunshot wound to the groin. He was out at his cabin and bled to death before they got him to a hospital. As terrible as it sounds, I couldn’t think of a better way for him to die. A gunshot wound to the groin, how fitting. The abuse that I suffered over the years came back to haunt him. I wonder if he shot himself with his .357 Magnum.

When his brother told me how he died, all I could think of were the words he said to me the last time we spoke. “What goes around comes around.”