Panic Meets Humiliation

Gaining my bearings, I noticed there, beyond the snowy field, was the town home community I had been circling. The stark contrast of the field (that was too dark to see), touching the edge of the brightly lit neighborhood, created a new question I couldn’t face alone… I quietly dialed 911. [Excerpt from Beyond The Snowy Field blog post.]

Oh man, it was so humiliating. I have watched lots of episodes of “Cops”, so I should have known what was going to happen. So, so freaking humiliating.

I dialed 911 because it was getting pretty late, I’d located my husband’s car in a deserted parking lot, but not my husband. I’d confronted him the day before with my knowledge of his emotional affair, and he was now MIA.

The police, a man and a woman, arrived without sirens and lights. Quietly they parked their cruiser behind my car. We stood together in the cold darkness, and they peppered me with their questions.

“How long has he been missing? Why do you think he is missing? Were you arguing? What were you arguing about? Have you checked the hospitals? Has he gone missing before? Do you think he is suicidal? Can you describe him?

I answered each question, one by one. “He has been missing since he dropped my daughter off at home at noon. He doesn’t stay out this late without telling me where he is. He isn’t answering his phone. His phone is here somewhere, but I don’t see him. He wouldn’t leave his phone behind. Yes we were arguing. We argued about an affair I found out he was having. My daughter has been calling hospitals. I don’t know if he is suicidal, but he suffers from PTSD and depression. He’s a disabled veteran.” And, I described him.

Does he own any guns? What kind of guns? Are they all accounted for?

It never occurred to me to look at home to see if any of his guns were missing. Not once. I was too busy driving around in circles. The police asked me to go home and look for all the weapons, and call to let them know what I find. I showed them the tiny dot the map on my cell phone screen, that was representing where his cell phone was. They took a picture of it, gave me business cards with their phone numbers, and outlined their plan.

They’d start to search for him. They’d have an alert sent out with his name and description to other police communities and the hospitals. They’d wait for my call.

This gave my heart a new reason to jump, so I sent out a text to the small group of families from our church that meet together on Fridays nights. “The Mr. is missing. I’ve called the police and they are looking. Please pray.”

The Humiliation. It was humiliating to have to say out loud to strangers that basically I’m not enough for my husband. He found someone else to meet his needs. I’m less than. I’m not fun enough, attractive enough, slim enough, sexy enough, good-in-bed enough, not enough enough enough. I’m forever in that moment publicly known as Less Than Not Enough Loser. I’m lumped in with trashy people who live their lives wild and chaotic and on the fringe. I’m them. They are me. I’m an episode of “Cops”, (figuratively speaking). Yay. Super duper. And it makes me very angry. And it really hurts, because this whole segment of my story could have been easily avoided.


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