My Verbally Abusive Marriage

Okay, let’s do something a little different. I’m not going to tell you what this conversation was about. Instead, I’m going to share what I wrote down, what I heard him say verbatim, and let you fill in the blanks.

Gullible

Sucker

Don’t take it personal

Don’t get this twisted

Unbelievable

That’s (how he talks to me) more important than what we’re doin’ here (conversation topic)?

You just don’t like to hear the point

You made it all about you instead of about the boy

[deep sigh, "drop" remote forcefully, batteries fall out]

What you fail to see…

Are you trying to piss me off?

Are you trying to write a novel or are you trying to fix the problem?

I’ll tell you what they deal with – you not supporting your husband that’s what your notes pertain to. It wasn’t in the form of a question.

Sound familiar?

It’s been a tough week. My older son was expelled from school for possession of marijuana (which he denies, of course). He’s out for 10 school days. After that, he can go to the “bad kids” school here in our county, or…

The “or” is the option. The question is which “or” to take. I’m not sending Marc to a school where he’ll more likely come into contact with the problems I hope he escapes. It’s counter-intuitive. I’m probably, excuse me, we are probably going to spring the tuition for a correctional type school this next semester.

In fact, that is what I “should” be looking into right now. But I’m not because I need to write, to express, to share the frustrations I’m feeling.

This is hard. This is going to be hard for some time.

I don’t like the idea of sending Marc away to school. But I know, in my heart, that whatever it is he is needing, I am not able to provide it to him. Being here, with me, is not helping my son. Maybe being away, where there is no one to save him but himself, will be better.

I sure am glad that no one ever told me “healing” would be easy because I’d be painfully angry at that person right now. I am also grateful to the two people who told me “anxiety is expected and normal” because repeating their words in my head is helping me to get through the “everything” attempting to engulf me right now.

Will and I talked about Marc yesterday. We took time away and talked. I told Will what was in my heart, then back pedalled a little. I said that if he (Will) preferred homeschooling, I would consider it.

But Will said that he relies on me to give him information about the boys. He said that we shouldn’t dismiss what my gut instict was too quickly.

Boy, was I surprised. Not about the first part, but the bit about honoring my instincts. When he said that, I immediately recognized it as “unusual” and also recognized the re-emergence of my old pattern – saying something then trying to temper it toward what I thought Will may prefer.

Right after that, I realized that I hadn’t asked Will what he thought about it. I assumed that when he was talking to Marc earlier, Will was expressing his opinion. But in reality, Marc was laying out some possibilities, and Will was discussing those possibilities. I assumed those were Will’s ideas, but perhaps they weren’t.

Well, there were two ideas that were definetely Will’s, but they were mentioned in context of Marc’s wishes. I had not asked my husband what he wanted to do. Instead, I fell back into the habit of gleaning clues, then coalescing them into what Will thinks.

Thank god Will honored my instincts in our conversation. If he hadn’t, I may not have realized what bad habit I was relying on to predict Will’s wishes.

Yesterday was a good day, as I said in the last post. It alerted me to the fact that I can and do fall back into patterns that lead to abuse. It was a wake up call.

There have been no more fights between Will and I. We aren’t fighting. We have had a couple of discussions that were intense, yet they did not turn into fights. That is a good thing, and I’m grateful for it.

That doesn’t mean there isn’t tension.

There was one night where Will slept with me and we were…conjugal. Horny from ten months of no sex, hungry for the touch of another person. I was hoping sex would help although the rational part of me knew it wouldn’t. My old fantasy that sex made everything better, that sex “should” make everything better, is shattered; I shattered it some time before Will came home.

I guess the worst part of having sex with Will that night was that he felt like a stranger. Now, I have my fantasies about sex with strangers (fantasies, people…not “plans”), but when the stranger is my husband, sex was …nothing. It certainly didn’t comfort me in any way. There was nothing there except the pain of knowing there is no easy way out for Will and me.

Will is being open and (I hope) honest with me. He is hurt. He is concerned that we are not going to make it in the end. He says, “Logically, I can’t see this ending well,” and it isn’t a threat, it is his truth. He told me he feels hostile toward me, and I’ve told him the same thing.

Sitting there, looking at him, feeling his pain (“what” pain and “where it came from” didn’t matter), I realized something. Because we’re both hostile, neither of us are wanting to extend an olive branch. Neither one of us want to give up our positions, and so long as we’re both holding tightly to our own “ideal” there is not going to be any peace. And if there is no peace, there can be no healing.

My mother’s phrase, “Fake it ’til you make it,” kept running through my head. At first, I was annoyed because “faking it” is the very thing I’m trying to free myself from. I do not want to fake my identity in hope that Ill hit on one that he’ll like. That is my ideal, whether he feels I need to fight for it or not.

But then I thought of something else. I am focusing on actions as proof. So what actions have either of us taken to show that we want to make it work? What olive branch has been extended? There are none.

But what if there were? So I told Will about the fake it ’til you make it thing, and asked, “What is one nice thing I can do for you?” I told him that so long as we were acting hostile, we wouldn’t get anywhere and he agreed. I repeated my question, and he thought for some time and then said, “I don’t know. What about you? What can I do for you?”

I told him that I would like it very much if, when he came home from work, he came to me and gave me a big, long, loving hug and asked me how my day had been, asked me how I was doing. He said that he could do that.

I asked him again what I could do for him, and he again said that he didn’t know.

Next day, when he came home from work, he took the time to give me a warm, long, loving hug. I love him for that. We had been to a conference at Marc’s school only hours before, and he said, “I think I know how your day went, but how do you feel?” And I loved him even more.

I told him how I felt, and he listened. I said, “You haven’t told me what I can do for you yet,” and he said that he didn’t know what I could do for him. I asked him to tell me when he figured it out.

Last night, he fell asleep on the couch. I assumed he wanted to stay there, but I didn’t want to go to our bed alone. So I shoved the loveseat over to the couch and slept on it, uncomfortable as it was, without waking him. I wanted to be near him.

This morning, he kissed me before he left for work. Maybe tonight he’ll tell me what nice thing I can do for him. I think the fact that he cannot come up with something speaks volumes. I think we have a long, hard road ahead of us; but yesterday was a good day.

I went to the group meeting yesterday and met several women. Some still in their abusive relationships and some have left; some were in my age range and some were very young women. Some were soldiers, some were civilians. The uniting factor was our experience, and our experiences were both “the same” and horrifyingly different.

The younger women tended to relate stories that reminded me of “where I’ve been.” In their words I heard my own past pains and heartbreaks. I knew that in time, their experience left untouched and unchanged, would evolve into my current story. I knew it in my gut.

The women who were my age (one had been married 14 years, divorcing now) tended to relate stories that I considered far “worse” than my own, and I felt a strange feeling when, as I shared my story, they seemed to look at me as if they had been in my shoes, before the event(s) that shook them into leaving.

I tried very hard to tell myself that I would never be in those women’s shoes. That my husband would never do the types of things they described. But after the story-telling ended and the sharing began, these were the women who seemed to reach out to me the most. I found it unsettling.

While sitting and listening to the women who were “where I’ve been,” I was thinking that after the meeting, I would give them my phone number and offer words of encouragement and a promise that I would be there for them if they wanted to talk or needed help in an emergency, or any time. I envisioned myself standing in the hall way with them, talking and sometimes laughing, helping them to realize that “now” was the time to leave instead of waiting it out, instead of waiting for the “one thing” that would cause them to leave for good.

But my vision didn’t come true. Instead, the three women who I considered to have suffered “more than” me, caught me in the hall. They gave me their phone numbers, offered their support and a place to run to should catastrophe strike. They helped me to laugh although I wanted to cry. One said, “She (me) isn’t ready, yet” to the others, but knowing my secret thoughts didn’t cause them to turn away. We talked and laughed for a half hour after the meeting ended. I left them feeling humbled, and in a way, more alone than when I walked into the group.

I don’t think my husband would escalate his abuse, his attention-getting, to the point of physically or sexually harming my children and threatening us with death. I don’t think my husband would ever pick me up and throw me against a wall, bloody my face, kill my pets. I don’t think he would ever build a funeral pyre in my bedroom “just for me”.

But maybe the women who pulled me aside have reason to think he might.

Yesterday afternoon, when talking to the Army social worker, I broke down, completely. I was beside myself, literally, at hearing some news she delivered. When she asked me if I felt in danger, I told her, “Yes, I think I do.” I was surprised I said it, but more surprised that I do, indeed, feel in danger.

Last night, Will described our home as a “pressure cooker.” More specifically, a pressure cooker that I create.

I’m not certain what I’m going to do about this giant pressure cooker Will feels. He refuses to do anything about how he feels, insisting that I am the one making him feel this way, so I am the only one who can make it stop. This is one strange dichotomy of abusers: He thinks I have control over him (his emotions), when in fact, I do not and cannot. I think he seeks to control me, when in his reality, he seeks to control how he feels THROUGH me.

I really cannot do anything about him at all. I am going to the Army social services for an appointment today for me. There is a group I can take part in and other options, too. 

Gotta get Marc to school.

On a side note and just for the record, Will brought home a bottle of Jack Daniel’s in his suitcase. He started drinking from it, and then on Saturday morning, he asked me if I had drunk any of the whiskey (I hadn’t) and said that it must have been Marc who drunk it.

I asked Marc who said that he didn’t even know there was JD in the house. So my questions are: Did Will drink it and forget? Did Marc lie? and most menacingly, If Will drank it and remembered drinking it, why did he say that Marc drank it? And if he thought Marc drank it, why didn’t he (or we) handle it?

That is manipulation, plain and simple. He asked me that question and implicated Marc but then did nothing about it because the purpose of the question wasn’t to find an answer. The purpose was to instill doubt in me, raise questions in me, keep me occupied with something else while he planned his next move.

Distraction.

The first conversation about “us” we had involved him telling me that he had three priorities.

• One, getting Marc straightened out.
• Two, getting our marriage straightened out.
• Three, his career.

He is a list maker. I expressed concern that by keeping items one and two separate in his mind, he may feel frustration. I also said that by working on the “core” issues first, the others would more easily fall into place.

I didn’t say “abuse” issues, but that is what I meant. (By the way, the “abuse” is something I’ve “cooked up in [my] head” because it is the next item of complaint in a long list of complaints…and all my complaints come from books, so they’re worthless.) I also didn’t tell him my way of seeing things was better than his, but he accused me of telling him how to think.

However, his list, to me, looks like this:

• CAREER
• Marc
• Being able to drink
• Who’s that second kid who needs attention?
• Maybe our marriage

I mean, really. Isn’t that what he’s saying? Oh, you don’t know about the drinking. Home on Thursday, grabbed “a” beer. Friday, drinking in the evening; I’m wondering if he didn’t have a little nip before shopping. All weekend, drinking. Home from work on Monday, drinking. And when he’s not drinking, he’s napping. There is beer chilling in the fridge right now for tonight. But who’s complaining? Oh, that’s right, I’m complaining.

He’s sick of hearing about his drinking because he quit drinking for eight years, nothing changed, so he started drinking again. A lot. But his drinking has no effect on his thinking or ability to be “here” for us. He’s doing his job. Period.

I’m not complaining out loud about his drinking. At least not yet. It gets me no where to express concern or frustration in his ability to be coherent while he’s drinking (or thinking about drinking). His drinking is merely a cover to hide behind; it is not “the” problem, but it is a contributing factor to the abuse. His drinking is one of those red flags that almost everyone else (except for other heavy drinkers/alcoholics and he) will acknowledge as a possible “problem” or at least, deserving of more consideration.

When he originally informed me of his priorities, he said the word “we” several times. In his original proclamation, he said “we” would handle these things “together.” The “we” concept, pretty as it sounded, does not apply now.

The incident at Long John Silver’s certainly points to the idea that Will doesn’t want or need my input concerning Marc. When he diminished my ideas on how to deal with Marc and belittled my role as “mother”, it was fairly clear that he considered himself to be the clean-up man. He was going to come in and “fix” his son after my failure to do the “right” things. He only heard my ideas to the point of turning them around on me, saying they didn’t work.

Marriage was second on the list. Why? If he’s not going to admit his faults and work to correct them, then what is really going to happen to this marriage? I’m doing all I can to become healthier, to deal with our conflicts in new ways. But I cannot do it alone, yet that is precisely what he expects. He expects me to clean up my act so he can go on doing things like usual.

The third priority was his career. However, it is painfully obvious that his career is number one. It is mentioned first in disputes about how to handle our marriage. “Career” deserves my husband’s sobriety; the boys and I deserve his drinking. “Career” deserves more respect and care than any other person or his marriage.

Anyway, in hindsight, I know that the “we” and “us” in his priorities lecture were simply formalities designed to give way to “I” and “me”. That’s okay. I’m learning new things every day.

Last night, Will blew up about my callousness in choosing my and the boys’ mental health and welfare over his career. He got ugly, but I stood up and said, “That’s it. I’m done with this conversation,” and remarkably, he pretty much quit (maybe because the boys were in the room). For whatever reason, he stopped the tirade.

It was obvious that he hadn’t heard my concerns. How could he consider what I’d said when he immediately started yelling about his career? Telling me that it wasn’t my career both highlighted the fact that I don’t have one (so I’m not as valuable as he?) and saying his career was more important than all else, a direct reversal from a previous conversation we’ve had.

Instead of engaging him because I felt a need to defend myself, I made it clear that I wasn’t discussing it further. The incident that could have been 100 times worse faded.

Later when he sat on the couch and removed his boots, laughing at a silly thing on TV, I put my hand on his thigh to get his attention. I told him that how he handles this situation with the Army and with me will show me how serious he is about getting help and fixing our marriage.

He said, “That’s why I’m going to marriage counseling AND whatever the Army tells me to do.” I told him I appreciated that effort, but marriage counseling and group therapy wasn’t going to help if he didn’t address the demons he has within himself. I told him (again) that I was addressing my own demons and willing to take responsibility for my part in our trouble, but I wasn’t the only one who needed to work. I needed to see effort from him, for him.

I don’t look at any of the Army requirement as a “check the block” activity. I mean, if he isn’t going to put any effort into it, then will he be able to make healthy changes? No, because he won’t see where changes could be made.

Now here’s the kicker. Will said, “I don’t have these “demons” you think I do. I don’t have any problems. You are the only person in the world who has ever said there is something wrong with me.”

What?

But, instead of asking anything or rolling my eyes or sighing heavily, I said, “And that attitude, the one that says you are perfect above reproach, is one of the major problems I’m talking about. No one is perfect.”

Perhaps because the boys were still in the room, he did not respond.

So, last December, there was a domestic violence incident at my home. The Army got wind of it in February (early March?) after Will had deployed. So now that he’s back, he’s required to do some sort of counseling.

The Army social services (not state social services) interviewed me at that time. The man I spoke with was very understanding. He asked me what I would like to see happen, and I told him I wanted my family healed. I thought counselling would be good for Will, and I was going to therapy on my own.

The man also addressed my fears of Will losing his career over domestic violence issues. He stated that the Army recognizes that punishment at work often results in abuse at home. He said the Army no longer discharges soldiers for domestic abuse; there are other, more realistic ways to deal with the abuser and to prevent further violence in the home.

Let’s keep our fingers crossed.

Last night, Will came home from work and told me he hadn’t been able to go to social services after work because the workers there leave at 4pm. He said he had been talking to someone (not a case worker, just some soldier) who told him that he was going to have to take an anger management class.

Will said that the social services idiots should be at work when he wasn’t. That he should be able to go there after work to take care of his junk. “That’s okay,” he said, “I’m just going to take the anger management class and when those assholes get their shit together I’ll throw my certificate on the desk and be done with it. If they don’t have me in their system, then I’m not going to draw attention to their fuck up.”

My reaction: not pleased. I told him that neither of us know what counselling he’s required to take, and anger management was not what the social worker had recommended when he spoke to me. I expressed concern that Will was not taking the matter seriously, or at least, not as seriously as I would like or as he had led me to believe via phone and email.

So then he launches into the lecture about how it’s not my 16 year career on the line. “I’m not going to go around throwing up red flags and destroy my career!” Of course, this was done condenscendingly and with loads of anger and venom. As if “his” career hasn’t been “mine” too. Dammit, when I decided to be a stay-at-home mother, I sacrificed the career I possibly would have had right now.

For all his talk about how vital I am, enabling him to be a “stellar soldier” by doing everything except go to his job for him, it sure sounds like he is diminishing my importance now. He’s asking me to put his career above my health and our boys’ health, and I am not going to do it.

The anxiety, the cannot-be-still but afraid-to-move rolling and turning and spiking right below my rib cage. It began Saturday afternoon and continued throughout Sunday, and woke with me this morning.

Sunday morning, his repair work woke me before 8AM. He spoke only perfunctually throughout the day, making sure to save his conversation and seeming light-hearted laughter for the boys.

Sunday night, 15 minutes after crawling into bed, he came into the darkened room and attempted to engage me in conversation (a.k.a. accusatory, blaming rant) as I attempted to consciously soothe the anxiety monster in my chest.

He begins by asking if there’s a cat in the room. I tell him I don’t think so; I didn’t feel one jump up on the bed. The nature of what he really wanted to know surfaces: “How do you expect me to sleep in here with cat hair in the bed?” I reply, “You aren’t sleeping in here and you haven’t given an indication that you were going to sleep in here tonight. When you decide you’re ready to sleep in the bed, then we’ll close the door and remove the cats.”

“You should be more forward thinking,” he says. I say, “It’s not nice to generalize me as not being forward thinking. I am going to sleep now. You haven’t wanted to talk to me all day, and I’m not going to talk to you now.”

He muttered something and walked out.

I’m almost calm after another 20 minutes. Drifting softly into sleep. He throws the door open and rifles loudly through a drawer looking for something he didn’t find (or perhaps wasn’t ever there?).

He seems to be attempting to control what is said and when it is said. Historically, he has sought to disturb my sleep patterns when he is in a fit, and this is no different.

When he came into the room, loudly rifling through his drawer and slamming it shut reinforcing the noise with a loud curse word, I feigned sleep. I gave him no attention, not even a rebuke. However, the disruption did cause the anxiety to increase. It is difficult to go to sleep when I know someone may (or may not) seek to disturb me. This is, of course, vastly different from the previous 10 months of peace.