I wrote this in my journal two weeks after separating from Will, my abusive ex-husband. I know at least one of you recently left your abuser, so when I read this today, I thought of you and the turmoil you may feel. Continue reading
Melissa – My abuser has a high income and we have a beautiful home, although nothing is in my name. Everything he has is new and nice, I have 6 year old glasses, a dilapidated mattress to sleep on, and no adequate clothing. I haven’t had a winter coat in 4 years. You’d never know this if you came to my home.
I’ve been flipping through the web looking at pro-ana (pro-anorexia) sites for school. Sigh. I’ve seen tips on how to binge and purge, how to diet by taking in -1200 net calories for the day, and images of stretched out super-thin and bony women who the photographer seems to idolize.
I’m a firm believer in what you allow into your thoughts comes out into the “real world” eventually. I like the idea of creating our own realities – it’s powerful stuff. I mention that because I really do think that if I looked at these pictures and read these stories for long enough, I could come to empathize with these women and want what they want. They seem to look at not eating as a competition sport, which is kind of how I felt about eating at one time.
When I left Will, I dropped 50 pounds in 4 months from stress alone. I didn’t even notice. One day, none of my “real” clothes fit. I just didn’t eat – wasn’t hungry, didn’t think about food, etc. When I came out of that severe state and looked in the mirror, I truly didn’t recognize myself. My friend and my sister both told me that I looked unhealthy – all I saw was a thin person who other people seemed to admire (the ones who didn’t know me).
I figured I’d continue not eating. Sometimes still, I’ll be hungry and not eat in order to make up for the three tablespoons of sugar I’ve consumed with my morning coffee. I’m not going to look at those sites anymore. They make me nervous.
I know anorexia is unhealthy, but I see how it can begin so innocuously. Rising to a challenge, even an unhealthy one, can help me to stop thinking about the REAL issues in my life. I worry about those women I’ve seen online. I worry about me. I’m not going to put that junk in my head anymore.
When I met him, we moved very fast. My first red flag that I can’t believe didn’t make me run as fast as I could: He was about to go to jail for violating probation – probation for ASSAULT WITH BODILY INJURY. What was I thinking back then? We were young, 18 years old. The night before he went to jail, he told me he loved me and begged me to “wait for him”. I ended up bailing him out after two weeks, instead of waiting for his court date. We had only been dating two weeks prior to that. When he got out, we moved into his mother’s house together.
From the beginning, I had feelings of wanting to leave, and threatened to many times. Something wasn’t right and I didn’t like it, but he would cry and beg me not to go. Eventually I became the cruel one for threatening to leave “all the time”. The fights were loud, and I can’t even remember what would go on during them now, but one of his friends actually asked me once if he had ever hit me. I got pregnant, and we were thrilled, I thought I loved him and he loved me and life would be so perfect.
The fights got worse, and two kids and 6 years later, I’m still dealing with it. I’m just now putting together an escape plan. We’ve broken up, with him moving out, two times. The first time, he got involved with a younger girl and I was pregnant with baby #2, and he eventually went to jail because he took my phone (he was upset that he thought I was in contact with another guy–LOL! He had been sleeping with some girl while I was pregnant! How could he be upset??) and his aunt called the cops when he took off with the phone.
I ended up convincing his father to bail him out, again. And when I picked him up from jail, he actually wanted me to drop him off with his new girlfriend! After he had begged me to come home, bail him out, he admitted it was all an act to get me to bail him out. He came back home eventually, and I took him back. The second time we broke up, he harassed me, broke into the house (“our” house, even though I’ve paid all our bills from day one), destroyed property, threatened to tell my family my “secrets” (past drug abuse that HE talked me into doing so he wouldn’t feel guilty about it).
There’s so much more, but this is getting long. Re-reading this makes me want to cry. How could I have stayed? Why didn’t I stay at my mother’s while we were broken up last time instead of going back to him? I’m so embarrassed and I feel like such an idiot. It’s not always like this, but I know it will always return to this behavior sooner or later.
I first knew the first time he laid his hands on me, but always excused it – I always blamed myself for saying/doing something wrong, otherwise it wouldn’t have happened. The emotional/mental abuse took longer for me to figure out, but I knew something wasn’t right, the way he treated me was wrong. Eventually, during a too-short breakup, I labeled him as having a personality disorder…it wasn’t until in the last few weeks I’ve been researching mental abuse and recognizing the patterns.
Trapped, Ashamed, Helpless
I posted more verbal abuse testimonials to my website today. You are not alone.
Rey: Bitter, Alcohol, Controlling
Mallory: Hurt, Confusion, Fear
February 1st last year was on Monday. Will and I had gone to court the Thursday before, and I had told the judge I agreed that he could see the boys. That first weekend, he wouldn’t take them because he hadn’t received his paperwork and was afraid that I would call the law on him after he picked up the boys.
His thinking didn’t make any sense to me, but whatever. I was left to tell the boys that they wouldn’t see their father that weekend because of paperwork.
Life was hell for me at that time. I was scared that Will would come back. I bought pepper spray and changed all the locks on the house. I didn’t know what he was capable of doing. He told me that I betrayed him – the worst offense he could imagine.
Let’s think about that for a moment. I betrayed him.
In therapy three days before he put his hands on me, I’d flat out told him that if it happened again, I would press charges. Seemed pretty clear to me when I said it. There must have been a gap in our communication.
Nevertheless, this time last year I was in deep mourning. I cried almost always. The boys probably thought I was losing it. I thought I was going to die. I didn’t see a future to be happy about.
Now, a year later, I am feeling residual effects of that week. I am anxious and nervous. I am tearful and scared. But I know why.
It will pass, but I hope you’ll say a little prayer for me. I’ve got things to do, and I’m not about to let these anniversary anxieties overcome me. But it’s hard. Like last year, I’ll post a little here and there to remind myself that I am going to be all right.
This is the anniversary of the day I left. You can read about what was going on in “My Heart is Failing”.
Life goes on; some days are wonderful, some surprising, some plain sad. Sometimes I wish for the happy ending to my marriage that I’ll never have – “happy” in that we would die of old age after years of peacefully and joyfully rocking on our porch.
A couple of weeks ago, I visited my ex, at his request, to tell him our marriage was over. He felt he “deserved to hear it to my face” – and although I felt I had done that before, I went to his house and told him what he wanted to hear. The words I said seemed to have no effect. At least his face didn’t change. He showed no sign of emotion.
Later, I told my sister that it was like he didn’t hear me at all and that I wasn’t surprised, but wished there had been some sort of acknowledgement that he’d heard what I’d gone over there to tell him.
Last night at 10:30, he came to my house and knocked at my door unannounced. I asked if he was okay (he was) and what he needed. He didn’t need anything he said and we stood there awkwardly. Or at least, I was awkward. He’d come over for some reason that he never told me. After a minute partly filled with questions but mostly filled with silence, I said that I had company and now wasn’t a good time. “Oh, I didn’t expect you to have company,” he said and turned and left. Drove quickly out of the driveway, noisily down the road.
I don’t know why he came. I don’t know what he expected. If it was an attempt at reconciliation then he didn’t say any of the words that might have worked. He just showed up at my door at 10:30, unannounced.
A few minutes after he’d left, he sent a text saying that I needed to tell my lawyer about this date.
His text reminds me that whatever his intent had been, his anger still ruled the day. I think sometimes that he is ONLY angry. ONLY angry. I hurt for him because I don’t know if he has the ability to hurt for long enough to work past the pain. If I could wish him anything, it would be the ability to feel this pain completely, past the anger, past the denial, past the past… so he can move on to better days ahead.
Like I told him at his house a couple of weeks ago, I will always love him (how could I not?) - but I won’t live with him anymore.
Once upon a time, there was a very sad and lonely woman. She had a husband, two beautiful children, and people she knew were friends to keep her company. She wasn’t lonely because she was alone. She was lonely because she was enclosed in a clear bouncy ball.
She couldn’t hug anyone. She couldn’t nurture anyone. She couldn’t do many things from her enclosure except complete her chores and watch the events that happened around her.
Over time, even her children knew she was of no help to them. She couldn’t kiss their boo-boos, and she couldn’t tuck them in at night. Their world became a lonely place too.
Of course she was of no real use to her husband either. Their relationship suffered. There was no romance, no light touches to reassure one another. He began to see her as only the bouncy ball. And what good was a bouncy ball to him?
The woman became sadder. The children became lonlier, and the man pretended she wasn’t inside the bouncy ball. In fact, he pretended the bouncy ball was an inconvenient object left out in the open. When he walked through the home she had made, he would kick the bouncy ball out of the way like it was a child’s toy that he had outgrown. He pretended not to see her cry. He pretended her voice could not penetrate the plastic walls of the bouncy ball.
“He’s right,” she thought. I am useless to everyone; what good could I possibly be to him, my children, or my friends? What use is a crying lonely woman? What use is a bouncy ball to anyone?
Ignored by her husband except for the frequent naughty word that came along with a dismissive kick, her children began to question why she was there, too. Her children looked elsewhere for nurturing. Her friends tired of hearing only her tears. The woman found it very difficult to think of herself as anything but a ball.
One morning when her husband kicked the ball away from his path on his way to work, the woman simply sat down. She didn’t look at anything, She didn’t think of anything. She just sat there.
That afternoon, her husband kicked the ball out of his path upon his return from work. The woman bounced around in the ball, but it didn’t hurt. She discovered that by hugging her knees, she could easily tuck in her head when she was kicked about, and it didn’t hurt anymore.
She spent days marvelling at how her family’s attitude improved when she sat quietly in the ball, thinking nothing.
She watched her husband horseplay with her children. She watched the children go to school and come home in the evening. She watched everyone smiling and watching movies after dinner. She watched them enjoy themselves, keeping her silence.
Of course, in order for her family to function this way, she had to find a way to do their laundry. She had to cook their dinners. She did see to their cleaning. She did go to market to ensure their home was supplied with the things that made them happy. She didn’t know where the energy or the means came from to complete these tasks, but when she was alone during the day, she got them done.
But when her chores were complete, she’d sit in the ball quietly because that was the only way to remain unhurt.
Thinking nothing. Doing nothing. Feeling nothing. Being nothing.
One night, her bouncy ball popped. She couldn’t find the hole. The plastic slowly lost its air. It shriveled and shrank. Each breath inhaled pulled the plastic tighter around her face. She couldn’t breathe anymore.
The next morning, the husband ranted about the unrecognized mess someone had left on the floor. He put the old toy into the garbage for the trash men to carry away.
The next morning, the children had no socks for school. The husband loudly complained to someone who wasn’t there to hear.
The second morning, there was no breakfast. That night there was no dinner.
One of the children asked the husband why there was nothing to wear or to eat. The husband said, “Your mother must have ran off in that fine bouncy ball I gave her. She never appreciated anything.”
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