I mean, it's not like he HIT me!

There are many of you who know my story, there are others still, who do not. It's not something I talk about constantly, and its something I ALWAYS qualify with the statement in this post's title. But if we're being brutally honest, (and why not? This is the internet afterall! ) I was an abused spouse.  Its something I used to hate talking about because I felt ashamed to have been in that kind of relationship, I felt ashamed for staying as long as I did after the physical abuse began, and I absolutely did not want people to feel like they needed to pity me or offer me some form of condolences, or HEAVEN FORBID want to discuss it with me. But it has been suggested to me that these are the sort of things that NEED to be discussed so that it doesn't take a video like the one that has been circulating this week to open a discussion about a very real and all too common issue in our society. So here are my thoughts on the matter. This is not so that others will feel sorry for me, this is not to try and validate myself or incriminate my ex husband. This is just an open discussion to show that spousal abuse is NOT a race issue, a class issue, or something that happens obviously or in predictable situations or to predictable people. I NEVER imagined it was something I would deal with, or that I would be one of "those" women who didn't have the sense to leave. I've been told many times since my divorce, "I would be afraid to mess with you" or "I can't imagine you putting up with that kind of thing." If they only knew that I was exactly that girl, the one that made excuses, or accepted blame in the situation, qualified each instance, and stayed far too long in the abuse cycle. So here's my story, do with it what you will, or ignore it, your choice.

Two days ago marked the 5th anniversary of the time my husband told me he'd run me over with his car and that he wouldn't care. It is the night I consider the beginning of the end of my marriage, a week before he told me we were finished, maybe 2 weeks before the first time he got physically abusive, nearly three months before I moved out, and almost exactly 2 years before my divorce would be final. It is not, however, the beginning of the abuse. In retrospect, I was in an abusive marriage from day one, not physically abusive until the end, but verbally and emotionally abusive. I was not allowed to cry when I was upset, I was not allowed to be depressed, I was not allowed to treat my depression, I was never in control of any facet of our relationship. I walked on eggshells, deathly afraid that something innocent would set him off, like the night I accidently left the kitchen cabinet door open and we went from laughing and snuggling to him slamming doors and yelling and refusing to let me touch him for the rest of the night. Or the night he left me at a restaurant because I left my maiden name as my middle name on my driver's license. And he always fought dirty, he knew entirely too well how to cut to the very core of my being. Like the night he told me he was glad we hadn't been able to have children because he would have hated them if they were anything like me. Ladies and gentlemen, this.is.abuse. I knew it wasn't right, and I knew its not what I thought marriage should be, but I thought that maybe it was an adjustment period or that I was too difficult to live with, or that it was just too much stress, or...on and on. I'd never been in a serious relationship before, maybe this was just what everyone had to go through. I've been in a healthier relationship since then, I've been loved and supported and held while I cried, and I've learned that minor disagreements or, yes even full-blown arguments, can happen in a way where both parties present their side and, in the end, everyone is still happy and loved and holding hands. This was quite the revelation, but what a blessing!

The first night John got violent with me, he told me he was going to be too late and tired to go to a dinner event with me, so he would just go to the bar with friends instead. He'd been struggling with alcohol issues for several months, something very few people knew about, the extent of which I didn't even understand at the time, so I tried to convince him not to go, to stay home with me. That night he "swore to God" as he held his fist in my face before punching a hole in the door next to my head, before shoving me onto the bed, onto the floor, before, as I grabbed his waist to keep him from walking out the door, he backed me into the wall hard enough to dent the metal cover of our water heater in on itself, and before he cut my lip with his keys as he grabbed them out of my hand and, again, shoved me to the floor. I wanted no one to know. I recognize that I should have let him go, I should not have tried to keep him in the house with someone he loathed so cruelly. He called my father, my mother called my Bishop, and shortly I had two members of the Bishopric, as well as my former visiting teacher, and current best friend, in my living room. There to keep me safe so that John could come back and get a change of clothes and leave for the night. In a later night, he held this over me, telling me that I was so cuckoo (his favorite description of me at the end) that I needed three people to come keep me from going crazy or to protect him in case they needed to essentially exorcise me. There were more such nights, but without backup. I refused to admit it was getting worse, I kept hoping and praying that he would realize what he was doing and snap out of it. He began using sex as a weapon, he would toy with me, giving me glimpses of caring and sweet, but immediately followed by name calling and hate and openly dating other women. He couldn't realize it was getting worse because he blamed me for everything, even accused me of giving myself the bruises he had left when he stood on my foot or pinched my chest almost to the point of making me bleed. BUT HE NEVER HIT ME. For some reason I thought this mattered. I thought, at least he isn't giving me black eyes or bruises that can't easily be hidden underneath sweaters. Sure he called me a slut, but he never hit me. I kept hoping it would get better but it only got worse. To those in abusive situations: IT DOESN'T GET BETTER.

I don't remember what finally made me move out and get my own apartment, but it happened the weekend before thanksgiving. Most of the stuff I got out while he was at work, but there were a few straggling items that had to be exchanged. During those meetings, he yelled, he threw things, and then as I stood crying at my car, my box of memories tipped over in the parking lot, he told me "I never wanted to fight with you...but you just make me so mad" I thought that by moving out the abuse would stop, and I was certain he'd realize what he had done and he'd take me back. I still wanted him to take me back. He continued to control me, yo-yo'ing me back and forth, saying he'd considered taking me back but that I "pulled shit like this" ie: asking when my insurance would lapse, proving he was right to leave. All the while, he was living with another woman. But he never hit me.

Five years have passed since our separation, three since our divorce. Despite the fact that he had moved to another state, was living with another woman, and had little to no contact with me, he refused to grant me a divorce. He continued to control me. He has tried as recently as May to control me, to use me and my caring heart against myself. But he never hit me.

As I said at the beginning, this is not to incriminate John. I have forgiven him, long long ago. I have healed. I have grown. I have learned so much from my relationship with him and with my relationship following my divorce. I've learned about love, I've learned about myself, I've learned that "why don't you just leave?" is not as simply answered as I once thought. And I've learned that he doesn't have to hit to be abusive. If you know someone in an abusive relationship, the best thing you can do is to love them and be there as much as they need you. Do not judge them for not getting out as soon as you think they ought. Continue to be their friend, and try your best to undertsand that it isn't as black and white as we all wish it was.