My Verbally Abusive Marriage

Yesterday I visited the Women’s Center that acts as this area’s Small Business Association. The Center offers two programs that fit me. One caters to “displaced homemakers” and the other helps people wanting to start their own businesses.

Under the displaced homemaker’s program, The Women’s Center will pay for me to attend some classes offered at one of the colleges here in town. I’m rather torn between wanting a job that “makes money” and one that is light on cash but heavy on connections to people I may need to know as I pursue my writing career. For example, the center would pay for me to become certified in many different types of health care jobs (aging baby boomers are making the career field lucrative). However, I don’t want to work in health care. I barely have patience when my own children are ill…why would I want to inflict myself on aging ill people?

Actually, I’m not torn. I don’t care about the money. Not right now. I’m willing to work hard and make a name for myself…but I do hope the money comes at some point! I wanna be a writer. So there. But I’m willing to forgo the “starving artist” mentality if something comes my way that fits me well. Maybe the money will come easier than I think; I won’t know until I put myself out there.

Under the business program, the center will help me write a business plan and introduce me to people in the community in the writing field, at the paper, at area magazines, etc. I look at a business plan as verification that the service I have to offer is a viable commodity. Is there a market for my writing? What topics pay? Where? How much can I earn freelance? What’s the best way to become published? Would it be better to get a day job (related to writing) right now and write my little arse off in my down time?

Will doesn’t pay attention to the labor forecasts because he knows that there will always be a market for “him” – he is very skilled at both soldiering (there’s more to it than wearing on a uniform!) and mechanics. He’s proud of his blue-collar mentality, and frankly, so am I. I’m a big fan of a good day’s work.

Will and I differ in that I see pursuits such as writing and art as valuable. Creating a work of art (whether it’s a story, a website, a painting) is challenging and rewarding. It’s not exactly blue-collar, callous-creating work, but that is okay. We each have our different skill sets, and I’m tired of putting my skills at a level lower than his. Yes, “he” places my skills at a lower level, but I have been the one who went along with it.

I don’t much feel like going along any more.

How the heck did Will get into this post?! I didn’t mean to drag him into this.

I suppose that Will and his ideas will be in my head and heart for quite some time. They’ve been here for almost half my life already.?

Some of his thoughts I will miss.

I’m tired and weak. Today’s been a rotten crying day. I’m going to blame it on my period.

But if I weren’t on the rag, I think I’d still feel pretty low today. I’ve been going through paperwork. Dividing it up, mine, his, mine, his…

I never ever wanted to do this.

I just didn’t.

Right now, I am questioning my own darkness.

I know that I have tried to hurt Will before. I know he likes a clean house, so I would let it fall to hell. I know he likes me to serve him food so I stopped doing it. One time recently, I even tried to make him mad – on purpose! There have been times where I wished I were more like how I perceive Will to be. I have wished I could somehow learn what he was doing so I could do it back to him.

I always feel horrible about it.

Wait. Let me clarify that. There was a time when I didn’t know I was doing it. I didn’t feel horrible about it then because I was “acting out” in the only way that came naturally to me.

Since I’ve learned about co-dependence, I’ve been able to see how my passive-aggressiveness was a form of manipulation. It certainly didn’t work very well, but it was my attempt to gain control.

If Will came by his aggression naturally, then I certainly came by my passive-aggression naturally. It’s the only thing I knew. I grew up with it, accepted it, and never questioned it because it was what I’d been taught by the people who I loved and didn’t want to question. (Sound familiar?)

There’s a reason people like Will and I get together. We complement one another perfectly. We’re two opposite ends of the same spectrum, neither one less harmful than the other emotionally or mentally. Will’s bad luck of the draw is that aggressive people get physical.

When Will and I first got together, we both had the same traits as we do now. But our deficiencies weren’t as pronounced; they were easier to ignore and forgive. But neither one of us wanted to take responsibility for our own feelings. We wanted the other to “make us” feel better. Over time, our anger at one another for not “making us” feel better led to button-pushing. Every time I pushed his button, he inched further toward aggression. Every time he pushed my button I inched further toward passive-aggression.

Now, we’re at completely opposite ends of the spectrum and the distance between us is insurmountable. There has been so much pain, too much pain.

I am working my way toward the center of the spectrum. Sometimes it seems like a slow crawl, and other days I seem to teleport with ease. This weekend has seen my slow crawl. The exchange with Ramona brought out feelings that I thought were confined to Will’s behavior, but they aren’t. I am “healthier” when it comes to Will because he is the obvious perpetrator, but I realize that my co-dependent passive-aggressive behavior is not limited to Will.

A part of me wants to bring Ramona over to “my side” because to do so would hurt Will. Her appearance on facebook and on this blog took me by surprise, and the language she used sent me spiraling backward into my darkness.

She is right in saying the last post is how I see her family. “Growing Up Co-Dependent” is focused on mine. Neither family is healthy. One family has an outward appearance of aggression, and one has an inward expression of aggression. But the language I used in the posts is different. I am much more forgiving of my family than I am of Ramona’s and Will’s. To me, their family has been hostile. I’ve never been comfortable there.

I lashed out at you, Ramona, passive-aggressively with that post, and I am ashamed of myself. I thought about taking it down, trying to make it seem like it never happened, but I won’t. This blog is a record of my journey, and to ignore my mistakes or pretend I don’t make them at this point would be more shameful than making the mistake.

I do apologize, Ramona, for adding fuel to this fire and I promise you, I will overcome this nasty habit that is mine and mine alone.

Some people don’t see how they’re abusive. Will has said several times that he’s an asshole, but he doesn’t see it as being abusive.

I think that being an a-hole is something one might do on a bad day or once in a blue moon. And when someone is an a-hole and NOT an abuser, they usually apologize for it quickly, embarrassed by what they’ve done.

For example, the a-hole who cuts me off in traffic then flashes me the bird when I honk the horn is easy to forgive. Probably just a bad moment; no skin off my nose! Maybe, if we both ended up in the supermarket later eying the same head of cabbage, that guy would apologize. At least, that’s how these nerve-wracking scenes play out in my head. Gives me peace.

But someone who acknowledges that they’re an ass, is proud of being an ass, and seems to thrive on doing ugly things to other people in order to get his way…well, that person is abusive.

There are abusers that grew up in a home where abuse was normal. A home in which everyone felt isolated and struck out at the perceived weaker ones in order to relieve the stress on themselves. No one ever told them they were wrong; in fact, the example given by the caregivers showed them they were right. I think that these people, once out in the world, begin to pick up subtle clues that their behavior is not “normal.”

Some of them may take notice, wonder why they always feel put upon, mistreated. Why they’re distrustful and pessimistic 99% of the time. They may wonder why other people seem to look at them sadly or become upset in their presence. There is a chance that these abusers will seek to discover what may be putting people off from them. They may discover that their own attitudes and beliefs are holding them back from enjoying life, love, and happiness. These people may seek change.

But some of these unhappy people stick with what they know because it is what their grandparents did. What their parents did. It’s how they were raised and what they’ve done all their lives. Gosh darn it, they love love their family and to admit that the way they were brought up may have negatively affected them somehow takes away from their view of their forebears. Perhaps, as children, one criticism of their parent caused such an outrage that the child who made it was shamed and felt afraid. Now, as adults, the subtle memories of multiple shames and frightening moments prohibits them from even considering that something that grandparent did was, in any way, “wrong.”

“So if Grandma was right, then I’m right! If the world thinks I’m an a-hole, then I am. It works for me. It’s who I am.”

Those people will not seek change. They become abusers in part because they won’t admit there’s anything “wrong” with their behavior.

I’ve been an asshole before, but I’m not making it my life’s work.

Ramona says~

“Nowhere in what I wrote assigns blame to you or him,  and I am trying extremely carefull not to do so. I remind you that I care about you both.  Your escape plan put you in a somewhat comfortable situation as far a money is concerned.  But that will change if “Will” is dishonorably dicharged.  I understand that their is no person or institution you can talk to to change the charges.  But what are you going to do when “Will” has no income. If he has no income, he can’t pay child support, which he will pay otherwise until the boys get out of collage if they choose to go. The Armed Forces will see to it that.”

“Because he is in the Armed Forces, you guys are leagally residence of Texas, there is no allimony, only community property falls into play.  If what you have already taken from the accounts is less than half you’ll be OK for now.  But how long will that last.  Texas also has one of the most conservative child custody systems in place.  Another words, unless you are a “prostitute, turning tricks for a fix”, which I know your not, Mother gets primary custody of the children.”
“The current charges don’t have to have anything to do with the divorce, unless you plan on making them.  Actually, the ball is in your court.  I’m pretty sure, weather true or not, “Will” is feeling betrayed by you taking the money.  I am not saying you were wrong to do so, I’m trying to make suggestions which will bring about the best resolution of the situation for everyone involved.”

Ramona, you are assuming a lot. Or maybe you’re repeating what Will has told you, there’s no way for me to know. However, I am tired of bantering with you. (see more here and then here and then here – read from the top of the comments section down, reference “Ramona”).

What do you know about how comfortable I am financially? I took what amounts to less than two months of his net pay. I took the money out ONLY after receiving emails from the bank, time stamped, showing that he had attempted to lock me out of all of our accounts. He changed all the personal information on the accounts, thinking I had no way to access the money. Fortunately, he forgot to change the email notification address in his haste to deny me a way to sustain myself. When I found out what he had done, I took the lump sum from the emergency account because it was obvious he wasn’t going to “share.” I had no way of knowing when I would receive any more money, only that I would, eventually, and a good portion of the money I did have has already been paid out in attorney fees.

You are also assuming that I have no means of financial support besides my husband, no way to provide for myself and children. Besides my own ability to earn an income sufficient to cover our needs, the Army gives out what is called “Transitional Compensation” to women divorcing their soldier due to domestic abuse. It isn’t much, but it is enough to fill in the gaps, and it lasts for three years. That is assuming that he would be found guilty of the charges; there is no guarantee of that, and I’ve already told you how I feel about the charges.

The military “sees to” his paying child support only so long as he is in the military. After he retires or is discharged, the Army has no further interest in what he does financially (except for Survivor Benefit Plans and IF I receive a portion of his pension benefits). If he retires, that will be in about 5 years; if he’s discharged, the Army’s disinterest begins immediately.

Currently, Will is planning to give each boy two years of his GI Bill. Because Will officially “earned” the GI Bill by the time he left the Army the FIRST time (in ’96), the GI Bill is his to keep regardless of the outcome of this stint in the military. And, even WITH Will’s contribution of his GI Bill to the boys, there will be a need for financial aid. Depending on Will’s and my income in the coming years, the boys may or may not qualify for Federal Aid. As it stands right now, with us married and he providing the only income, we do not qualify for Pell Grant money – he makes too much. I know because I applied last year. Separated, the situation may change.

Yes, it is true that his attorney could refuse to hear this case in North Carolina. I really don’t care. There are benefits and drawbacks to either state; I’m sure Will’s attorney will fill him in on all of that. (ref TX maintenance)

I find it odd that you mention a prostitute turning tricks in your assessment.

And finally, you are wrong about the current charges having nothing to do with the divorce. They are domestic violence charges; they have everything to do with the divorce.

Will has felt betrayed by many things. I am not surprised that he discounts what he has done in his assessment of my perceived betrayal of him.

I am done explaining things to you. Besides, what I say doesn’t hold water with you. You evidently know more about my situation than I do and have spent more time considering my best options for me. If you see fit to call me or email me personally, please do so. For this weekend at least, I am done with this conversation.

I saw Will today. He looks good. Softer. I caught him glance at me side-long and I wondered what he was thinking.

Will gave Marc a bag to put in the trunk of my car. It’s going to stay there, unopened. Marc relayed that his dad didn’t have room for whatever is in the bag, and I feel sad that Will is living in a travel trailer.  Things will get better for both of us. Right now, there’s a lot of waiting. I keep telling myself to be patient, but I wish I could snap my fingers and make what will be the future become the present.

I thought about how difficult “trading parents” must be for the boys. I wondered if they sensed the finality, and I wondered if they were okay with it, right now, at the moment they removed their bags from my car and transferred them to his truck. I thought of my parent’s divorce and how we never had to see our parents together after they weren’t (I was old enough to drive us back and forth). I remembered standing in the hall of the court house, thinking someone was going to ask me to testify on behalf of one or the other, and I thought about how angry at them I was for having to THINK about choosing. I don’t want my boys to have to choose.

There are aspects of their father and of me that I wish the boys had never been forced to deal with. The fighting, the crying; the tense family time playing Uno. Why couldn’t we ever just have fun? Why was it always so damn HARD?

When things get too much to bear, I force myself to envision the future in as much as it pertains to Will. We will learn to parent apart while remaining consistently together in the discipline and care of our children. We will attend the boys’ graduations from high school and college. We will eat dinner at our kids homes together (if they’ll have us). We’ll attend the births of our grand babies and wait together in one room to see the red little darling pass through on his or her way to the nursery. We’ll spoil those grandkids and go to their birthday parties, kindergarten graduations, see their first new cars. We’ll do all that stuff together, kind of.

Right now, that future is far away. Right now, there’s a lot of waiting. I keep telling myself to be patient, but I wish I could snap my fingers and make what will be the future become the present. But if I did that, then I would miss all of “this”…and “this” (painful as it is) is a necessary evil.

I am anxious tonight. Actually, I woke up anxious this morning.

I could be anxious about this weekend in general. The boys are spending the night with their father on Saturday. (The original ex parte forbade Will from contacting the boys, but my attorney requested an amendment in court on the 28th to allow visitation.) I am anxious about things I cannot control and never could control – although I thought I had the power to control them.

You see, once upon a time, I believed Will when he said that I made him angry. I made him yell. I made him go into asshole mode. I made him want to hit me. I made him cut me down. I made him use physical force to subdue me. I must have thought I thought I was pretty damn powerful, being able to spin that man around in such a tizzy that he would justify his own behavior by blaming me for it.

There is a flip side of being so omnipotent and powerful. I could make him mean, hateful, vengeful even…but I couldn’t make him love me, I couldn’t make him respect me or be nice to me. What’s the point of being “omnipotent” when your “powers” only work against you?

Continue reading

On January 22, I wrote My Heart is Failing. I’d been sitting here at my desk, writing in fear, for awhile at that point. But something about that post helped me to remember: It is NOT okay or reasonable for me to stay in a place in which I am afraid only because the one who I am afraid of once promised to love, honor and cherish me. He promised that he would, once, almost 18 years ago; the time between then in now is full of proof that he didn’t mean it.

Later that night in a voicemail, he called me a traitor and told me to never come back. And I thought, “I am the traitor?!”

But I’m a bit ahead of myself. After I finished the blog post, I realized that the feelings I was feeling (anxiety, angst, fear) were my CUE to get the hell out of here. I logged off my password protected computer, walked past him and down the hall to our bedroom. I put on my boots, my coat, and grabbed a small blanket.

I came back out and he said, “Are you going somewhere?” to which I responded, “Yes. I’ll be back when I feel safer,” then grabbed my purse and left.

I drove to a safe place, previously scouted, and parked the car. I shook out the tension from my hands and shoulders as best I could and let a tear or two fall. He had been calling my phone, but I’d been letting it go to voicemail. I decided that I didn’t want to hear that phone ring, so I called my sister and we talked for almost two hours.

We talked about what was happening, and later, we talked about my hopes for the future (getting paid to write – dare I say I wanna be an author?) and our kids and our mom and her idea to prepare a hypnosis session for me. Eventually, my caller ID stopped showing his calls. I waited another 45 minutes or so, and thinking he’d finally passed out on the couch from drinking all night, I decided to go home and go to bed. He probably would pretend to not even remember what had happened tonight, I thought.

When I pulled up in the drive, everything looked normal. Living room light and tv were on, I didn’t see Will roaming about the house snapping his belt; I thought he was asleep. It was about 2AM.

I unlocked the side door in the dark and pushed it, stepping inside. Suddenly, as if he’d somehow shot up from out of the floor, Will was there. He opened the door, but stood in my way. He said, “Give me your keys and drivers license and get out.” I figured he meant to give him all EXCEPT my keys and drivers license, but he was drunk and smelled like he’d bathed in Jim Beam while I was gone.

In a perfect world, with a perfect emergency plan, I would have turned away with ALL of my things and left for a hotel. But that isn’t what happened. I didn’t have a bag in the car, he had scared me with his appearance and tone of voice, and I didn’t think too clearly. Funny thing about emergencies – they don’t happen when you’re expecting them, and even if you are expecting “something” you’re never expecting the worst something possible.

Out of habit, I put my purse in its spot by the door while sidestepping the man blocking my way. (He would later claim to the police that I “shoulder bumped” him.)

I walked to my room as quickly and quietly as I could.

Will began yelling. He said that he had already woke the boys to tell them that I had abandoned them to go “f*ck a n!gg#r” and wasn’t living here anymore. He added with greater volume, “Even a WHORE doesn’t abandon her children!” and I heard his footsteps getting closer.

I locked the bedroom door behind me. I went to the bathroom to pee. Will hit the bedroom door and said, “Unlock this f*cking door or I’m gonna kick it in!” I said, “If you kick in that door, I’m calling the cops,” and it came out of my mouth more calmly than I thought it would. I exited the bathroom to him exclaiming that I had better get away from the door because he was going to kick it in.

As I listened to his threats and obscenities, I repeated what I would do if he kicked in the door.

I heard him walk away, his shadow disappeared from under the door. He was yelling something, I figured the boys were awake by now (I hadn’t seen them when I’d come home). I pushed my dresser in front of the door, realizing it wasn’t strong or big enough to keep him out forever but could buy me some time.

Part of me thought he wouldn’t be back, that he would carry on his rant in the other rooms and not try to come in the bedroom. He kept telling me to leave his house, reminding me that it was, in fact, HIS house because he’d paid for it and everything in it. That the boys were his too – they didn’t deserve a whore for a mother and he was taking them from me.

It got quiet for a few seconds. I contemplated whether I should pack a bag or if I should crawl into bed and pretend nothing was happening (or rather, pretend that nothing could happen).

His shadow reappeared in front of the door, I heard the tickling sound of metal on metal as he unlocked the door. Later, I noticed that the doorknob had been changed. I had installed a doorknob that needed a key (like the one on my keyring) to open it. I wonder when he changed that knob to one you could pick open with a hair pin? I wonder why he changed it without telling me?

He was surprised to find something behind the door. More yelling. He was pushing the door open, the dresser was pressing into the wall behind the door. There’s now a hole in the wall where the top edge of the dresser cut into it. I turned to the window, unlocked it, tried to raise it. The damn window was freaking STUCK. It wouldn’t budge. I was looking around for something to break the glass when the door opened a crack and I saw his red face smirking at me.

He forcefully hit the door with his shoulder repeatedly to gain entry to the room, to make a crack between the door and the frame. He didn’t take his eyes off of me as he squeezed through the crack. The door was pressing back against him and I remember hoping the doorknob would snap back and hit him in the balls. I had no where to go. I couldn’t think.

He was yelling at me to leave, to get out; I wasn’t welcomed here because I was a whore and a traitor and, yes, unappreciative of all he’d done for me.

When he finally made it into the room, I tried to go to the door. He was telling me to get out, and I wanted to get out. But when I moved toward the door, he pushed me on my chest. Hard enough that I lost my footing and fell backward onto the bed. My fear and the bouncy mattress put me back on my feet. I sidestepped him once, trying to get to the door, saying, “Then let me leave!”

As he grabbed my arms and shook me, he said, “NO! It’s too late for that!” My head snapped back on the shake before he pushed me backwards again. I didn’t fall this time. He had turned his back to me for some reason. I called out to Marc to bring me my phone (I couldn’t see how the kids could be sleeping still) and Will glanced at me over his shoulder before throwing out his arm and hitting me across the throat.

I coughed, got my voice back, started yelling for Marc to bring me my phone or call the police. Will said, “Why are you going to bother calling them? You ain’t gonna have no marks that show!” and he did a weird little spinny dance with his hands in the air – “You have no proof!”

“There’s a hole in the wall!” I said. “What? That hole?” he replied, “That has been there for months!”

Then, and this is possibly the worst part of the entire night, Marc finally poked his head through the crack in in the door and said, “MOM STOP!”

Yes, he said, “Mom stop!” Then Marc said, “If you respect me at all, you’ll just leave!”

I was hurt, but I remembered that Will had woke them up to tell them lies. I said, “He put his hands on me!” and Marc stared at me blankly. I looked at Will. Will stood there with his arms crossed, smiling at his son. Will was pleased, very pleased, and he certainly wasn’t going to touch me in front of Marc. I said, “Fine, Marc, I’ll leave, but you have to get out of the way so I can get out of here.”

Marc moved, I squeezed through the crack, went straight for my phone and called the police. I stayed on the line with the 911 operator until the police got there. At one point, Will had flipped out his knife to OPEN A PIECE OF GUM. He flipped it out twice while looking at ME, not at the gum.

After the cops got there, Will was handcuffed as a restraint. He was belligerent and ugly with the policeman. As the handcuffs snapped into place, I begged Marc to please go to his brother’s room (he hadn’t listened to me before) and he did.

Bottom line, there were no marks on me at this time. Therefore, the cops couldn’t remove Will from the home. I knew I didn’t want to be there with him after the cops left, so I packed my bag and went with them. Will was pleased. He thought they were forcing me to go.

It’s one thing to know you need an emergency plan to escape possible domestic abuse, and another thing entirely to create it.

My first emergency plan was to drive a half mile down the road and sit in the farmer’s road with my lights off. That was it. I didn’t have extra keys, I didn’t pack an overnight bag. Nothing but me and (I hoped) my purse.

I wasn’t being realistic. I worried about how Will would react to my plan, although I knew I wasn’t supposed to tell him about it. I felt confused and upset that I had to contemplate leaving my home for even an instant. However, the incident in 2008 had opened my eyes somewhat. Will would put his hands on me. He would. He had before, and I could only assume he would do it again. Continue reading

I’ve been perusing the comments at a domestic violence group on yahoo. I recommend it and joining is a cinch. Check it out.