Have you ever wanted something so bad only to get it and find out that it wasn’t what you really needed or wanted? That’s kind of how I felt in the days after the death of my husband. First off, it didn’t seem real. I was in a fog for days. When I went to the morgue to identify him, I didnt see his actual body, so it wasn’t real to me until I saw him at the funeral home. I broke down then, and all of these emotions that I was holding in came pouring out. My family didn’t understand how I could cry for him, how I could pay for his final expenses, how I could mourn his absence. They didn’t understand that despite it all, I loved him. Sometimes I don’t understand how I could love someone who treated me the way he did. I guess it’s possible because it wasn’t all bad. We had a lot of good memories and he wasn’t a monster 24/7. That is what made it so hard for me, because he could be so kind and sensitive and funny and then like the flip of switch he was someone else. It was a rollercoaster ride. Now, while I’m dealing with putting him to rest I also had to deal with my impending arrest. I knew that I only had a few days before they figured out my involvement, I was just buying time so that I could get my children situated and my affairs in order. In hind sight I often wonder if I should have been honest with the police in the beginning. Would they have believed me? Would it have made a difference? I don’t have the answers to those questions. I just know that by that time I was so use to lying about and covering up what was often obvious, that it came natural. (“No, he didn’t give me this black eye, I ran into the door. No, I’m not unhappy, everything is great. etc.) I still felt a deep sense of obligation to him and the need to protect him and his ways. I didn’t realize that I was free until I got locked up. How ironic, huh? My new reality was a blessing and a curse. Sitting behind these walls I was able to find real freedom. I was able to learn to love myself, to accept myself and to not attribute other people’s character flaws as my fault. It hasn’t been easy to reach this place, to be able to talk about my past, but I know that there is a story in my tears and pain.

Noni J. Stinson
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