(partial text exchange with a dear friend):
“… I feel as though I am in a stage of enormous rebirth… one wonders… does the caterpillar weep as her body melts and reworks itself inside its cocoon? We assume she is asleep through the transformation. Yet what if she is not? What if, as a sentient being, the breaking and sundering and re-creating is felt in all its agony? As mine is fully felt. And the emergence, newly winged also fraught with the trauma of coming forth fully as this new self? Like birth… long labored, excruciating… yes, the pain worth the new life born and the pain dimmed with time… but the crux of the cocoon and the emergence… does the butterfly grieve? Does she grieve and then weave it into the brilliant patternwork of her individuated wings… yes, this is a monarch… or this a swallowtail… recognizable by coloring and marks… yet each one’s depth of coloring varies and each of the marks as unique as snowflakes…”
Little did I realize that less than 12 hours later, I would be fleeing my husband in the dark of night to a safe house with my youngest son, our dog, and the most precious of the small possessions we could stuff with some clothes into our car.
For the next 10 days we were unhomed as I tried to extricate my angry spouse from my home, but like a blight or an ill-tempered badger, he refused to budge. Spirits, guides, and allies… the animate house itself was enlisted to work with me… and continues to do so.
I fled, the trap by with I felt caged by for so long shattering into particles of airborne rust… the mental, emotional and verbal abuse that I had endured for so long unleashed upon my son… the trap obliterated instantly. I was willing to lose everything to protect my son. That I was not willing to do it for myself is a conversation to be had with my therapist in depth.
But suddenly, I was free. We were free. Refugees for a bit, but safe. And so, I was able to breathe more fully for the first time in months. Breathe and think and plan. I had been meaning to earlier, but it was a suffocating immersion that left little room for more than a near constant heavy shielding against the anger, ill will and irritation that was my life.
And so, over the series of days, I went to work and did my job, but I let them know what had happened so that, by their own volition my firm became a safe haven. I spoke to my other, adult children and let them know, including the ones who are still in relationship with him. That is their choice. Their right. Their dynamic to navigate. I spoke to my inner circle of closest friends. Hearing their perspectives. Heeding their insights. Those dear ones have my eternal gratitude. They were, of course, already well aware, as my confidantes, of the situation, but none of us were expecting me to be literally escaping at midnight nor that being homeless for over a week was both my and my son’s actual reality.
Yet it was. Emergency therapy session. A consult with a lawyer to make certain nothing I was doing could be used against me and harm my son. A second consult with a second lawyer on the grimmer, grislier work of separation (note: there is no legal separation or “no fault” divorce in the state of Mississippi). I found a place for my son and I to live with a short term lease that could be extended if needed. Once procured, and under my lawyer’s advice, I hired an armed security guard and three burly movers, a witch friend, and a moving van… showed up at my beloved home unannounced in the early morning light and, much to my husband’s chagrin as he came out the door in his bathrobe asking “what was going on?” and my sovereign self standing tall and proud sang back loudly, “Oh! I’m here to collect some of my things. We will be right in!”
There was a calm, firm chaos in my wake as I and my hired brute squad spent four hours collecting furniture and possessions, so that the rented space would be recognizable as home for my son and myself.
Over the next 24 hours, I transformed the beige space that was to be my son and my temporary abode into a place of sanctuary. A nest. An oasis of tranquility. Boxes emptied. Pictures hung. Our combined altar expanded, candle lit, censed and blessed as the focal point of our living space. space… then I brought my weary, frustrated son in and welcomed him to our temporary abode. As the days have passed, we are both settling in. Laughter and song. My son, like some masssive golden retriever puppy rolling around the floor in happy contentment. Enjoying our elderly cat (the dog is safely with his older brother).
Cost to freedom:
Therapy session: gifted
Lawyer: $350 for one hour consultation
Movers/moving van: $750
Security guard: $500
Rental: $1500/mo (laughing… let’s lovingly call it shabby chic)
Gifts to those who took us in for 10 days: $300
Eating out more than usual: $200
I’m putting those numbers out there for those of you who need time to squirrel away money. For those who feel that there is no way you can afford to leave.
That is an illusion. You can afford to leave. I sold my wedding band to pay for part of those expenses. I put some of it on credit. Funds surprisingly may reveal themselves to you… through a lawyer’s advice or friend’s wise counsel. Lose the house, if you must, but first… especially if you have a working relationship with your home, ask it to help you. Give it the opportunity to participate. Rent a place you can stay in… perhaps longer than you think, so make sure you can afford it. Break free no matter the cost, Dear One. You can take care of yourself. You just don’t know it yet.
No creature should live in an abusive situation. Be they human, animal, plant or beyond. When I was thrifting for a few items the day before the moving van was scheduled, I walked in and there staring at me was a gold-leafed, hand-painted, Byzantine-styled stoic icon just over 8-by-10 inches of an angel holding a lance with a banner attached. I wasn’t certain which angel or archangel it was pictured, but I recognized the words on the banner. They were the thrice mentioned, highly ritualized words used when ordaining someone in a holy office…
Axios
Axios
Axios
Which being interpreted means:
Worthy
Worthy
Worthy
I am worthy.
Worthy of living a life not filled with abuse.
Worthy of a living space not fraught with anger and hostility.
Worthy of grace and joy.
You are worthy also, Beloved.
Blessed be.
Erica Sittler is a Witch practicing her craft in Mississippi where she is an active member of the Temple of Witchcraft. Her magick is in the mundane and in bringing honor and attention to those small things that build a sustainable and adventurous life. She is a Temple Mystery School student under the instruction of High Priestess Sellena Dear.