Conscious Choice: How I Almost Became a Murderer

April 2005 | BackWords

How I Almost Became a Murderer

by Caryn E.A. George

IT WAS ONE OF THE WORST MOMENTS OF MY LIFE. And one of the most noble. It also was the most pivotal.

Although it happened almost a decade ago, this story remains relevant today because when events involving lovers, couples and marriages go astray, the emotions can become so intense that at times it can lead each and every one of us into momentary actions of insanity.

My moment came when our six-year marriage was over but the emotions and love were not. All our hopes, dreams and feelings had been painfully exposed like raw nerves to the cold air. After years of counseling, psychiatrists, psychologists and even hypnotists, my husband, Beau (not his real name) and I knew that our respective baggage did not and would not ever mix. So with broken hearts we decided to separate.

When I left my husband in our home in the Sierra Nevada mountains, I left chalk love messages on the beams in the bedroom. I left little treasures we had accumulated together to help keep him company and remind him how I loved him.

I returned home to San Diego, rented a place, got a job and continued to speak to my husband every single night on the phone. We were both miserable.

About six weeks into our separation, his calls became more sporadic and when he did call, he didn’t sound nearly as miserable as I. It finally dawned on me that he was probably seeing someone.

When next he called, I asked:

“Beau, are you seeing someone?”

A pregnant pause and then his hesitant answer:

“Yes.”

I was incredulous. I was outraged. I was enraged.

“Who?”

Beau could tell I was on the brink of losing it.

“She called me, honey,” he said. “I didn’t call her. It just happened. She was a receptionist at the eye doctor’s office and she saw me and she looked up my number.”

“You mean our number? At our house?”

I then asked the question and received the answer that sent me sailing into a murderous rage:

“Are you in love with her?”

“Yes.”

“After I gave you six years of my life and struggled all this time with you and you manage to fall in love six weeks after I’m gone?” I could barely spit it out. I was choking — not crying, but choking on my own anguish and rage.

I vaguely remember Beau saying that the woman had been to our house and that, yes, he had erased all my chalk messages. That’s pretty much all I remember, except slamming down the phone.

I flipped out.

With my hand still on the receiver, I began to plan my trip back up north, 550 miles away, in order to kill her. Not Beau — I loved him too much — but her (whoever she was). I stood shaking and thinking about what I had to bring: Warm clothes, credit card for gas, my house keys to catch them in the act. And, of course, my little Saturday Night Special handgun. I was even thinking, if they were in bed together, how I had to be sure to hit her and not Beau.

I still had my hand on the receiver and hadn’t moved when something I can only describe as “two paths” loomed in my mind’s eye.

One path appeared somewhat more elevated than the other. Honestly, I could see them.

The lower path was the one I was speeding towards and I could see the end of that trail: an innocent woman dead because of her attraction and love of the man I was attracted to and loved. Her family sick with grief over her murder. Beau traumatized for the rest of his life by me killing someone, perhaps someone he loved, before his very eyes. My entire family heartbroken that I was actually capable of such a heinous, insane act and could land in prison for years, maybe forever.

I could vaguely make out that other path. It was far more nebulous, but it was there. I saw love and forgiveness. I saw loving another human being so much that even if it hurt me, I wanted that other human being to be happy. I could see my own life continuing with joys and sorrows, love and hardships. I could see myself allowing other people, Beau and his women included, living their lives as they saw fit and wishing them well.

I don’t know how long I stood there with my hand on the receiver. But the next thing I knew, I had dialed Beau back up and, amazingly enough, he picked up.

“Beau, I am so sorry,” I said. “I love you so much I want you to be happy even if it’s without me. I wish the best for both of you.”

There was dead silence on the other end. Beau was trying to comprehend what I had said.

“I mean it, Beau. Be happy. You deserve it. I love you.”

Then I hung up.

I had picked the “higher” path in a moment of rage and insanity and I’m happy that I did. This remains one of the most profound moments in my life. That’s because in that moment I realized I didn’t have to be a captive to my own emotions, rage and hurt. In that moment, I realized that no matter what happens we always have a choice of what we are going to do, and who we want to be.

Caryn E.A. George lives in the small desert community of Ocotillo, California. Her no. 1 loves are her parents, brothers and their families.

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