The military got involved. Not with justice. Not with protection. Just paperwork. Just enough to pretend they cared. John was ordered to go to marriage counseling with me. He also had to complete an anger management course, which turned out to be a thirty-slide PowerPoint with a five-question quiz at the end.
It wasn't accountability. It was theater. A thirty-slide slideshow pretending to be therapy.
But we did get into counseling that same week. And here's the part that mattered: our counselor was a man.
If he had been a woman, John wouldn't have gone. Or if he had, he would've walked in with that dismissive smirk, arms crossed, already planning how to ignore her.
But a man? A man he could size up. A man he thought might take his side. That was different.
Dr. Jacobs was a retired military guy, twenty years in, now working as a counselor on base. He was calm. Direct. Not the type to coddle. And he had that kind of quiet authority that makes people like John behave, for a little while.
But that first session? That wasn't when Dr. Jacobs saw through him. That was John's performance piece.
He started by telling the story of how we met. He smiled through it. Made it charming. Made us sound like a whirlwind romance with a few rough patches. Then he talked about our recent fights.
He cried.
Actual tears.
He said he didn't know how we got to this point. That he had just been so overwhelmed, so frustrated, that he "pushed me out of the bed." Not flipped the mattress. Not screamed in my face. Not choked me against the wall.
Just... pushed.
At the time, I didn't even catch the downplay. Because all I could see was the emotion. The tears. The trembling voice. The way he reached for my hand and sobbed, "I just want to be better. I want to be a good dad."
He begged for forgiveness. Promised change. Swore it would never happen again.
And for a moment, I believed him.
When it was my turn to talk, I was finally able to say what happened in my own words. But the truth is, I didn't have much to add. Because John had already narrated the whole thing. And I didn't realize then how tightly he had framed the story. How he had told the truth, just not all of it.
It wasn't until later I understood what he was doing: Controlling the narrative. Owning the facts just enough to seem honest, while still keeping the spotlight exactly where he wanted it.
And then came the backstory, his childhood. His abusive mother. His absent father. The trauma. The pain. The reasons.
I'd heard them before. And you've read about them, too, earlier in this book. Not to excuse him, but to explain how narcissists are often built in the ruins of their own wounds. Still, knowing that doesn't mean you have to stay.
But in that room, I stayed. I cried. I held his hand. I believed the version of us we were trying to paint.
The session ended with the two of us in tears, clinging to hope, making promises. Dr. Jacobs nodded, gave us a simple assignment:
"Keep a journal of how you're feeling this week, toward each other. Be honest. We'll go over it next session."
We walked out holding hands. Me, still crying. Still aching. Still clinging to the fantasy that maybe, this time, it would be enough.
It sounded like a start. A new beginning.
I kept my journal.
And that week? It was perfect. Like, storybook perfect. He came home every night. He kissed me, rubbed my feet, cleaned the house, played with our son like he was auditioning for a "Best Dad Ever" commercial. He was charming, helpful, attentive. It was like living with the version of him I always wished was real.
And I wrote it all down. I did. I wrote how it made me feel. The softness. The hope. The warmth I hadn't felt in a long time.
But then… I kept writing.
I wrote about the darker stuff too. The stuff I hadn't said out loud yet. I wrote about the times he grabbed my arm and wouldn't let me leave the room. About how he'd slammed me down onto the bed, or the couch, when I disagreed with him. I wrote about the choking. The screaming. The fear.
I didn't mean for it to turn into all that. But once I started writing, it just poured out.
I kept the good stuff in the front. Because if he ever saw it, I wanted that to be what he read. And the bad stuff? I tucked it in the middle. Not the back. Too easy to flip to by accident. Somewhere deep in the middle, like a secret buried in the folds of my spine.
The fact that I had to hide it at all should have been a red flag the size of a mattress. Yes, I know, we all deserve privacy. Nobody wants someone reading their personal thoughts.
Except for all of you reading this now. Congratulations, you now live in my brain. Welcome. There's trauma, snacks, and too much oversharing.
I digress. But that's how survival works. Hide the bruises, bury the truth, and try to pass off hope as healing.