Warning: This post discusses particularly sensitive and personal topics.
For a long time I struggled to think of myself as someone in an "abusive" relationship. I didn't have black eyes or broken bones (yet). I told myself I could endure it all for Mia's sake. I didn't understand that a safe, loving home with just us girls was lightyears better than this fear-infested, anxiety-ridden dungeon where I held my breath and walked on eggshells every minute he was home.
It was through counseling (marriage and on my own) that I was informed I was being abused in so many ways... psychologically, emotionally... sexually. I'd never even heard the term "gaslighting," but the concept resonated to my core. Everything was somehow my fault. He lashed out because of my word choice chatting about mundane topics. I was suffocating him so he vanished for days. I drove him to drink until he was blackout drunk every single day because of all the pressure I put on him to stop drinking. I was too controlling when I made him appointments with doctors and psychiatrists and pleaded with him to go. Later on I found out he repeatedly cheated because I didn't pay him enough attention or compliments amidst the horror movie I was barely surviving. I recall his disgust with me because I didn't "look lovingly into his eyes and squeeze his hand as I passed him in the upstairs hallway (when he finally decided to crawl out of the guest bedroom after another 4-day bender.)"
The manipulation should have been a blood red flag from the start. He found a way to justify and explain his actions, twist the truth, in ways that seemed to mayyyyyybe hold water. If it was just that instance, I could have let it slide. But it was everything. All the time. Excuses and "poor me" acts. Apologies and empty promises flanked with break-ups and "I can'ts." Sweet texts followed by cold emails within the hour. He had mastered the art of manipulating me mentally and emotionally. Terrifying me into thinking he really might... might leave me, might take Mia, might make good on his threats.
And then there was the sexual manipulation. He would call for me from the guest bedroom, reeking of liquor and dirty bars and stale sweat. Through slurred words and bloodshot eyes he'd tell me, "You're still my wife, you have to." Or "I'm having an anxiety attack. If you do this, I'll feel better." I figured out if I complied, it was better than if I fought it. It ended faster. Then he'd be in a better mood. So I did. I laid there and closed my eyes and disconnected. When it was over, I'd retreat to my bedroom closet, drop to my knees and stifle my sobs until I was able to paint a smile back on my face. I've never felt more empty, broken and alone than in that closet.
I was a walking shell of myself. Yet it still took my counselor to help me recognize what this was. This was not a bump in the road of an otherwise healthy marriage. But how do I stick up for myself without making it worse? He's so unpredictable, so volatile, so irrational, so unhinged by this point. It took me way longer than it should have to recognize what I was dealing with, and it would have taken longer had I not opened up and leveraged my resources. She helped me process that we were past the point of sticking up for myself. It was time to make a plan - and get out.
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