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insecurity.
    It’s funny now how his determination to control me, even from the grave, ultimately lead me to my freedom. I was getting my Bachelor’s degree so that I could get work as a teacher, one of the few areas that were in desperate need of people and not laying off like all the other businesses in California. When I started work for a company in a temporary slot that eventually became permanent, my boss—a very wise woman who saw more in me than I saw myself then—encouraged me to pursue my Master’s degree in Business Administration as soon as I graduated with my Bachelor’s. Reluctant to jump from the frying pan into the fire again with school work, I resisted. But when Will thought that by having an MBA I would not “need” to be with another man whenever he died, the decision was made for me. With an MBA I would be able to support myself and live the rest of my life alone, mourning his death and my loss since I obviously would never actually want to be with another man again.
    Yeah, right. Uh-huh. Sure.
    Our marriage wasn’t always bad or abusive; it was really more like a wild roller coaster ride. It was those infrequent good times that kept me from leaving for many years, always hoping that they would become more frequent and last longer. I kept thinking those thoughts that I now know were just a sign of how dysfunctional I really was. “If only I was prettier; smarter; skinnier… he wouldn’t act that way.” “If only I cleaned or cooked better he wouldn’t act that way.” But the truth of it was that even if I had filled his image of the “perfect” woman and wife, he still would have found something wrong with me. That was how he controlled and manipulated me. I was never going to be “good enough” but was always going to be trapped in that vicious circle of trying to be.
    When we were at the top of the roller coaster, we would often travel together on fishing trips in the Sierra Nevada Mountains; visiting family in Utah, Oklahoma, Florida, and once to Scotland. He was self-employed so any time I had a business trip somewhere, he was able to go along and we would turn it into a mini-vacation. We had a camper, and later a small boat to take out on the lakes when we camped. We also had a Harley and would go on long road trips with friends.
    When things were bad, however, in addition of staying because I was afraid of what he would do to me if I tried to leave, I often stayed because I was worried about how he would treat the dogs or cats when I left. I would plan elaborate escapes that would involve faking a car-jacking on the freeway when I was out with the dogs, leaving a little blood from one of them on the car seat to hopefully keep him from looking too far for us or in the right direction.
    Fortunately, I never got that desperate. During the years we were married, while he often threw things at me, yelled at or threatened me, belittled me, isolated and controlled me, there really was just one time when he actually hit me, but once was enough for me to live in fear of it happening again. He had gotten angry with me when I wanted to donate some old work clothes that I no longer wore and would never wear again to charity group. I had taken them out to the front of the house where he was raking leaves so that I could put them in my car. When he asked what I was planning on doing with them, I told him and turned to go back into the house to get more. As soon as I turned my back, he hit me across both legs with the handle of the rake, leaving welts that lasted for days. He offered no explanation or apology, the clothes went back into my closet, and he didn’t really talk to me for weeks after the incident. Silence was his favorite way to “punish” me for anything, whether it was something I had done or not done, said or not said, or completely unrelated to me. Under normal circumstances I might have said his silence was golden, but it was always cold and terrifying. I often never knew