Allison K. Dagney - When Tears Leave Scars: A True Story of Triumph Over Emotional Abuse

I ve lost count of how many times Ive imagined his death. Im not sure when I started daydreaming about all the possible ways he could die. There were slow agonizing deaths, and quick, almost painless deaths. It didnt really matter in the end. How he died wasnt as important as that he died.

I always heard when people become severely depressed they spiral into such darkness that suicide is the only way out. The pain is so unbearable and death is their only escape. For me, it wasnt the same. I yearned to live, and I wanted him to die instead. I wished and prayed for it. I prayed to God his SUV would tumble into the creek, running parallel to the country road leading him home from his six-figure job. But, always to my disappointment, my husband still walked through the door every evening after work, donning his suit and tie.

Images and fantasies of his stiff, dead body on our marriage bed swirled in my mind. Thoughts of him vanishing from my life like an apparition fading into the darkness became my obsession. I didnt want to die. I wanted him to die; crashing his car, falling off a ladder, getting hit by a bus. I wanted him to die and it didnt matter how.

I imagined his funeral in my daydreams. His shiny, black casket at the head of the church and me feeling the burning urge to vomit, listening to his family and friends murmur softly about how wonderful he was. I replayed the fantasy in my mind of his brothers lowering the heavy coffin carefully onto the steel rails above a hole that wouldnt bring him close enough to hell. Hurry it up you guys. Get this over with.

I had considered killing him myself, but there was one major flaw with this idea: I am not a killer. I didnt know if I could actually hurt him, let alone kill him. Could I live with the consequences? Could I live with myself? Just understanding why I wanted him to die was difficult for me. Sadness, frustration, confusion, and defeat plagued me. All I knew was that he was not the same person I married and he made my life a living hell.

How would I explain it to the police? My family? My children? Could I get away with it? I knew without a shadow of a doubt I couldnt live my life this way any longer. There had to be a way out. I couldnt deal with the pain and confusion. The constant criticism and guilt trips were unbearable. The sneaky manipulation of my emotions and oppressive control of my every move had me backed into a corner like a scared animal ready to attack. I recognized something was very wrong, but I couldnt pinpoint the nagging ache that made me feel so alonelost and on the brink of losing myself forever.

Before Nick came home from work that evening, I removed my loaded, chambered handgun from its locked vault. I held it for a few minutes and ran my fingertips over the black gunmetal. I thought about what it would be like to kill him and how simple it would be to squeeze the trigger while I fearfully admired the weapon. I quickly put the vision out of my mind, shook it off of my thoughts like a dirty washcloth and placed the gun in the safe. I locked it in the nightstand and slid the key under the mattress.

It was our anniversary, and yet, I wanted nothing more than for my husband to be dead. He planned a dinner out and though I had no interest in being with him to celebrate a lifetime of heartache, sadness, and fear, I complied as always.

Are you almost ready to go? Nick yelled from the living room as I was slipping into my little, red sundress. The sound of his throaty voice scraped at my eardrums.

Almost, I yelled, in unison with him slamming the door.

Nick hated to wait. I looked at myself in the mirror, swept my dark hair behind my neck, grabbed my heels, slung my purse over my shoulder, and rushed out to the empty living room. The dark reflection of myself in the oversized flat screen TV stalled me. All of the colors in the image of myself were muted. It was me, but it wasnt. A marked sadness behind my hazel eyes, and a deep crevice of concern held steady like a vertical scar between my brows. I rubbed the wrinkle with my forefinger in a futile attempt to iron it out.

Nicks horn blared from the garage and I was startled from my daze. My spine stiffened. I sprinted barefoot from the living room to his car. He sighed heavily and shook his head as I tossed myself inside, buckled my seatbelt, and fumbled to put on my shoes.

Im sorry, I huffed.

I told you I wanted to leave at 6.

Its 6:03. I smiled and pointed to the clock on the dashboard.