Linda recently wrote to tell us about her abusive marriage. Although it appears her husband is changing, she suffers from PTSD and cannot trust that what happened before truly will not happen again. She remains in the marriage, prays for guidance, and trusts that God will guide her steps.
There must be something in the air. My mood is so serious, like a rain-filled cloud threatening to rain on my parade.
Although I feel in my gut that I’m moving in the right direction, I’m getting stronger, finding out who I am and what I like (and don’t), … there’s something heavily sad about this weekend.
Will and I have talked several times, amicably enough, in the past weeks. But Saturday, I found myself embroiled in a disagreement with Will, told to quit popping off at the mouth and scolded about my soap opera drama. I didn’t see it that way. Said to stop telling me what I was doing and what my intentions were. He got madder. We hung up the phone. It didn’t last long.
Somewhere in there, in response to him telling me he didn’t trust me and that he thought I was up to no good and being dishonest, I said, “You’ve always thought that of me.” He replied that no, he hadn’t always thought it, that its a recent thing. He got angry that I had said it, told me that he was sorry he’d tried to talk to me. I thought to myself that he wasn’t talking to me, but at me.
When we hung up, I tried to shrug it off as if his words didn’t bother me. They did. But I think what is really bothering me now is what I said: “You’ve always thought that of me.” Shrinks will tell you to not use words like “always” in conversations because they’re accusing words. But I used one, he felt defensive, and the rest is history.
Now, writing this, I’m torn between two paths I could write about. The first one is that it would be nice if he had only said, “I don’t think it’s fair to say ‘always’” to which I could have corrected myself. Or at least apologized for inflammatory language.
But (and here’s the second path), I think I was right. I don’t think I said it to be accusing or to pop off or to start some drama. I think I said it because it was what I was thinking, and the more I think about it, I think I was right.
Although I do wish I hadn’t used the word because I want to learn better ways of expressing myself that don’t ignite someone’s defenses, there are several reasons why I think “always” was the right word to describe what I felt:
Integrity, sex, money, children… what else was there to our marriage? I feel that there was nothing at all I could have done to gain his trust in any of those areas. Everyone has weaknesses, everyone makes mistakes, and I am no saint. But for crying out loud, how could I really have fought this issue? If he doesn’t have trust inside of him, then how could I earn his trust? I wonder if he had any to give (to me, at least).
When I would bring these things up to him, he would answer with, “I married you, didn’t I?” or “I must trust you, I have to leave you with the boys when I deploy,” or “You’re the one who handles the money, aren’t you? You could really screw me if you wanted to!” All true statements, but never truly honest.
Sigh.
But there is a silver lining to the storm cloud. It happened today. Will told me that he thinks our relationship should be “only business.” He wants to pull away from me. He said that he can tell I’m moving on, but he’s still stuck in the anger and hurt. He wants to detach, and he set clear boundaries. I listened to him without saying much at all.
A big piece of me is so freaking proud of him! A big piece of me wanted to tell him that he was on the right track, that detaching from me was the right thing to do in order to find peace and health and happiness.
And a small piece of me is sad. The little wife inside of me wanted to hug him and tell him that it would all be all right. That I appreciated his vulnerability and that his decision is a wise one. And I cried (after he left) because he is detaching from me.
You see, when I started this blog, I thought Will and I would be married forever. I thought we’d have our ups and downs and solve the downs and be happy. I thought when he saw what effect his words and actions had on me that he would change them because he loved me. I thought we would heal together, never to be torn apart.
But now he and I are healing on our own. We won’t be together when we’re happy next. We won’t be married forever having overcome the trials of our own humanity. We’ll never sit on the porch together, rocking, gray hair blowing in the breeze.
I must detach from that dream, and saying goodbye to it hurts more than any dream I’ve ever held and released before.
Diana is, I think, the youngest person to contact me in hope of breaking the silent pattern of abuse. She’s 18, and her abuser is 23.
Although I hesitate to use the word “fortunately”, I find myself thinking it because at the time of her writing, she was not with her abuser due to his physically violent rampage. He went for her throat, pushed her into a window.
Todd’s testimonial has a twist: his story comes from the point of view of the abuser. I’ve communicated with Todd outside of this testimonial and he seems very sincere and ready to change. He mentions “Controlling People: How to Recognize, Understand, and Deal With People Who Try to Control You” by Patricia Evans as the book that helped after his wife moved out with his two children.
You can read his testimonial at Todd’s Abuse Testimonial. I am so excited to have a testimonial like Todd’s on the site! I wish him love and luck in regaining his family through truthful actions and words.
Carolyn wrote an abuse testimonial a couple of months ago. I hadn’t posted it yet because I didn’t really want to think about my own abuse. That wasn’t fair, and I’m sorry Carolyn, that you waited so long.
As you read through it, think about the years Carolyn has lived with this verbal, emotional and mental abuse. The time it takes you to read the testimonial is nothing compared to the years she’s spent living the abuse. I got a knot in my stomach realizing that many of the abuses she reports were happening in real time even though she was listing past abuse.
Lately I’ve not preached the gospel of what verbal abuse IS or how it is affecting me because I’m in a new phase. The phase that exists after the prime abuser is removed from the majority of life. However, just because I’m revelling in the freedom, that doesn’t mean that all of YOU are revelling with me! So I’d like to share some links about abuse and where you can find help and relief from it.
The Narcissism Daily Mirror, author Kim Cooper, is writing a series on verbal abuse. The latest one is When verbal abuse is covert or may not sound like verbal abuse … Check to the right of the article to view the others pertaining to verbal abuse.
My friend recently found a site called Women Exhale. It’s an inexpensive alternative to traditional therapy for abuse victims, and it is not insurance based, meaning that your abuser will not receive notice of your choice to seek therapy from any insurance approval letters that may come to your house.
Patricia Evans, author of books such as “The Verbally Abusive Man: Can He Change?”, is online at VerbalAbuse.com. I highly recommend becoming a member of her message boards. Yes, you must call the toll free number to join the board, but this is done to ensure only abuse victims have access to this resource. No abuse perpetrators allowed. When I called, I spoke to Patricia directly, and had access to the boards within minutes.
For information on verbal abuse, try Dr. Irene.Please call or virtually visit the National Domestic Violence Hotline at 800-799-7233 even if you don’t know what you’re going to say, and even if you haven’t experienced the physically violent side of domestic violence (yet). Domestic violence includes mental, emotional, verbal, financial, and all other sorts of abuse. Just because you’ve never had a bloody lip or blackened eye does NOT mean you are not experiencing domestic violence.
To read my story from the beginning (1992), start at Less Than I Am and click “Next” at the upper right to continue. Or to read testimonials from other abuse survivors, visit Your Journal Entries.
Also, check out the Blogroll and Links section to the right, near my facebook badge. The more you know, the more powerful you become. The more power you have within yourself, the sooner you can make changes to stop the cycle of abuse.
You do not have to leave your abuser right now or ever, you can stay. That is a valid choice.
For me, I chose to stay until I’d reached a point of power within myself that did not allow me to stay any longer. But before that point, I had begun reacting differently to the abuse. Back then, there was no way to know if my husband would change or not, but I hoped he would.
Hope is not a solution, it’s a distraction. Stop hoping and start educating yourself.
I LOVE MY JOB! I am working for a woman who owns a furniture refinishing business. Her shop foreman is teaching me everything I need to know to do a professional refinishing job. I get along really well with them, and they say that I am an easy learner and only need to be told something once. (We’ll see how long I can keep that up – there’s a LOT to remember! LOL)
It is part time, minimum wage right now, but the owner is expanding soon and she wanted me in on the “ground floor”… I think that’s a wonderful thing.
Will and I get along when there are witnesses, but not so much when there are none. That’s okay. I can deal. Especially now that I have my own home to go to at the end of the day. I think if I ever have the opportunity to advise someone in a similar situation, I will tell them to move away from the memories, the pain, and the patterns by physically moving from the home.
I’ve got to tell you, financially I am not “set”. My expenses outweigh my income, and I’m locked into them for at least another year. Well, unless I want to ruin my credit. I’ve also had to charge things to my credit card, and now I have that bill, too. The fortunate thing is that I have enough to cover my rent through the month of August, which means I have until then to make up the difference.
Nevertheless, I am happier and confident that I will be able to overcome the financial situation and move forward with grace. Too many miraculous, magical events have occurred recently for me to believe otherwise.
I’ve worked hard. I’ve overcome much pain. I am able to handle the new pains that come at me as he and I separate from one another. The hardest pain to overcome pertains to our children, the fear that I will not see them as I wish. But this is simply a fear, and I cannot let it stand in my way of creating a life that is joyful, full of love, and fulfilling in every way.
He’s taking me to court to change the visitation. He isn’t happy that he doesn’t get to be with the boys on weekends, yet he’s only asked to see them on a weekend once. I want the boys to be with their dad, too; but Will is unresponsive to my requests to rotate weeks. He’d rather I see them every other weekend.
Of course.
Court next week…I hope I get what I want, but, if I don’t, then I’ll manage the pain. I’m a big girl, and I can take it. I do wish I didn’t have to handle so much of it.
Back in March, I spent a couple of days writing a story for a Memoirs, Ink short-story contest. I didn’t win, but now I can share the story with you.
This story did not factually happen the way it is presented. I drew from my last night with Will and all the other times that were (and are) so vivid in my memory to create a snapshot. Again, this story is a mash-up of times and places, a reorganization of reality, with a knife thrown in because I had only 1500 words to tell this story.
DayBreak
“I don’t believe you,” he said. “You’re calm. You’re calculating your next move … I can see it in your eyes.”
“What?” I asked. I felt my eyes scrunch at their lids, felt my brow knit together into the one wrinkle on my face, off-center between my eyebrows by a fraction of an inch.
He used to smile at me when he saw that wrinkle appear, run his finger along it gently. Now, years later, looking into his whiskey reddened face, I understood why he loved that wrinkle. The subtle line showed my first signs of anger. It was his clue that he was getting to me.
“I can’t trust you when you’re calm,” he continued. I felt my wrinkle deepen. “Why won’ cha you call me an asshole, a bastard? Why won’ cha yell at me no more?” he said, “I’d respect that more than this calm, manipulative thing you’ve been doin’ to me lately.”
He grabbed his drink from my desk. I smelled the sourness of the whiskey as he pulled the glass toward his pinched mouth. He took a sip, looked into his half-empty glass with narrowed eyes, and then finally relaxed his face enough to gulp the rest.
I felt the wrinkle disappear, my face relaxed as if I were his mirror image. Calm for an instant. But then his knuckles whitened on the glass and he brought it down fast, stopping it an inch above the surface of my desk. My hand gripped the computer mouse tighter than a second before. He concentrated on his hand and banged the glass to the desk three times, seeming to need the punctuation of sound. I squeezed the mouse three times harder and felt my ribs clench together in my chest.
My eyes were wide as he slowly defocused from the offending glass and settled his greener-than-sober eyes on me. “What’s that look for? What’s wrong with you?” he whispered, emphasizing the “wrong”.
We looked at each other for a long silent second, me wide open and scared and him white-knuckled and angry. Was he angry because I was frightened? Was he mad because I wasn’t angry?
It would be wise to choose anger. Smart to give him what he wanted. My mind shot five minutes into the future and I saw myself yelling and crying, shouting horrible things I didn’t mean to placate him. I foresaw his muscles relax, envisioned him turning away toward the kitchen. He would be saying, “You’re fucking irrational. I can’t talk to you,” with a sneer on his lips.
I would hear the ice banging into his glass, then hear the Coke fizz briefly before the Jim Beam silenced the fuss.
What he wanted was an excuse to keep drinking.
Spinning out of the vision, looking into his eyes, I realized I was stuck in a tight corner, my only exit through him. If I stood from my seat, I would have to lean into his space. Would he allow me to stand? I decided he wouldn’t.
I blinked my eyes, then pinched my lids together tightly for a moment. Opening them, I saw that he was leaning in closer to me, bending at his waist and eyeing me curiously. I felt like an unknown type of animal the hunter must study before killing. “What are you doing?” I asked.
“Tryin’ to figger out what you’re gonna do,” he said, tilting his head a little and slowly pushing his chin toward my face until he managed to look down at me even though our noses were aligned. I felt his breath on my cheek.Smelled the residual stench of alcohol mixed with sweat as if it were my own. Familiar. Threatening. Vile.
I didn’t move. I thought of how a deer froze in the road as if its stillness guaranteed immunity from the car barreling down on it. The car always won. I saw my carcass in a ditch.
I snapped back in my chair. He startled. I rose up from under him and escaped the corner. I didn’t go far, turning to face him as quickly as I could from a new position near the freedom of the kitchen and its exterior door. Six feet of air stood between him and me, and my purse was three feet beyond him on the table by the front door. Could I exit the kitchen and then round to the front door, re-enter the house to grab my purse and get to the car before he could stop me? I considered his slowed and drunken state, but I doubted my ability to execute the plan. I imagined that once I was out of the house he would lock the doors, and I would be outside in my socks and the cold dark rain.
Or worse, he would chase me outside to subdue me. I would run, but he would tackle me. I would fight, but he would win. What did it mean to win? What did he want from me?
“What do you want from me?” I yelled, knowing he wanted me to yell. “You are scaring the hell out of me!”
He slowly stood erect, a delayed reaction that bought time for his voice to switch to a croon. “You’re scared? Come on, Woman. Have I ever hurt you before?” he said, corners of his lips lifting upward while the centers stayed straight. He slightly lowered his head like you do when you peer at your naughty child over the top of your glasses. I expected him to tsk and shake his head in disappointment.
He may have forgotten holding my face over the lit stove burner and using my neck to swing my head into the wall, but I hadn’t. Five years had passed between that night and this, but I remembered it clearly.
I put my hand to my mouth partly remembering the heat and partly in shame. Why hadn’t I left him then? Why was I still here?
He took a slushy step toward me and I heard the sole of his Ridge Desert Storm boot slide barely over the surface of the wooden floor. At 1 a.m. he was still wearing his uniform and boots. That meant his knife was still attached to his belt, in its case, positioned horizontally not vertically.
I took a step backward, purposefully staring into his eyes so I wouldn’t glance at the knife.
He wore the knife horizontally so he could pull the 5-inch blade from his side with a smooth backward motion before giving a powerful forward thrust. He’d shown me the move, proudly, not long ago. The knife was too long to be regulation, but he’d said “Some of us get to carry what we want,” and I hadn’t doubted him. He was a stellar soldier.
“Why do ya gotta be so different from me, Woman? Why d’ya havta challenge me all the time?” He took another but steadier step my way. My thighs tightened into coiled springs. He subtly rounded his back. My torso twisted slightly facilitating my right arm’s creeping motion toward my own imaginary weapon. I was gonna take my knife and twist it into something raw.
“I only want you to respect me,” he said. His glassy eyes filled with tears. “Why can’t ya respect yur husband, Woman? Why?” He moved toward me, the toe of his boot rubbing the floor somehow wrong. He stumbled and then fell to his knees, putting his hands to his face, shamed. He sobbed. I felt the tension drain from my body. I couldn’t run.
I dropped to my knees and pulled his head to my breast. My eyes welled up with tears and we cried together for a while. He cried until he passed out on my lap and I let him sleep there while my legs grew numb.
I sobbed my goodbyes to the sleeping soldier. He seemed innocent like this, on my lap, in my arms. I smoothed his thick dark hair. I wondered if he would wake to mimic my broken heart, to express grief in the same way I now mourned, realizing we would never grow old together, never see our children, and never once touch one another, ever again.
It was a comforting thought, thinking he may weep for me.
I gently placed his head on the golden wood floor then straightened my legs to get the blood flowing. I uncased the knife at his side, and carried it with me to our bedroom. Packing, I would stare at the knife at times, reminding myself why I was leaving. It would be easier to pretend he hadn’t wanted to stab me, that I had imagined the whole thing. I wanted to crawl into the bed and sleep away the pain. Instead, I packed.
On this side of daybreak, I stepped over the soldier on the floor. I laid his knife on the table by the front door, took up my purse, and drove away.
An article in Time reports that “women who said they were abused, 54% characterized their partners as very reliable, and 21% said that their partners had many positive characteristics.”
There is so much to learn about abusive relationships. I’m not surprised by the findings. For some reason, I want to believe Will is reliable, when all evidence points to the fact that he was reliable in only one or two areas that concerned me. Mainly one – I could count on him to bring home the bacon. And now that we’re divorcing, that does not concern me any longer.
Likewise, I believe Will has many positive characteristics. Unfortunately, I’m not the one who typically gets to see them. Unless I’m observing him interact with others. But I know they’re there.
I’ve already texted my goodnights to the boys, but I cannot sleep despite the fact that I am pooped. Exhausted really; stress is a bitch.
Something is gnawing at me, but I am not certain what that something could be. Typically, I’d write about what I thought it may be, and then narrow it down to the root cause. But I don’t feel safe in doing that right now.
I don’t want to share yet.
Will told me the other day that I “can’t make it” unless certain financial conditions were met. He is concerned that I want the house. He can’t see any other way for me to be so confident in my ability to create financial success unless I’m planning on “going for the house”.
Typical.
I am hopeful, therefore I am confident. Unlike the hope I felt as I tried to force Will to see the abuse in our marriage, this hope doesn’t depend on his (or another person’s) actions. This hope depends on me. It’s exhilarating to have my future in my own hands, untethered and free. There is a distinct difference in the anxiety I feel now, facing my future alone, than the anxiety I used to feel at the sound of his truck pulling into the drive.
I am not naive enough to think this will be easy. It would be nice if some great hand would reach down from the sky to snatch a long lost relative who left me (and my sister, mother, and grandmas) millions. But as much fun as it is to consider that innane possibility, I do not lose myself in it.
This isn’t going to be easy. There is no sure-fire way to guarantee my success; but there’s also no way to guarantee my failure. Will hasn’t believed in me in a very long time, but his insinuations no longer cause me to crawl into a hole and hide. Now, hearing him say what he says causes me to divert my attention from him and pay attention to the light in my own heart.
It feels … strange. And good.
The most I can do is simply START moving away from him.
I’m doing that. I’m not revealing my actions yet because they’re not his business; I don’t feel like giving him my secrets anymore. Unfortunately, that means that I cannot give my secrets to YOU either.
Yes, I am slightly worried and a tad fearful. Who wouldn’t be? But I know I will make this work. I have a plan.
