I Know My Truth: Surviving the Marriage That Was Never Meant to Be

When my ex and I got married in 1982, he told me things that should have made me run. Not walk—run. But I was 21, and the world had already taught me to doubt my instincts. My parents were enamored of his background, his charm, his potential. They said, “This might be your last chance.” I was barely out of high school, still learning how to trust myself, still trying to be what everyone else thought I should be.

So I married him.

And almost immediately, the warning signs became neon.

The Bargain I Didn’t Know I Was Making

“If you divorce me, I will ruin your life,” he said early on. Not in a moment of anger. Not as a joke. As a statement of fact. A promise. And damn near did it too.

He was the kind of man who saw relationships as transactions. Love was leverage. Vulnerability was weakness. He once told me, “I never would have married you if you didn’t have a good job. I would have dated you, never married you.” That came from a man who went through 23 jobs in 28 years. I was the stability. The paycheck. The plan.

When I finally left, he said, “It was just a business arrangement for me.”

Let that sink in.

I gave him my youth—my twenties, my energy, my dreams—so he could have a business arrangement. I was the infrastructure for his chaos. The scaffolding for his ego. The quiet engine behind his public persona.

And he denied me my dreams because he had none. I once asked him, gently, curiously, “What do you want to do? What do you dream of being?” He looked at me blankly and said, “I never thought about it.”

Never hook up with a man who has no dreams.

Because if he doesn’t have his own, he’ll dismantle yours. Not out of malice, but out of emptiness. A man with no vision will resent yours. A man with no purpose will sabotage yours. And a man who sees marriage as a transaction will always keep a ledger—of what you owe, of what he’s entitled to, of what he’ll take when you finally say “enough.”

The Cost of Survival

I’ve been in survival mode since I was 20.

That’s not poetic. That’s not metaphor. That’s reality. I learned to budget not just money, but energy. I learned to scan every room for emotional landmines. I learned to parent alone, even when I wasn’t technically alone. Because he bailed on his kids—not just physically, but emotionally, spiritually, morally.

I think about my girls every other minute of every day. I can guarantee he doesn’t think about them one-tenth of that. I wish they understood that. I wish they could see the difference between presence and performance. Between love and obligation. Between a parent who shows up and a parent who shows off.

He once said, near the end, “It’s hard being married to someone smarter than myself.” It was meant as a compliment, I think. But it was also a confession. He knew I saw through him. He knew I carried the weight. He knew I was the one who made things work, even when they shouldn’t have.

And yet, I stayed. For years.

Why?

Because survival mode doesn’t leave room for clarity. Because when you’re constantly managing someone else’s chaos, you don’t have time to ask, “Is this love?” You just ask, “Is this safe?” And when the answer is “sometimes,” you stay. You adapt. You shrink. You endure.

The Reckoning and the Rise

Eventually, I left. Not with fanfare. Not with vengeance. With quiet resolve. With the kind of strength that doesn’t need applause. And when I did, he married someone else—a woman whose instability matched his own. They became a mirror of dysfunction. A duet of denial.

But they can no longer hurt me.

Because I know my truth.

I know what I survived. I know what I sacrificed. I know what I built from the ashes. And I know that healing isn’t linear—it’s layered. It’s messy. It’s sacred.

I’ve learned that survival mode isn’t a life sentence. It’s a training ground. It teaches you to listen to your gut. To honor your boundaries. To protect your peace. And eventually, it teaches you to dream again.

I dream now.

Not of escape, but of expansion.

Not of safety, but of joy.

Not of being seen, but of being whole.

Lessons from the Rubble

There are things I wish I’d known at 20. Things I wish someone had whispered in my ear when my parents said, “This might be your last chance.”

- You are not a deadline.

- You are not a fallback plan.

- You are not a resume booster or a stability package.

- You are a whole, dreaming, radiant being—and anyone who doesn’t honor that doesn’t deserve your time.

I wish I’d known that love without respect is just control. That charm without character is just manipulation. That promises made in fear are not promises—they’re threats.

But I know it now.

And I teach it to my daughters—not with lectures, but with my life. With my choices. With my healing. I show them what it means to rise. To reclaim. To rewrite.

The Truth That Sets Me Free

My story isn’t unique. That’s the heartbreaking part. So many women give their youth to men who see them as stepping stones. So many mothers carry the emotional labor while fathers disappear. So many dreamers are told to settle, to shrink, to sacrifice.

But my story is mine. And I own it.

I own the mistakes. I own the survival. I own the wisdom. And I own the truth:

He and his psycho wife can no longer hurt me. Because I know my truth.

And that truth is this:

- I am smarter.

- I am stronger.

- I am still here.

- I am still dreaming.

- I am still loving.

- I am still building.

And I am no longer afraid.