Harder to Breathe

It's a catch-22. And I do mean that.

See, I have been told that the most terrible thing one must deal with when they have been violated, abused, damaged, taken advantage of, controlled, or assaulted is the silence. It's not the scars, the healing, the justifications, the building anew... it's the fear that by speaking out about what happened, you will be told that you are over-exaggerating, that you're being spiteful, playing the victim, trying to get sympathy, or worse. Some have been downright told they were asking for it, or otherwise shut down and further abused - simply for telling others the truth.

Take this as an example. A child is beaten by his parent. He tells a teacher. The teacher talks to the parent, and the parent not only assures the teacher everything is fine, they further harm the child for speaking out. Another example: a man is sexually assaulted - but if he tells a friend, then he's making things up because "men don't get raped", and gets made fun of, belittled, or shut out for being crazy. Yet again: a woman is mentally and emotionally abused/controlled by her spouse, but speaking to mutual friends means ruining his reputation, making her a spiteful, passive-aggressive bitch who just wants to hurt people.

I fall into that last category.

What happened to me is something that I can honestly say happened to me. Now, yes, I'm aware that some of you went through the same self-help seminars I did, beating into our heads the concept that we should not be "victims" but "choose out" of that mentality. That we can simply choose what happens to us, and how we react. But what I have learned since then has shown me two things: one, that that is only true to an extent, and two, that line of thinking is extremely dangerous to someone who is being controlled.

I am done being told what to do, how to think, what reactions are appropriate. I know what happened; I was there. And I was content with my silence, to allow that part of my history to be unknown. For fear that I would be seen as passive-aggressive, spiteful, angry, childish, ill-mannered, and ruining the reputation of someone in the eyes of friends. But then she happened.

"She" is a young woman in a relationship who I met at a bar. Complete strangers, we got to talking about random things. Who we are, what we do, who we're seeing, how we got here, where we're from. But something eerie happened. Something frighteningly odd, disconcerting, yet fascinating all at the same time. She began to tell me of her relationship. And my god... it was like listening to a recording of myself from days long since past. All the signs were there. The gaslighting. The dictation of what was allowed, what was not. The withholding of affection. The horrible words, meant only to hurt, belittle, damage. It was as though a ghost had run its finger up my spine. She was describing exactly what I had gone through, down to the minutia... except she has visible bruises. I had only had hands put on me once.

Over the next several hours, we spoke in earnest of how no, it wasn't okay that she was accused of a mental illness she does not have (another strangely eerie similarity; we were even accused of the same illness); no, it's not acceptable to be struck by a spouse, even once; no, hiding bruises is, in fact, a big red flag. We talked of strategies for getting out, places to stay, contacts, friends to rely on, how to break free. We talked of defense mechanisms, justifications, constant fights. Every ten minutes was punctuated with another realization of a similarity. Her knowing that someone else had been through the exact same thing and made it free and into a great relationship... that was enough to bolster her courage. She is, as I type this, in the process of trying to reclaim her life as her own.

Why am I telling you all of this, you may wonder?

Because having spoken to her, acknowledging that this DOES happen, and it's NOT normal or healthy... I have helped her break free from a relationship where she was being constantly abused - mentally, emotionally, and physically. What if there were others among even my friends - the ones I know, care about, hold dear - what if among them, among you, there is another similar circumstance, and they have simply accepted it, afraid to speak out on their own behalf?

No. I must speak out. I must let others know what happened, what happens even now to others, and say definitively NO: this is NOT acceptable. This is NOT normal. This is NOT healthy. And by god, if you need someone on your side, I am here, and I understand.

What happened to me is in the past - but it can be used to prevent others from suffering the same fate.

I will relate what happened here (and place my self-justifications in parentheticals, so you know why I stayed).

Some time ago, before I found the remarkable relationship I now have, in which I am loved unconditionally, respected, and treated with equality, I had other relationships. Not many, I was never terribly experienced. But one of these relationships was unlike the rest. It started out as practically a dream come true. I was desperately in love, and being so head-over-feet, I would do, give, sacrifice everything for the sake of the relationship. It was pure bliss for about a year. Then something happened. I don't know quite when it happened, but the fights started happening regularly (every couple fights, that's normal). At first it was once every month, then once every couple weeks, then once a week. By the time things were over, I had kept a calendar that showed that fights happened no fewer than twice a week.

When we fought, I was not permitted to talk to friends. Particularly not my own friends. I could speak to a very certain degree to specific mutual friends - friends who were more familiar with him than with me, however - but only on the subject of what I was doing wrong. Any advice I could seek had to focus on what I was failing to do. Otherwise, “our private life (was) to remain private”, and I was forbidden from even asking my best girlfriend for advice, help, or council. Plastic smiles were plastered on our faces when company was over. Icy politeness was enforced. Nothing was to ever appear wrong to anyone. Ever. Or I would be punished, usually by the withholding of affection after a long session of being yelled at for failing to uphold the façade. (But that was reasonable, right? I mean, I failed to keep up appearances, to prevent drama, to keep our friends from being involved. It was my fault. No one should ever know we’re having a spat.)

Somewhere along the way, I lost most of my freedoms. Small things. Foods I was not allowed to have, drinks, places I couldn't go. I was forbidden certain things. (Couples make sacrifices, that's normal. I have to give up things to make him happy.) But I was also expected to perform certain functions. Things weren't just expected, but demanded. It started small - chores, financial contributions - that was normal, so long as it was on equal footing. But soon I was on deadlines. If the bed was unmade when he wanted to sleep, a fight began. If his socks weren't taken from the dryer and put folded into the drawer by midnight, I was yelled at. Some of these times I was made to sleep on the couch. (I did not do what I said I would do, I suppose it's fair that I am punished.) But why was I made to sleep on the couch when it was he who started the fight over socks?...

On the subject of arguments, if for whatever reason he did decide he ought to apologize, it was always with a qualifier. “I’m sorry you felt hurt” or “I’m sorry you didn’t think that was funny”. Not that he was actually sorry for havng hurt my feelings or that the joke made at my expense wasn’t funny to me, but rather that I was the one who somehow chose to have hurt feelings and he was sorry that I had chosen such a thing. The apologies were almost more sympathy than actual contrition. (But I’m responsible for my own feelings, right? Nobody can actually hurt my feelings, that’s something I allow to happen. All I have to do is to choose that the comment about my looks or actions or thoughts or likes wasn’t incredibly painful. That’s all I have to do. Surely he didn’t mean to upset me.) Though it would happen again, regardless if it bothered me, for it was something I should simply get over. I would have to learn to get over not liking horror films or being offended by flagrant cheating on a spouse. I was choosing to allow myself to be upset by these things, something I could be “trained” out of.

I was accused of having borderline personality disorder. Anyone who knows me well - and knows even a half an ounce of actual psychology - knows that's not true. Having worked with folks who DO have it, it's obvious where the differences are. Even so, the accusations made me doubt my sanity. I started having nervous breakdowns. The problem was me. Me. (I'm broken, so I guess I can only look at myself as the problem; it can't possibly be him.) I was told to go to therapy or we'd break up. Then again, I was told he'd leave me pretty close to every time we fought. I was taught that one fights for what they love, so I fought hard. I swallowed my pride and went to therapy. They advised medication. I bit the bullet and paid sizeable sums of money to go on medications. They would work for a while, then stop. Nothing worked for long. Any time I had a hard day, got emotional to any level, stood up for myself in any capacity, I was told I was having "an episode". My wants, needs, desires, concerns were dismissed. If I was bothered by something - be it sexual or violent - I was overreacting. I was told I wasn't sound enough of mind to know what I wanted. (I'm broken, and he's not, so he must be right.)

On the subject of sound mind, I was frequently made to question my memory. I would be told something, then told something else later. An example: going to see family, I was told I was too loud and shouldn't talk so much, for I was dominating the conversation; I backed off, then later upon going home was told I didn't seem like I wanted to be there because I hardly interacted with people. I was told I was childish for wanting to leave a party to get to bed at a reasonable hour for work the next day. Then scolded for not being awake enough the next day to stay up late again. If I made plans to go somewhere, but had to cancel for whatever reason, I was "breaking my word", regardless of advanced notice. And if I remembered something differently, I was told I was wrong. Period. End of story. There was never an option for me to be the one that remembered it correctly. (I'm the one with the bad memory. He's always right. He's so much smarter than I am. He knows so much more than I do.) Which is funny, because I'm finding that everything I thought I knew, everything that he told me... if it's turned completely on its head, that's the actual right way of doing a thing. Especially when it comes to cooking.

Mentally unstable, away from my own family and most of my own personal friends, in an area that didn't suit me and was far too expensive for someone like me to support, I worked full time in whatever work I could find, only to come home and immediately do housework. I would work several hours a week to do so. The expectation was because I couldn't afford as much rent, so I made up for it in work. I did all of the housework. So much as rotating the laundry was considered asking him to do my job. I was punished once for feeding the cat one minute past seven, instead of AT seven. When I played or knit, I felt guilty because there was work to do. I completely lost my creative mojo. I seldom prayed, seldom made anything for myself. (It makes sense, though. I should be grown up about this. Grownups don't have time for leisure. I have responsibilities. He's helping me afford this unaffordable place, so I owe him. I could never live here, I can’t afford to pay rent, so he’s taking most of the financial burden and I do work.)

When we went places or had meals out, I was often surprised with the expectation of financial obligation. Things would be ordered without my consent, but then I was expected to pay for them. Things I couldn’t afford, especially trips, were expected. Otherwise I would stay home alone. It wasn’t a question if he was going, but he would pressure me to go even if I could not reasonably do so. If I did not go, he made sure I knew he was disappointed.

My god. The disappointment. That word was used like a weapon. I was constantly ashamed of myself, of my behavior, my choices. I was never good enough, smart enough, fast enough, wealthy enough, creative enough. My raid-leading skills were constantly in critique, asked-for or no. I was made to feel foolish and unobservant for missing the “blatant” clues he hid in his RPGs. I didn’t clean things thoroughly enough or often enough. I wasn’t as good a hostess as I should have been. My clothing choices were tsk’ed, my taste in music monotonous, my interests to banal or childish. I was never socially savvy enough, I didn’t know how to talk to people correctly, I was bad at parties. I made poor work decisions, I spent my money unwisely. I was even told I didn’t treat my pets well. Nothing I did seemed right, or good enough. I was always a failure.

Pretty soon I was told how to spend my money. How much on what and when. Instead of lowering the budget for things like his alcohol, I would have to cut back on things for myself to meet his expected budget. If I didn’t get what he put on the list - ALL of it - I had failed to do my job and was yelled at. Though he would maintain it wasn’t yelling, since he technically didn’t raise his voice, but the admonition and scolding were absolutely scathing. He was always being disappointed by me. That word will forever echo in my mind… “disappointed”.

Another word that rings in my head: “fair”. I would tell him a rule or action wasn’t fair, and he would roll his eyes, “I don’t believe in fair”. (Life isn’t fair. I should be used to it.)

Yet he would build me up, too. Telling me I was pretty, that I was smart and creative and worthy. He would build me up and talk sweetly to me, reassuring me that he loved me and that I meant everything to him. Right up until I forgot to do something or lost track of time and didn’t make the bed prior to him wanting to go to sleep. Then he would tear me down again. Endlessly, up and down, up and down, until my life became a constant walk on a path of eggshells, frightened of what I might do or say that would set off his temper. (He has a temper, that’s all. It’s not his fault. That’s just who he is. I should be more mindful.)

If I asked him to not read something until after I left, he would ignore my request and read it immediately. Whether it was for a surprise or not, he didn’t care. He threatened that he would kill me if I ever left him or cheated on him, not that I would have anyway. And if I so much as dared to compare him to his father, he threatened to leave me outside of a mall several miles from the house to walk home. I asked him once flat-out if he respected me in any capacity, and he stated flatly that he did not, nor did he trust me either. He did not ask for me to improve myself, he demanded it.

And more. So... so much more. I'm too tired to remember it all anymore. It isn't worth it. I've tried to let all of it go. The only thing I can't let go is when he put me into a wall.

It was one of our fights. Again. Where he'd threatened to leave me. Again. Fights past, he'd told me I'd driven him to drinking, and that he'd never come so close to hitting a woman before. He was physically bigger than me, more imposing, so of course I was afraid. Often, I'd shut up, shrink. Stay small. It was safer not to draw his attention or move too fast. Even now I still do that when a confrontation arises, even if it's not directed at me. That scar runs deep. But there I was, attempting to actually stand up for myself. Rare, but it did happen. I KNEW I remembered something correctly. KNEW it. And would not back down. And so he came up to me, striding across the room, grabbed both my shoulders, and slammed me against the wall.

My brain shut down. Went into crisis mode. And if you’ve ever seen me in a crisis - an actual, true crisis - I'm the one who does not hesitate, does not fear. I push my horse into a gallop to pull a child from an icy, fast moving river. I dive into swift-moving creeks to save kittens. I shoulder-check bullies into trees. And I, brave, or stupid, looked at his hands, looked into his eyes, and told him to take his fucking hands off me.

He did.

The next therapy session, I justified it. I went right back to being who he wanted me to be. His trophy. The quiet, obedient, passive girlfriend who was somehow paradoxically a jet-setter go-getter and kick-ass chick.  The one he showed off to friends, bragging about my appearance and my interests, but seldom my accomplishments... unless they were also his interests. I looked the therapist in the eye, told her what happened, and told her it wasn't him. It was someone else. It was him, his body, his hands, but he wasn't doing it on purpose, he simply had no idea what he was doing. It wasn't him. (It wasn't him. He'd never do that to me.)

But he did do it. And I will never forget the look on his face when he finally realized what he was doing. Not ever.

So when a young woman, stranger to me, with no emotional investment in her well-being, tells me this? I don't justify it. I don't tell her how easy it is to say that it wasn't them, it was them forgetting who they were. I tell her how big of a red flag it is. I tell her to run - don't walk - away from that relationship like the house was on goddamn fire. I tell her I have a bat and a couch, one will keep her safe while she sleeps on the other. And through gentle coaxing, I can stop the cycle. Just one is a difference. I can help one.

But can I help more?

I'm done being silent. You, my friends... many of you almost assuredly know who this is about. I have refrained from names because this isn't about blame or pointing fingers. I am not attempting slander or defamation of character. It isn't about ruining a reputation or trying to passively-aggressively "get my way" somehow. There is nothing I gain from this... save that maybe my story can save someone else. Because silence is wrong. It is absolutely abhorrent that someone gets abused and then feels they must stay quiet because it's "proper", "expected", or "socially appropriate". It wasn't appropriate for me to be treated the way I was. I won't stay silent if my words can help another human being crawl into the light again.

I have braced for flak from this. I will likely be called out, told this was unnecessary, that I'm being spiteful, hurtful, damaging. That I'm "talking shit" behind someone's back. That's not what any of this is about, and if that's what you believe, I cannot stop you. Be assured, I was no saint. But saint or sinner, no one deserves that. No one deserves to be made to believe their entire life is a series of unattainable goals in order to be respected, loved, or treated equally by a spouse. No one deserves to feel like their relationship hangs on the edge of a blade every time they fight, or that they aren't safe in their own home. And no one should ever be made to feel that they are completely broken and mentally inadequate by their significant other. It's wrong. So if what I'm doing offends you, I'm truly sorry.

This isn't about revenge, misguided justice, "getting back", nothing like that. My heart is sore, but at peace. My relationship now has done much to show me what love truly is, has healed many of the hurts, and patiently guides me toward things like not constantly apologizing for things that weren't my fault. I have no ill-will, no quarrel, no score to settle. But I will be damned if I sit by and just let this happen to someone else - even the POSSIBILITY of it happening to someone else - by staying quiet.

I hope you understand my intent.

And I pray that - now that you know the symptoms - maybe you will reach out to someone else who was just like me, give them my name, my email, whatever... and tell them they aren't alone. Maybe you can save someone too.