He grabbed me as I tried to go out the garage door and drug me back into
the kitchen and had me pinned down on the bar. He was choking the shit out of me; again. Focusing was becoming harder
and harder. My throat was constricting and I was gasping to breathe. We were glaring into each others eyes, mentally willing
the other to give in. I refused to satisfy his taste for victory by fainting. I was wondering how to get him off of me without
hurting him. He'd just had surgery, but his grip on my throat was strong and fierce. Since my lover had stabbed him I felt
an obligation not to hurt him by throwing his ass off of me and possibly tearing his stitches. But he was choking my
neck! I noticed the iron skillet within my grasp on the stove top, but decided against smashing him across the head and possibly
giving him a concussion or black eye before Sunday morning service. He did have to preach after all and scars to the face
and head would be hard to explain to the congregation. I did smash my knee into his groin and with a surprised gasp he released
his vice grip on my throat and buckled down to the floor. I helped his decrypted behind back to bed, tucked him in, and went
on my way. He'd been policing my every move since coming home from the hospital. Every move I made aroused his suspicion.
He had caught my lover and me in bed and lost the last piece of his mind. They’d fought, which resulted in a hospital
stay for them both, and now every time I headed toward the door he figured I was on my way to see him. Wasn't he the
pot calling the kettle black? We've been married for nearly sixteen years and he has cheated every one of those years.
But when he catches me cheating all hell broke loose. I grew tired of being the good little preacher’s wife, the peacemaker,
and the bigger person. This is my story; this is the Diary of a Mad Preacher's Wife.