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.
Ali’s testimonial gets right to the root of the problem for abuse victims. It’s beautifully written, like sad, dark poetry.
She wrote me in February, and I am greatly sorry that I didn’t post her testimonial sooner.
Read Ali’s Testimonial - you won’t be disappointed, although it will make you think, wonder, and maybe recognize yourself and the abuse you’ve suffered.
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.
Tonight, a conversation occurred that I knew would come but hoped would not. Will was angry after reading the past few days’ blog entries. He feels that he is doing everything he can to provide for me, and yet I continue to drag his name through the mud.
He says that he believes that I believe what I write is the truth, but says I do not tell the whole story. He insists that I have never mentioned throwing keys at him, or to saying mean things to him. He says that he has done nothing I haven’t done, that we are both equally wrong.
He says that I am slandering him. Dictionary.com defines slander as “a malicious, false, and defamatory statement or report (i.e. a slander against his good name).” So I am lying, he says.
He told me that I had better write something good about him. He has an appointment with his attorney on Wednesday and they are going to initiate the financial consent order. If I want him to be reasonable, then I’d better write something good. When I asked if he was threatening me, he said he was “promising” me.
The really sad thing about his promise is that in the past 24 hours I have spoken to two family members about the things I truly love about Will. But I hadn’t had time to blog (weird, isn’t it, for a woman who “isn’t doing shit” to not have time to blog).
Last night, I told my mother that he protected me from other men (who, after the date rape, were the enemy). That he was once intrigued by the ways we differed. I was an artist, a free spirit, and although he didn’t understand me, I offered something to him that he must have needed. He loved me. He wanted to provide a home, a family, and financial security to me and our children, and he has done those things admirably.
Never once have I worried that my family would have no income, or that he would refuse to have or keep a job. In fact, there were times he carried the burden of two jobs on his shoulders while I remained at home, safe and sound, with our young boys.
Will re-entered the military in small part because there was no real future in the company he worked for due to buy outs and the resulting seniority issues, but also because he believed that the military could offer more family time. It may sound silly to assume the military would offer more family time, but at that time, he was working second shift with no change in sight and NEVER got to spend much time with his boys. The military offered a 9-5 job, home on the weekends; he couldn’t have anticipated the number of times he’s been ordered to deploy or the length of time he would be gone.
This morning, I spoke to my grandmother. I told her that Will was now the father I know he always wanted to be. Since his return from deployment in December, his children are his priority…not work, not his “schedule”, not his other commitments to friends/acquaintances. He is enjoying time with his boys – real and memorable time.
They work together, they joke together. I know his relationship with them is different from my relationship with them, but I sense a closeness between them that wasn’t there before. Marc and Eddie were excited to see their dad on Sunday night; I was happy for it, happy for them – all three of them.
But yet, this post, the one that most likely would have come naturally from me, is bittersweet. I so wish I hadn’t talked to him tonight; if I hadn’t spoken to him then this post would have been better. It would have been “good”. It wouldn’t have included the introductory part about his “promise” to me.
A facebook friend posted this quote: “Never grow a wishbone, daughter, where your backbone ought to be.”
Good advice. But I think my wishbone is coming back. Or maybe it just never left.
I think I am foolish for wishing what I wish. My wish is the same as the day I started this blog: I want the four of us to be a happy, healthy family. I don’t want a divorce, I don’t want to divide my family. Our precious boys deserve so much better than this.
The problem is that I hate myself for wishing what I wish.
I have this idea that somehow, after almost three months, I should be more solid in my resolve to just “end it”. I remember writing somewhere that the HOPE was what was killing me. Unfortunately, I still hope.
On the flip side, I have some ideas about what happened in court last week. I’m not going to share them here because, well, they’re my ideas and I’m going to consider them alone.
I’ve told Will that I’ll work through a financial consent order with him. But I’m not signing it until after we go through custody mediation on the third of May. I want shared custody at least, and if he won’t agree to it, then I’ll put everything on the line for the judge to decide. Finances, custody…everything.
Yes, I know the judge decided in his favor last time. Yes, I know it could happen again. Will doesn’t want to go back to court because of the hurtful things my attorney says on my behalf. Of course he’s hurt now in public – when I told him similar things in private, he didn’t care. It’s the public persona vs. private persona thing.
The things his attorney says piss me off – they do. I’m hopping mad over some of the stuff his attorney has said. But I’m not embarrassed. Why? Because it isn’t true; I know the truth in my heart, and what I hear in court isn’t true. I’m trying very hard to leave it in the court room. What goes on in there is like a 30 second snapshot of an 18 year marriage in which NO ONE looks good. Well, maybe. I don’t know what picture the judge is looking at.
Well, I am embarassed to tell people that the judge gave temporary primary custody to Will. THAT is humiliating beyond words. I cannot tell you how embarassed I am to inform people of the judge’s decision. But that judge’s decision was HIS DECISION. He made it, not me. A judge made the decision, not God.
I know I’ve been the best mother I know how to be. I know I don’t deserve to be sidelined in my children’s lives. I am praying and listening even though God’s voice is muted under the weight of worry and sadness I carry in my heart.
All I can do is keep moving forward. But I’m not going to sign documents with which I do not agree, and I’m not signing anything until Will agrees to shared custody. To me, shared custody means that we both live under the same set of rules. I don’t have to ask him for extra time with our children and he doesn’t have to ask me. (We will, at times, request extra time for special reasons I’m sure.)
I’m sure I don’t have to explain to you how ASKING HIM for anything in relation to the boys contributes to his ability to maintain control. If Will doesn’t agree to shared custody, then nothing will be signed and the judge can choose what is to become of us.
I’ve got nothing to lose. The boys are my boys no matter how much time I have to see them. No judge can “take them away” from me, not really. And in about five years, the judge’s decision won’t matter anyway.
Will and I went to mediation yesterday. We did not sign a parenting agreement. We return to mediation on May 3rd, a date by which we plan to have a financial consent order in place. I told him I wouldn’t sign ANYTHING until after the custody mediation.
However, Will suggested I keep the boys with me last night, and Thursday through Saturday night, dropping them off with him on Sunday at 7pm.
Of course, I accepted.
I don’t know why the judge did what he did that day. My confusion is vast and unending, and I am not going to try to figure out the “why” at this point.
Well, that’s not totally true. “WHY?” is the biggest question on my mind. But since I cannot get into the judge’s head, there is no way to know.
I do know that Will was flabbergasted to receive primary custody but NOT the house. “The house” was the furthest thing from my mind.
The judge gave Will temporary custody of both of my boys today. He talked to the boys and read the affidavits from both sides of the fence.
And he gave my boys up to Will.
I don’t understand. I made my attorney explain it to me a hundred times. It was like my brain wasn’t working. I didn’t even hear the judge after he said “Primary custody goes to Will…” Didn’t hear a word.
It’s not over. This was “only” a temporary custody hearing. But how likely is it for the judge to change his mind?
It doesn’t matter that the boys have seen Will verbally abuse me, physically abuse me, and possibly intuitively know he mentally and emotionally abused me because Will’s done the same to them. It doesn’t matter that we’ve dealt with Will’s alcoholism and anger as best we could. It doesn’t matter that I am the primary caregiver. Nothing matters. Nothing makes sense. Nothing is real.
I have all kinds of reasons for why the judge may have made this decision today. But you know what? I think it boils down to “Your mother is a lunatic. Your father is sane. You’re better off with the sane one.” I think I’ve lost my job as primary caregiver to my children. I think the fat lady sung today. I think it’s over.
After court, I brought Eddie home so we could pack his things. I was heartbroken, but I did pretty well overall. Yes, I cried with Eddie. It is hard to be stoic when my child is crying.
After we collected ourselves, we went about the business of packing his bags. I hated every second of it, but I got through it matter-of-factly. “Isn’t this shirt too small? … I don’t think this one is good for school, do you want to leave it here? … How about these boxers? … ”
Around 4, I called Will to tell him not to come to the house, that I would take Eddie to him. I had forgotten about my class tonight. No, I didn’t want to go to the class. I wanted to come home and cry and die and cry some more. But I had the feeling God wouldn’t take me to heaven because he’s got so much pain in store for me that I have to stay. I think he wants me to suffer.
I yelled at him tonight. I yelled at God. I told him that even HE couldn’t bear the pain of losing his son, that he brought his son back to life so he wouldn’t feel the pain. I know I’m wrong and that plenty of you out there want to correct my bible learnin’. Please resist the urge. I asked why he would ask something of me that he wasn’t willing to do himself.
No answer. I told you, God is not here.
I hope God’s absence in my home means that he’s doubly present with Eddie. And with Marc. I hope God curled up in bed beside Eddie tonight and is whispering “It’s going to be all right. Everything is going to be okay. Sleep, Eddie Boo, tomorrow is a new day.”
Eddie texted me late tonight, “i wanna go home…” with a crying emoticon beside it.
Dammit, how can I respond to that? I want him to come home too. I cried and choked for air. I wrote back anyway. “Hang in there, Eddie boo. It’s going to be all right. I love you and your brother too. Nothing and no space on the earth will EVER change that.”…”All you have to do is live this minute and then the next”…”Then the next.”…”You can do this, Eddie”…”love yourself”…”be strong”…”have faith”…”I love you more than my own life”…”I will do anything and everything in my power to erase your broken heart”…”And make sure you have two parents who you know beyond a shadow of a doubt”…”Are devoted to you”…”And love you”…”Everything will be okay”…”I love you. Dad loves you.”
I hope I am not lying to him. I hope everything will in fact be okay.
Yesterday was our 18th anniversary. I was concerned about how I would handle it; knew I would feel something, but didn’t know what I would feel.
Turns out, he made it easy on me by being himself. I also reacted to him in a predictable manner. What he did, what he said, turned me inside out. It affected me all day. My thoughts about the incident were different, but my reaction to it was all too familiar.
So anyhow, yesterday he wanted to come out here to pick up a lawnmower and the boys. He got here around 9 AM (he later yelled), but didn’t stop to knock on the door or let me know he was here, and I didn’t realize he was on the property until almost 9:15. I made sure the boys had their stuff together and told them their father was in the back.
Both boys went out to greet their dad, but Eddie returned inside almost right away. Around 9:25 or so, Marc (who had been calm and seemed happy earlier) came charging into the house yelling at Eddie to get to the truck and telling me “Mom, take a pen and go sign the taxes!” This kid was panicky…quite a change from before. Instinctively I knew “something was wrong” out there in the garage near my husband.
Nevertheless, I had been asking him to get the taxes done since mid-February because he wouldn’t let me see his W-2 until last week, and then only on the promise that I wouldn’t file. I knew I had to get out there to see the forms. I didn’t take a pen though. I was NOT going to sign the taxes without having the opportunity to look them over. Last year, if he had them prepared I would have signed no questions asked. (That wouldn’t have happened though – I usually did the taxes myself and he signed off on them.) But this year? No way in hell was I going to sign documents for the IRS without KNOWING what they said.
I entered the garage and there was Will, red-faced and apparently annoyed, using a tool on the old mower. His father stood over him, looking uncomfortable and maybe even worried. I don’t know what his father was feeling, but that’s what it looked like to me.
I asked, “What’s up?”
He barked, “You have to sign one paper for the taxes so I can give them to [his friend the tax preparer] this afternoon.”
I said, “I’m not going to sign anything until I look them over. I’ll give them to you tomorrow when we meet back with the boys.”
All hell broke loose. “Kellie sign the goddamn taxes! It’s the same number you figured up, all you’ve gotta do is sign! I’ve got to turn them in today! There’s only one paper you need to see, to sign – ”
And that is where I cut him off (kind of, he was still saying something) and said, “I’ve been asking for you to do the taxes since February, but you waited until now. I am going to look them over today and I will give them to you tomorrow if they look all right to me,” and walked out.
As I was leaving to grab the documents from his truck, he yelled, “YOU DIDN’T MAKE ANY OF THE GODDAMN MONEY ANYWAY!” but instead of retaliating, I kept walking to the truck.
At this point, I’m wondering to myself why he only wants me to “see and sign” one paper. I’m suspicious. I’m thinking that he’s trying to bully me into doing something that could result in bad stuff for me.
I open the truck door, see the brown folder on the passenger seat, and step up and lean in to grab it. Suddenly, he’s right behind me yelling, “GET OUT OF THE FUCKING TRUCK!”
I startled, but grabbed the folder and backed out of the truck. I half expected him to yank me away from the truck, but he didn’t touch me.
When I got to the ground, he grabbed the folder, opened it and took out the document giving permission to file electronically. He gave me the paper and told me to sign it. “Stop the DRAMA QUEEN shit and sign the paper!”
I said, “I’m not signing anything before I look at what I’m signing!” and took the folder from his hands. I turned away, started walking up to the house. I was afraid he was going to come after me, so I watched for his reflection in the glass sliding door at the back of the house as I walked toward it.
He didn’t come after me.
I was safely in the house, but my heart was pounding like wildfire. I felt the fears and apprehension, I felt the pain and heartbreak. But I also felt so very proud that I had NOT done as he said. I was proud of myself for not taking a pen outside with me. And I was proud of myself for not engaging him when he tried to insult me. But I was shaking.
I went to the office and opened the folder, started looking through the documents. I realized I wasn’t going to be able to consider them until I had calmed down, so I put everything back into the envelope.
Right then, he banged on the side door to the office (from outside the house).
“What do you want?” I asked from the desk. I knew what he wanted, but I didn’t want him in the house and that was the first question to come to mind.
“GIVE ME THE GODDAMN TAXES!” he yelled through the door.
“No, not until I look them over,” I replied, more calmly than I felt.
“YOU AND YOUR GODDAMN DRAMA! GOTTA MAKE SOMETHING OUT OF NOTHING!” and he slammed the screen door HARD, then drove off like a mad man with my babies in the truck.
Shaking hands. Shaking heart. I didn’t get to hug the boys goodbye or even wave at them because I was afraid to exit the house. I walked around, trying to shake it off. I grabbed up my phone and texted Eddie saying, “R U okay? I didn’t like how the truck drove off with my babies. I miss my hug! I love you”
Walking, pacing, shaking my arms.
Phone rings. Caller ID says my husband’s name. I don’t pick up.
And I ask you, WHO exactly is the DRAMA QUEEN?!
I’ve been told that I don’t admit my faults, that I am verbally abusive, that I am physically abusive. These are ideas I’ve struggled with myself. … More than once. I am told that I’m not honest because I do not tell the other side of the story; I do not tell of how I’ve hurt anyone else.
The problem with listing all my faults at this point is that I am only now realizing how my actions contributed to the abuse in my marriage. So the following list is not intended to list every single time I was wrong in my marriage, nor give an example of every single WAY in which I was wrong. I am trying very hard to face up to my actions, and I am working very hard to not make the same mistakes I made in the past. I am trying to change, and I am changing. I did the best I could with what I knew at the time, and now that I know a better way, I’ll do it differently.
Some of the links on this list lead to pages that tell of ways in which I think Will has been wrong; in those cases, you must read between the lines to see my fault. The point is that I have faults, and I know it. This list is kind of a “Step 10″ on the 12-Step program, but I’m not doing the program, just admitting my wrongs.
Anyway, here we go:
Recently I was reminded of the time I threw keys. I did throw the keys and fortunately I missed because if I’d hit the target someone may have gotten a bump on the back of his head. And I don’t mean that lightly; if you’ve ever caught a set of keys that you wished you’d let fall, you know the pain. I was wrong for throwing the keys whether they hit him or not.
I was wrong for throwing the dishtowels, too. Not because they hurt anyone but because I was throwing a childish fit and allowed my anger to spill out into physical action. I was also wrong for slamming doors in anger.
I was wrong for slapping him last year. It doesn’t matter why he said it or even what he said. I was wrong for slapping his face.
I was wrong for calling him a bastard and an asshole, and labeling him in other ways. It’s not my place to tell him who he is or to expect him to accept it.
I was wrong for saying things just to hurt him. And for many other times I lashed out to hurt him. These things make me feel worse than others, and I wonder why I don’t feel as badly about slapping his face as I do about intentionally hurting him emotionally. If physical abuse is punishable by law, then why do I not feel worse about putting my hands on him than anything else?
I was wrong for telling him that I hated him.
I was wrong for nagging and for not being able to forget anything.
I was wrong for partying when I should have been a better mom and wife.
I was wrong for being angry and bitter.
I was wrong for being arrogant.
I was wrong for yelling at people who were trying to help.
I was wrong for communicating in passive-aggressive ways.
I was wrong for many other things that I haven’t given examples of on this page because I haven’t (yet) found examples of them included on this site. I made the list to illustrate the point that I am not trying to glorify myself in relation to Will.
I am very sorry for all the bad things I did, all the times I knew I was wrong soon after committing the offense and all the times when I look back and see where I was wrong but didn’t know it at the time. I am very sorry for the ways I contributed to this nightmare, and the ways in which I hurt Will.
I know this blog also hurts Will; I am conflicted over whether to continue writing it, whether to erase it from the web.
I also know this blog helps many other people. You tell me so. This blog is validation for others experiencing abuse, and a peek into the abusive cycle for people who are not a part of one. For the latter group, I think THEY would more easily recognize my faults and what I’ve “done” more clearly than I can.
I know writing this blog, chronicling my experience, has been my saving grace through the past year and a half. Without it, I would be more likely to gloss over and try to ignore the events and pain I’ve experienced. I may not have had the strength to leave the night I left if I didn’t have a record of my truth to review.
I’m torn. If you were to ask Will, erasing this blog and all memory of it is the right thing to do. I’m not so certain – it would certainly be right to him, but would deleting it be right?
I went to the court house today and registered two business names, “My Name” doing business as “Kellie Jo Holly” and “Verbal Abuse Journals.” I figure between the two DBA’s, I can completely eradicate my given name from any Internet searches including whois in relation to this site. It will take some time, but any online hint of who I am will disappear.
I am also going to go back and comb over the site looking for pictures and removing them or making the people in them unrecognizable. I thought I had done them all already, but while looking through to complete my list, I found a couple that need to disappear. I’ll be doing that promptly.
Doing those things is, I know, an unacceptable compromise for Will. But I am not sure that deleting everything is an acceptable compromise for me.
Please don’t respond to this blog saying, “But Kellie, you were justified” or “You were in the middle of a horrible situation!” or any such platitude. I did what I did. I want to be ashamed so I can remember to never do those things again; I want to be ashamed so I can begin to put this horrible situation behind me, and so I can move on in strength and in harmony with my true nature.
Admitting wrong-doing doesn’t suck. I think if I sat in denial of my own wrongs, then that would suck the life out of me, eventually sculpting me into a bitter, lonely, mean-spirited blamer. And I didn’t try to bring change to my marriage to become THAT.
