I wish

domestic abuse, Gaslighting

I was married for 12.5 years. The emotional abuse started within the first couple of years (we were both military and he deployed a few months after we got married).  He was offered his first alcoholic drink when he was in Iraq, and by the time he came home, he settled into a routine of polishing off a case of beer with a buddy in one night.  This happened frequently.  I wasn’t able to identify the emotional abuse until after we moved back home (year 3-4 of marriage) and even when I did, it was usually brushed off as PTSD.

He punched me in 2007 (followed by holding me to the ground in a headlock).  It became a joke in years to come – a joke that I learned not to hit him because he hits back. His response to that incident was that “he learned how to neutralize the enemy while he was in the army.” So that’s all he was doing.  He was doing what he was trained.

For some reason, that didn’t comfort me.  It only reminded me that he was trained to kill.

Over the years there was VERY little physical abuse. There were a few times where he would hold me tight in bed and not let me go (not in a romantic or playful way).  Other than that, I don’t really think there were any other actual physical encounters.  It’s like he got smart.  He knew that when he hit, I left.  He learned he couldn’t hit, there would be consequences*.

*why I didn’t leave immediately when he stood at the foot of my bed with a loaded gun is beyond me….

I am going to be VERY real with you, and it’s not going to be pretty: I get jealous of the women that have been knocked around by their men.  I have said for YEARS that I wished he would just hit me.  People understand physical abuse.  They are terribly offended when a man lays a hand on his lady.  Leave a mark?  Leave your man! Oh how I’ve wished I had external markings on my body to show my abuse.  I’ve desperately wished he’d beat me to a bloody pulp.  Now that’s something I can take a picture of.  That’s proof of his abuse. That would get people saying “You can’t stay!  He hurts you! What if he turns on your kids?!”

But no.  Sadly, nobody can see how he hurt me.  In fact, over the past 3 months I have felt re-victimized as I hear him telling his stories and as I hear people actually believing him (without feeling the need to get my side of the story).  I’ve had my credibility questioned, my reputation trashed, my character scrutinized.  I wish I could show you the damage he did to my brain.  The bruises on my heart. I wish there had been video cameras for all the times I left a conversation with him lost in the gaslighting fog and confusion. Thankfully I have some amazing friends that have been by my side through it ALL and can bear witness to the many many times I’ve come to them saying “what the heck just happened?”

gaslighting.jpg

My counselor has said she believes I have PTSD from my marriage. THAT’S crazy. But I believe it.

I feel morbid wishing he had beat me up, but it’s how I feel.  I’ve spent a decade being emotionally/mentally beat up, and now I feel like I have to have notarized documents proving it all.  It would have been so much easier to tell people “he hit me”, and here’s the bruise to prove it.

By the way, bruises on the heart take a really really really long time to heal…  just FYI.

Why Stay?

domestic abuse

I watched this TED talk today…  and I’m not quite ready to share it on facebook yet.  So here I shall plant it.

I’ve said many MANY times that I wished he had hit me.  People understand physical abuse.  They are horrified to see bruises.  They insist you leave if he lays a hand on you.  So no, my story is not like this woman’s, but it’s had it’s horrifying moments as well.  She says something a little over 10 minutes in that really hit home for me.

“I never once thought of myself as a battered wife. Instead, I was a very strong woman in love with a deeply troubled man.  And I was the only person on earth who could help [Conor] face his demons.”

And in response to the common question: why doesn’t she just leave?

Because it’s incredibly dangerous to leave an abuser.

My story doesn’t involve the physical abuse the same way it involves her, but the ending is chillingly similar.  I left because I was terrified (and still am fearful) that he would kill us all.  He already planned to end his own life when he felt he had nothing left, so it’s not that far of a reach to think he would have a “if I can’t have them, nobody can” mindset.

“Because the final step in the domestic violence pattern is kill her.  Over 70% of domestic violence murders happen after the victim has ended the relationship. After she’s gotten out. Because then the abuser has nothing left to lose.  Other outcomes include long term stalking, even after the abuser remarries. Denial of financial resources, and manipulation of the family court system to terrify the victim and her children, who are regularly forced by family court judges to spend unsupervised time with the man who beat their mother.”

Why do I blog about my abusive marriage?  Because abuse thrives on silence.  

What’s Done in Darkness

Navigating Divorce

On May 28th, 2016, I did a foolish thing.

My husband and I have been separated for 2 months. On a particularly crummy night, I was chatting with a girlfriend about how much this all sucked.  That conversation eventually turned to online dating (more in terms of “who’s going to want to marry a 30some mama of 4 kids with this kind of yucky baggage – the available bachelors will either also be divorced or just old, never married, and *gasp* maybe still living with mommy and daddy”), and to make a long story short, I ended up creating an online profile.  I realize that just by admitting that I did that, it doesn’t make anything else I say very credible.  I get that.  I did a stupid thing.  I didn’t do anything with that profile other than “look around”.  I didn’t message anyone, I didn’t “wink” at anyone, heck, I didn’t even let my mind wander when thinking about any of the other profiles I was looking at.  I never planned on utilizing the site (at least not anytime in this century), it was a “curiosity killed the cat” moment.  I’ve never really been in the dating scene, and quite frankly, I was curious as to what the dating scene even looked like these days.

I hadn’t thought much of that profile until today.  Today, when I received multiple text messages, phone calls, and FB messages.

What is done in darkness will be brought to light.

Recently, someone created a profile on this online dating site for the sole purpose of searching for me.  And he found me.  And he proceeded to text multiple people and post on his Facebook all of his findings (and more).

I can’t even begin to tell you how embarrassed I am.  True, I didn’t do anything wrong, technically.  But my character and my integrity are very important to me, and creating this dating profile was most definitely a VERY foolish thing to do right now.  I was asked today “what in the world were you thinking?!”

I wasn’t.

I was thinking short term.  Let me assure you, the curiosity wasn’t worth it.  To have all of my family and friends know about this makes me sick to my stomach.  That’s how you know when your actions aren’t pure.  Good, Godly, Wholesome things don’t make you feel sick.  Again, I can assure you that creating the profile was the ONLY thing I did, but it was definitely a foolish move.

For that, I want to publicly apologize.

The people that saw my actions (by means of the FB post) are people I hold in high esteem in my life.  These are people I’d love to consider me honorable and trustworthy in my actions. Some of these people are younger, impressionable, and maybe DID look up to me as a role model.  What was brought to light today was something that I am ashamed of and would hate for others to emulate if they were in my position.

I want to make it through all of this mess with my head held high.  I want to be able to say when all of this is over, that I made choices that had my kids’ best interest in mind – and I want THEM to be able to look back with pride when they think of how their mama handled herself during this difficult season.  I want to be able to look back and say that every move I made was made with integrity.

There’s a passage in Titus that I am reminded of when I think about this (Titus 1:7-8 specifically), and it talks about the leaders in the church and how they are to live above reproach, be “looked up to, be reverent, have a good grip on himself, and have a good grip on the Message, knowing how to use the truth to either spur people on in knowledge or stop them in their tracks if they oppose it.” (The Message translation).  Today I did not live up to any of this. 😦  For that, I am so very sorry.

The Things That God Hates

domestic abuse

9 years ago I slapped a man after he threw my laptop across the room. In return, he punched me and held me in a headlock on the ground.

I left.

That lasted a month. 2 years after that, that same man stood at the foot of my bed with a loaded gun (bullet in the chamber), demanding my respect.

It took me 2 months to leave after that.

That time lasted 3 months. There have been a handful of times between 7 years ago and 2 months ago that I have said I needed to or tried to leave, and each time I was convinced I needed to stay because “God hates divorce”. Even now, even with people that are well aware of the actual physical (and mental/emotional) DANGERS present if I stayed, I still feel judged for leaving and protecting my babies.

Friends, if nobody has told you yet today… There are a LOT of things that God hates, and abuse is one of those things. One of these days I will be able to speak more freely about my marriage, but in the meantime please let me be one to tell you – you are worth SO much more than rubies, and you should never have to tolerate being abused, especially in the name of your faith.

Dear You

Letting Go, That Fateful Day

We’ve had a rough go of it, this marriage of ours.  We weren’t exactly set up for success right off the bat, with all we were up against even in our first few years. It wasn’t all bad. It wasn’t all hard. We truly loved each other (or at least I know that I truly loved you).  You make me laugh, you always have.  This life we’ve built has certainly been a roller coaster.  Our highs are wonderful, but our lows are oh so low.  Low and painful and scary.

Exactly 1 week ago, probably right about this time, I was sitting on our bed with our sons, trying to figure out how to tell them that their dad might not ever be coming home.  What I ended up telling them left it open for the possibility of your return, but in my head and in my heart, I truly didn’t know if that would ever happen.  In reality, I didn’t even know if you would wake up, and if you did, whether or not you would complete the plans you were plotting mere hours before.

I mourned you that day.  I cried to the point the tears stopped coming. I was dried up. I tried to figure out how I was going to tell your sister. I was angry. I was sad. I was confused. I was scared.  Not just for you, but for whoever was about to unknowingly walk into your plans to somehow end your life.  I sobbed at the thought of an unsuspecting police officer forever carrying the weight of being the one to shoot you and likely kill you.  I wondered if your kids would ever learn the truth about how their dad really died. I will never forget that day.

But.

You didn’t die that day.

That sentence is usually ended with a different sort of punctuation.  However, for the next 2 days I lived in a home where there were loaded weapons, loaded magazines, and handguns (ammo status unknown) in my basement.  In the home where our children lived.  Weapons who’s original intent was to ultimately cause your death (or based on your offer, maybe the intent was for my death?) in some way or another.  This past week has been filled with moments of “is this my life?!” I still struggle to wrap my mind around the reality of the last 7 days, not to mention the last 13 years.
Story End

I realize it will be a futile attempt if I try to convince you the many “whys” of my decision, and I’m sure they will be discussed and dissected over the coming months, even years, so right now I’m not going to waste my energy.  Energy that has already been spent in abundance over this issue.

You and I.

You and me.

We.

Us.

We are done.

The risk is too great to continue to figure out how to make this marriage healthy.  I am too tired from cleaning up your rage-filled destruction.  I refuse to live one more day afraid of what might happen the next time you can’t control your anxiety.  Not when I have 4 precious children to protect.  A mama should never have to protect her babies from their own daddy, but that’s what I’ve been doing.  I will no longer live a life fearful that one day my husband will snap and kill us all.

I still remember being in bed next to you that night seven years ago, absolutely terrified as you laid there clutching your loaded Glock.  I don’t know why I didn’t call the police that night.  Just like I don’t know why I didn’t call the police last Friday as you tied up loose ends, offered to “make me disappear” and ultimately made plans to end your life.  Living with you has twisted and contorted my brain in ways I can’t explain if I tried.

I’ve lived with many regrets over our marriage. Countless times I didn’t call the police. Times I put a smile on my face and convinced those closest to me (the ones reaching out in concern) that everything was fine, that you were just stressed about this thing or that, and that it always gets better eventually. Times I went back too soon (or at all).

I know one thing for sure: I won’t regret this.

This isn’t going to be a smooth ride, but I’m choosing a different path now. I pray God gives you the same peace I have found in this decision.

let go

Standing Here

domestic abuse

Yesterday I rang the doorbell to a women’s shelter.  A shelter where abused women seek refuge and safety.  I wish I could say I never in a million years dreamed I would ever be the woman on the inside of that door, but that would be a lie.  I just *hoped* it would never come to that for me.

Yet here I stood.

It’s surreal talking with people with years and decades of experience relating to domestic abuse.  The fear in their eyes, the urgency in their voice, only to realize, oh! They’re talking about ME!  They’re concerned about ME! Something about my situation really IS frightening!  I’ve spent so many years being made to believe I’m the crazy one for being concerned about yet another scary outburst or breakdown, being made to feel like it wasn’t a big deal, it was just an anxiety attack (which, according to him, I could have helped).  It was my fault.  I didn’t keep a clean enough house, so he couldn’t find his stuff.  I didn’t respect him, so he reacted in kind.  Always my fault.

And yet it doesn’t feel real.  I’m being validated left and right.  This is NOT ok.  This is NOT appropriate behavior.  This is NOT a safe situation.  They aren’t making me feel like I’m being dramatic, or overreacting, or trying to paint him in a bad light, or being a bad unsupportive wife.  I don’t know how to sort through all these different emotions.  Friday I was quite literally mourning my husband, who, as far as I knew, was at home planning his own demise.  It’s horrifying to realize you’re not sure if what you’re feeling is sadness or relief – and to admit that out loud makes you feel like an absolute monster. By Saturday, and every day after, it was life as normal.  And I was basically told to be patient, because I was the one that dropped the bombshell about wanting to separate, so I needed to give him time to process.  That would have been SO much easier to accept had there not been loaded guns in my basement, and knowing that mere hours prior, they had been in the trunk of my husband’s car with who knows what intended outcome.

I feel like I’m going through the stages of grief, but out of order.  I have been angry, I have been sad, I have had major guilt.  This is such an unpredictable journey, and I’m so cautious to embrace the next emotion because I don’t know how long it will stick around.

This is so surreal.  This can’t be my life.

Domestic Abuse. It still sounds so foreign on my tongue.

And now I shall submit this blog post, after one tiny but mighty mason jar of moscato, and no reviewing it.  Here’s to life, unfiltered and messy.

The Aftermath

Collateral Damage

I needed a bubble mailer today.  I knew it was down there, amongst the debris.  I had only looked down there, I hadn’t ventured to begin cleaning it up yet.  My friend and I had spent hours sorting, cleaning, and organizing, and all of our hard work had been carefully stacked neatly behind the couch.  All of those hours were destroyed in minutes of his rage.  We all know the keys he was looking for wouldn’t have been back there.  No, this was personal.  All because I wouldn’t come home and help him look.  I carefully stepped over the turned over boxes and retrieved my bubble mailer and went back upstairs.  I’m not ready to clean this mess up just yet.

*text message* “Are you almost here I’m not doing OK” (after I had already set my healthy boundary and told him I wasn’t coming home.  I had already arrived at church, unloaded all of the kids in the rain, and was late to worship team practice.)

*text message* “I’m throwing up from anxiety where the fuck are you” (after relentless calls that I stopped answering when he wouldn’t take no for an answer.)

It’s hard reading his texts because usually the abusive ones will be right before the completely normal and healthy conversation.  The dichotomy of his words will always be hard for me to wrap my head around, it’s what’s kept me feeling like I was going crazy for a decade.

My room was actually the first place where I saw his destruction.

Rewind, back to when I was still at church. When he was calling, I finally decided to have my pastor answer.  He helped me sort things out and we had arranged for a mutual friend to meet me at the house so I could help him find the keys.  I was scared to go there alone, knowing his state of mind.  He must have found the keys before I got there, because I drove past him on the road.  I went home anyway, since I was close and I needed to go to the bathroom.  So I saw my room.  I’m embarrassed to say I was surprised.  I shouldn’t have been, I was expecting a tornado.  It’s what always happens when he gets like this, tearing through the house, dumping boxes, shoving piles of paperwork onto the floor, no regard for anything he destroys in the process.  All left for me to clean up, of course.

But I was still surprised.

Again, we all know the keys weren’t under my nightstand, so knocking it over (and everything on top getting thrown across the room) was a direct attack.  This is how he abuses me.  Never fist to face, though I’ll admit I’ve lost track of the times I’ve said “I wish he would just hit me”.  The mental torment is so much harder to sort through when he’s in a good mood again.

Back down in the basement was another example of how he was clearly sending a message.  The keys he was looking for would not have been in or under that couch (and if they might have been, clearly there are better ways to search for them).  He had the keys when he got home the night before and he spent his time in the kitchen, down in his workspace, and in our bedroom.  Turning over the couch was sheer rage and nothing more, aside from possible desperation.

That afternoon he wasn’t thrilled when I asked his buddy to help me figure out how to ask him to sleep elsewhere that night.  He made that perfectly clear when he came home to get some clothes so he could sleep at our friends’ house.  He spent his time banging around, brought up some dishes (breaking them as he threw them on the bench as he walked by), throwing laundry around, and knocking over a trash can near where I was working on sorting through a mess in our basement.

It wasn’t pretty.

He wasn’t happy.

Tonight will be the 3rd night he’s been away, and each day it sinks in more and more just how much I’m DONE.  I have spent too much time being angry at these types of episodes, growing more and more bitter each time I clean up the mess.  Now, I’m just sad.  And tired.  So very tired.  And my feet are oh so sore from walking on eggshells all these years, not to mention what it does to my heart to try and protect my kids from their own father.  I’m done.  I’ve reached my limit.  Sadly, the battle has just begun.  I’m not sure how much more strength I have in me, but thankfully I’ve got the most amazing village to come alongside me on this crappy journey.  And hopefully he does too.  He’ll need the support just as much as I will.

*sigh*