Every time I speak to someone who has the authority to help my daughter and me, it throws me back into the time when I was fleeing him. I have to remind myself that he is not here; that he cannot lock me in the apartment for an entire day. That he is not here to throw me against the wall, or strike me in my face. That he cannot enter my home drunk and screaming, "My wife is a zonah! I ought to slap her around!" ---that I do not have to wait with baited breath as he smashes his fists against the wall, waiting for him to pass out. Every time I speak with an agunah advocate, or a rabbi that is involved in the process, I have to remind myself, they do not know that I am on medication for a mood disorder. They will not doubt me as the employees at the American consulate did, as Israeli social workers did, as so many others did when they learned of my condition. That I am no longer literally wandering pregnant in the desert, asking for help from people who tell me that I have no choice but to go back to him. I am no longer hungry in the locked apartment or hungry in the desert; gone are the days when I weighed 85 pounds at 14 weeks of pregnancy. I have to remind myself that I am safe, that he is far away. It is very hard everytime I speak to the people who have the power to help unlock this exile that my daughter and I are in. And it brings nightmares. Yet I still speak to advocates and rabbis. For my daughter's sake as well as for mine.