Nobody Treats a Daughter of God that Way

In looking back over five years of blog writing, I can see that I hover around this topic from time to time. It's either because someone has made another stupid comment about women who are/have been abused or because I have had a personal experience that has brought it all crashing back to my mind. If you're not interested, that's okay. You don't have to read it.

I became free 20 years, one month, and one day ago. It took me about 13 years to give myself permission to get there. Even after I made the decision, it took some time to enforce it. It was the best thing I ever did. It was the scariest thing I ever did. But it was the most correct thing I had done in 14 years.

I happened to be seeing a therapist at the time, and he felt so bad because he thought he had pushed me into making the decision. I actually spent that next session assuring him that it was the right thing to do. All he had done was help me talk it out, which gave me the clarity and courage I needed to do it.

In the ensuing months, as I went through the trauma that is separation and divorce, my therapist was my lifeline. One day he asked me if, when I had experienced physical abuse, I had ever had an out-of-body experience. That shook me. Of course not. Oh. Wait.

The very first time my abuser laid a hand on me, he put his hands around my throat and squeezed just enough to stop my breathing for a second. I think he might have been almost as horrified as I at what he was doing. That second seemed to last minutes, and I can remember calmly observing to myself, “Oh, wow, you really CAN’T breathe when someone is strangling you.”

I had a new job in a law office. It was mid-March, but I wore a turtleneck sweater to work the next day. I was ashamed. I was embarrassed. The police had come over while I was bathing my baby girl the night before. Someone had called them because of the noise in our apartment. They made my abuser let them in the apartment so they could come see me and talk with me. I was mortified. I assured the female police officer who stepped into the bathroom that I was “fine, thanks.” I was still in shock. I was by no means fat or slovenly or alcoholic or drug addicted. See, all those things created the image in my mind of a woman who is abused by her husband or boyfriend. I was none of those things. I was even cute then. I was 22 years old.

Someone who loves me told me I need to forgive myself already. Great advice. I know it was inspired by love and concern. And you are right. That is a topic I address often:  Forgiving ourselves as well as forgiving others.

The reason that I sat down to the computer to write this blog entry is that my brain continued to churn last night and today, and I had an “aha!” moment. I suddenly remembered the other thing my long ago therapist had mentioned:  PTSD. Like most people, I always assumed that was something that just plagued military members who had experienced combat trauma. I learned something in the past years that helped me understand that post-traumatic stress disorder is exactly that; it is feeling and behaving as though one is experiencing the trauma of a past experience as if it were happening again.

I work in a courtroom. Most of my friends and family know that I am a court reporter. I have heard and seen many things in my career that I wish I hadn’t seen or heard. Interestingly, most of those things don’t affect me personally other than making me sad or disgusted. I think the reason I can do my job and still feel positive about my life is that I compartmentalize the things I am hearing. There is also so called “black humor” or “gallows humor.” Hubby is a retired medic, so he is well acquainted with using that kind of humor to help relieve the stress of dealing with other people’s trauma and a lot of death. Sometimes I laugh and ask him, “Can you imagine if anyone ever heard some of our conversations? They’d think we were horrible people.” Oh. Wait. :D

But guess what? Domestic violence isn’t something you can joke about. That doesn’t fit appropriately in any setting. The reality is that I’ve never truly relieved that pressure. The past 20 years of NOT being abused have helped me a great deal. Spending each night in the arms of an imperfect man who has rarely raised his voice to me (and only when my voice was similarly raised) and would never think to raise a hand to me makes imperfect me feel like a princess. Okay, a queen. I’m a bit long in the tooth to still think I’m a princess.

My judge had a defendant who had been charged with domestic violence. The defendant was accused of the attempted strangling of the mother of his young son. I’m usually kind to everyone in the courtroom, even the occasional defendant who meets my eye. Not this guy. Everything about him made my skin crawl. And then we had a suppression hearing. One of the witnesses was a police officer. He was there to set up the foundation for the arrest. That foundation included identifying a CD. The CD contained an audio recording made from the device all the officers here wear. I’ve transcribed a few of those. None of them bothered me, and I barely raised an eyebrow as I listened. Not this time.

As I listened to the recording (which, thankfully, I didn’t have to write as I listened), I was transported back to the 1980s. I could hear the language the “man” was screaming at his girlfriend. I can’t even type this well. In that moment I was that girl, and he was THAT man.

Unfortunately, regardless of the outcome of the suppression motion, the case went to trial, and I had to listen again. This time in front of a jury (one reason I keep my back to the jury). I had to listen and write the things the victim testified. My throat was dry. My heart beat a little harder. My palms were sweating. But I couldn’t leave. I had to maintain my composure. “I am a professional,” I kept telling myself silently in my head. Even after being found guilty, being sentenced to a rider, and ultimately returning from that rider, the man exuded such anger that I was afraid of him even when he was wearing shackles and cuffs and surrounded by court security. He’s not a very big guy. Just like my abuser had not been such a big guy.

I still remember things occasionally. Things I had forgotten. I honestly can’t remember much about those 14 years. I just remember that I wasn’t good enough, smart enough, pretty enough, or industrious enough. I only delivered “broken” children. This shouldn’t have surprised me. When I told my abuser that I was pregnant, when I was just 19 years old, he said, “Well, I guess we have to get married. I’m not gonna get you a ring or anything because it’s not like we love each other.”

Let me mention these thoughts:  In the years since my abuser left this earth, I have been told “He really loved you, you know.” I’ve been told once or twice about some time or another in which he showed someone else how he felt about me. I want to say that he NEVER told me he loved me. Never. He would tell others he loved me. He was all about looking good in the eyes of others. He barely touched me unless he was expecting sex or he was administering physical discipline while in a rage. Because my church at that time wasn’t really instructing the bishops how to counsel people in my situation, I was all alone. I was trying to do the right thing. Divorce was the wrong thing. I had been taught that. 

It took me a long time to have the courage to end it. And then, even after we were separated, even after I met the love of my life, and we were married and had two children together, he continued to abuse me in other ways. Our very last conversation over the phone was his screaming at me (I’m sure spittle was flying) as he blamed me for something that was clearly his own doing. One time just before that, my Darryl had to step out of the car and stand between me and my ex to protect me because my ex was inches from my face and screaming at me about something that, again, was his own fault. Darryl even had to push him away from both of us after the ex tried to shoved Darryl.

Let me assure you, anyone reading this who knew my ex, he was not a healthy man. I would imagine he had the ability to be a good man, but he was so impaired that I never saw that good man. Despite the things some of his children have convinced themselves, I remember that he physically abused each of them far worse than he did me.

I officially split because I had been threatened with having my children taken away. Some of them could not be saved, and it hurts my heart every single day when I see what those years of abuse have done to them. THAT is the one thing for which I have had to forgive myself. I should have left and never looked back that first time he laid a hand on one of our young children. But I didn’t. I hope that my kids will forgive me some day.

The reason I speak about this often is that this is part of my healing. I will need to keep doing this for the rest of my life, I’m sure. I no longer feel that I will ever be abused again. I admit it was a blessing to me when that threat was removed. I am sure I am currently being condemned by others for that feeling, but there it is.

I am a strong woman. I have a good man. He struggles with his own demons, but he accepts my efforts to nurture him. The truth is that he nurtures me every single waking minute. Together we have worked so hard to have the kind of love and friendship that makes up our marriage. Every single thing we do together feels like a date. Had I not known the horror of my previous life, I’m not sure I would have really appreciated what I have, but I sure do now.

I have forgiven myself. More important, though:  I have come to realize exactly what was going on and that it was NOT MY FAULT.