My Verbally Abusive Marriage

His anger comes from nowhere. At least that what it seems like to me.

Maybe he thinks the outburst is justified, but now I think his motive is to get me back under his thumb.

Quivering, trying to end the tirade by whatever means possible. Embarassed. Confused. Questioning.

BANG – it’s happened. And it’s up to me to calm the beast.

Verbal Abuse: A Transformative Experience

This is an email I sent to him today. I wasn’t going to send it, but after rereading it, I thought it would be good to post…so, if I’m going to post it publicly, then it was only fair to send it to him first. I’m responding to an email and phone conversation we’ve recently had. It’s not pretty. The military JUST NOW sent word down the pipe that we were having “problems” in the form of physical abuse. It’s amazing. One instance of physical abuse and we’re celebrities. 17 years of verbal abuse and there’s nothing done to help. That’s the military for you.

Here’s the email: Continue reading

The dangers of living in an abusive situation mess with my mind. On the one hand, I know that abusers can and will escalate abuse when they feel as if they’re losing control. All the literature warns of it. More personally, I can now clearly see my husband escalating the abuse when he feels that he’s losing control.

I guess I cannot be certain he “feels that he’s losing control.” I only assume to know because of what he tells me during the nice times. He’s told me how good he felt about putting a co-worker in her place, how well he did it, how there will be no retribution because he didn’t do anything “wrong.” The whole time knowing he did do something wrong by that person, but not caring because it worked out well for him and sent her into a high-pitched tailspin.

On the other hand, it is painful and hard for me to remember that he would, could and has hurt me physically – but it’s happened three times now. Nothing that will create a bruise where it will show. Something that he can deny to himself, to me, to anyone. Something that ultimately will be blamed on me. Continue reading

Howdy, Pap! I love you! I miss you.

(And just for the record, he has absolutely no connection to my verbal abuse history.)

my dad holding my oldest son

He’s asleep already. Now maybe my heart rate will go back to normal. The “expecting” of some sort of abuse is the worst part. Well, that’s not entirely true, I guess.

The worst part is being affronted by insults and demands and not knowing how to respond, if to respond, or how to hold my temper. If I let loose on him, the abuse only escalates. And trust me – that’s never a good thing.

When my heart was racing, I was partly remembering when he tossed me over the table and held me down by my throat and chest. I wondered if he would get that mad again. But you know something sick? After he let me up off the couch, it was like a relief. It was like, “OK, that’s over now.” I was calm, I think.

passed out right after mumbling about milk duds

Yep. I knew it wouldn’t last.

The kids were gone last night, and they’re gone again tonight. Not that it matters; Willwould be “this way” even if they were here. He’s been drinking with the neighbor all day, burning trash and moving shit around the yard.

This morning about 11am, he goes outside to work. I don’t see him all day except for when he asks if I need anything from the store around 2pm. He brought some coffee home because I asked. I thought it was nice.

7:30 pm rolls around, and he comes into the house. He says, “Did you eat?” and I said, “Yes, I had an oven pizza.”

“An oven pizza?!”

“Yes, a pizza from the oven. You can have a pizza or I’ll heat up the pot pies you like.”

“I haven’t eaten all day. Did you eat today?”

“Mostly coffee. Oh – I did have a sandwich sometime around noon. Here, have some fruit salad. It will hold you over until your pot pie is done.”

We sat and watched Monk for awhile. My heart started to pound because I knew what was coming next, and I was trying to find a way to avoid it. When the microwave went off, I got his pie, put it on his plate, and gave it to him. I told him that the second one was in the microwave and I would get it when it was done.”

“I didn’t eat all day.” He said.

“Why not?” I asked him.

“Because no one told me there was any food ready.”

“Let’s not go here tonight,” I said, and went back to watching Monk.

“So, you don’t care that I didn’t eat today?”

“I think if you were hungry, then you should have come in the house and ate.”

“You didn’t think about me all day? I see how it is. You, you, you. That’s how it is.”

“No, I think that you’re a big boy and you don’t need me to come tell you that you’re hungry.”

“How do we do this? How do we do this when we don’t do things like our parents raised us?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Well, I was raised to expect to be called in for lunch and dinner. Here it is 7:30 and I haven’t eaten all day.”

I stayed quiet. The buzzer went off on the microwave, but I didn’t go get his stupid pie. I got up and went back to the bathroom.

When I came out, he said, “So, what I expect of you doesn’t matter.”

“I don’t think we should talk about this tonight.”

“You never want to talk about it.”

“No, I don’t want to talk about it tonight.”

And then I went and got the digital recorder. I turned it on to record, and it’s in my shirt right now.

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He just found some Milk Dud boxes in a blanket on the couch. “Mm hmm…” he said, walking through the kitchen looking at the boxes like he just struck gold.

My heart is still beating. I don’t want to go here tonight. I don’t want to do this. I hate it when he goes over to the neighbors house, drinks all day, then comes inside to pick a fight with me.

And, just for the record, we’ve had this conversation before. I told him that if he came in the house when he got a break, I would gladly fix his lunch for him. But I wasn’t going to fix him lunch, call him two or three times only to have him put me off and put off his lunch for hours. He wants me to take my time fixing him a lunch (waste my time fixing him a lunch) that he may not even eat. Bullshit. He’s lucky that I am willing to fix him lunch at all.

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