AM I AN AGUNAH YET??

Part One: The End… or the Beginning.

This series is an account of an Agunah, who describes the systems and processes a woman may encounter on her way to obtaining freedom after the marriage ended. What works? What doesn’t work? Which means are useful in preventing a divorcee from becoming an Agunah?

I was done.

We had only been married for a year and a half, and this wasn’t the first time I was done.

It wasn’t the first time I felt like someone had pulled a plug out of me and drained all my energy. It wasn’t the first time I moved through my home, feeling like my feet were sinking in quicksand and the walls were closing in on me. It wasn’t the first time I stared at my baby’s face with a sinking sense of dread, knowing I could not protect him from this.

Something is not right here. Am I losing my mind? I need to get out.

Check the diaper bag. Pack stuff up.

The first time I wanted to leave my husband, I cried. I told him how miserable I was, how wrong I felt.

“It’s just… the baby,” he said. “Isn’t it normal to feel like this after a baby? I heard it happens.”

“No… it’s not postpartum depression.” I couldn’t stop sobbing. “I’m sorry. I don’t know how to explain what is wrong with me.”

“So, you want to leave?” he said. “You want a divorce?”

“I can’t do this anymore,” I cried.

“You’re very emotional,” he said. “Don’t make any big decisions until you are calmer, okay? I will call the Rav.”

I huddled on my bed, listening to my husband tell the Rav ‘Postpartum depression’. I wanted to protest that diagnosis but found that I had no strength. ‘Psychiatrist. Pills. Court-ordered treatment.’

When I heard that, I made myself get up. “I’ll be better soon, I think. Maybe it’s just my hormones.”

Another time, I snapped before my friend’s Vort.

“I want a divorce,” I managed to say, firmly.

My husband’s face changed. “Don’t do this again. Not now. Everything was going so well!”

But it wasn’t.

“I’ll join you at your therapist tomorrow. I’ll come every time from now on. I’ll do anything. Just tell me what you want,” my husband said.

I just shook my head.

I couldn’t verbalize what I wanted.

I want to feel safe,” my gut whispered, but my husband was so much louder, and certainly clearer, than my intuition.

I found myself with my baby in my arms, staring mindlessly at my clothes, feeling paralyzed.

This time I am not coming back.

So, what should I wear to the Vort?

Impending doom. Can’t smile. Maybe I am having a stroke, I thought.

My husband showered first, and then I showered- in freezing water. “Sorry!” he yelled through the door after I yelped. “I forgot to warn you. I’ll check the boiler when we get home. Hopefully it’s an easy fix.”

I couldn’t find my phone. “It was right here,” I insisted.

“Sometimes you drop it in the kitchen drawer,” my husband said. “You’ll use mine.”

I couldn’t dial down the distress. The phone seemed crucial, somehow. I know where I left it. Eventually, I did find it in the kitchen drawer.

My husband waited for me in the car, leaving me to steel myself, get the baby, stroller, and the bag, and cart them down two flights of stairs, alone.

I don’t remember much of the Vort.

THIS TIME, when the walls started closing in, and all my alarm bells were ringing, loudly and incessantly: Not Safe Here; I decided not to tell my husband.

I didn’t want to call my Kallah teacher. Again.

What would I even say? I have a bad feeling. Again? I couldn’t find my phone. My shower was cold.

“Life is full of frustrations,” she’d say. “What does your therapist think?”

Or, maybe, this time she’d say something else?

I should call her, I realized, before I think it over too much and get cold feet. I had to call someone.

When I dialed, I felt some of the heaviness lift.

Maybe she’d help me make sense of my situation.

To read more Agunah Monologues, go to www.getjewishdivorce.org.

If you or anyone you know is struggling to receive a Get, call Esther Macner at 310-730-5282 or email her at info@getjewishdivorce.org. Strictly confidential.