I Am The Face of Domestic Abuse

November is Domestic Violence Month here at Band Back Together.

If you’d like, please share your stories of domestic violence

to remind each of us that we are none of us alone.

None of us.

My ex-husband doesn't intend to hurt anyone. He actually goes out of his way to demonstrate to everyone what a great person he is.  He professes to have hippie ideals and an open mind.  And for a long time I believed the things he told me about himself...in fact, I held on so long to the idea that this man was dedicated to loving everyone and doing good in the world that I could not acknowledge the damage he was doing to me.

It started with jealousy.

We were teens and dating long-distance, so it seemed natural that he would get upset if I was late to our regularly scheduled chat (every night from 8pm until 10pm) or if I had to miss it for one reason or another.  That was our time together - the only time we got to talk since we lived thousands of miles apart.  That time was sacred.  It was selfish for me to put my friends or family members ahead of  'our time.'  And if we weren't talking, he was left to wonder where I was, what I was doing, and why I wasn't there to tell him how much I loved him.

Professions of love were important and I tried not to forget to remind him that he was the love of my life. The mere mention of previous relationships would create an explosion of derisive questions about why I didn't wait for him and what was going on in my mind at the time. Why didn't I have the foresight to think about how my future partner would feel about me having relations with someone else?  It hurt him deeply and made him question whether I really did love him. How could he really know that the love I professed for him was unlike no other?  HE had waited for ME - for his one true love - so why wasn't I more patient?  I had to pretend that I'd never been with anyone else or that it was a lapse in judgment and in fact I did not even remember it.

Being that we were teenagers and had a long-distance relationship, I thought these issues would pass as he matured.

Instead they got worse.

Once we were married, things became even more about him. He was unhappy living in my mother's converted garage, so we got our own place, despite the fact that it was beyond our means and meant I could no longer afford to attend college classes. A year later, the town we lived in was the problem so we moved to a suburb outside of San Francisco. That worked for a while, but after a year it lost its charm, although it supposedly had nothing to do with his frequent joblessness (it crushed his soul to work in a job he didn't enjoy) and failing college grades (which were the teachers' fault)...so around year two in the Bay Area, we moved again to the "perfect place" -  a town much closer to the city.

He began to chip away at me.

He made it sound like a joke, but no longer was I a white girl with brown hair - girls of a different ethnicity were exotic and much more attractive - he would swear that I was black with red hair. He made attempts to correct my west coast accent - I pronounced mayonnaise incorrectly, among other things. We no longer listened to music I liked - if something I liked was on and he didn't approve, he would mockingly sing over it about how awful the song was. It was just easier to listen to his music.

The insults started, although they weren't overt - when I asked him to refrain from constantly trying to 'educate' me about the environment, he said I was just like George W. Bush (coming from an environmentalist, this was a terrible insult). How could I not want to learn more about the trees we drive past every single day (every time we drove past them)? Didn't I believe in him and his career path? Why wasn't I being supportive? Why wasn't I on his side?

Then we needed to move again. There was only ONE place he could go to college and that place was five hours away from everyone we knew. I suggested alternatives - a degree not quite so specific or maybe I could stay in the Bay Area and we could do the long-distance thing again. No alternative was suitable, and in the end I relented - I lost all the arguments anyway since he viewed compromise as losing. I put in my notice at work and we made plans to move. I had panic attacks constantly but it was clear our relationship wouldn't survive if I didn't move with him.

It seemed like it took forever to settle in and find jobs in the new town. Despite my experience, I was back to making barely over minimum wage and he couldn't find a job at all. The isolation was unbearable. Eventually there were friends, but they were all his friends - befriending his friends was better than being alone. Besides, if I tried to refuse an invitation to a social obligation (even if I was sick) I was not giving people a chance and I was just like my (abusive) grandmother (whom I loathe more than anything).

I drank to deal with stress and isolation. Sex was his answer to the stress. Our entire life began to revolve around sex. I started hiding while dressing to avoid being groped. I began to avoid physical contact because a simple kiss was seen as an invitation to sex. If I protested at all, I became the awful person controlling his sex life, denying him at every turn. He couldn't feel loved if we didn't have sex - how could I make him live like that for the rest of his life? How could I have tricked him into that - we used to have sex all the time before we were married but NOW I was going to change it up? That was a bait and switch!  What had happened to the sixteen year old girl he fell in love with?

It got worse when we had a child. After a long induced labor and a (likely) broken tailbone, it took me a long time to recover enough to be able to sit on less than three pillows. I sank into depression as I realized I was suddenly responsible for both an infant and the grown up baby I was married to (he couldn't cook, didn't "know how" to do laundry, and the house would be filled with ants and fruit flies before garbage would be taken out).

I attempted to set boundaries with my postpartum body and he responded with derisive questions and remarks. When did other women start having sex again after childbirth? Maybe there was something wrong with me. Maybe I could get medication to help with my lack of sex drive. Maybe I should drink more - drinking loosened me up. I should stop telling myself I wouldn't like it. And, well, if the traditional way didn't work out, we could go with the back door. Oh, I didn't feel comfortable with that? No worries, he would just slip out and then "accidentally" switch directions...except accidents became routine and asking for forgiveness was easier than asking for permission. The sobbing afterward was worth the orgasm, it seemed.

And then there was the time I woke up in the middle of the night to find myself engaged in sex while having a completely different dream. He didn't understand the resulting panic attack - after all, I started it. In my sleep. Despite being KNOWN for sleeping like the dead (he frequently checked to see if I was still breathing). I couldn't be sure what had happened, so I set aside my feelings of being violated and tried to move on.

And, of course, there were always the ladies in waiting...he very bluntly told me who he would pursue if we weren't together, including one of my best friends.

One transgression led to another, but with enough time and subtlety between incidents, it didn't occur to me that I was becoming trapped in an emotional maze. He never hit me and sexual consent wasn't outright ignored. If I said no to sex, he said we could just kiss. Then the kiss turned into touching me. When I would protest, he assured me it wouldn't go further...but it always did. It became a matter of whether I would rather have sex for 20 minutes and get it over with or be subjected to guilt trips and accusations of sexual dysfunction in every argument for the rest of our lives. Much of the time, I chose the sex to avoid another argument. My fatigue was my downfall.

It was the smallest thing that made me realize that my marriage was working for only one of us.

I got food poisoning and he decided to go hiking with Lady in Waiting #2. A friend left work early to bring me medication and a milkshake. My friend played guitar until I fell into an exhausted sleep. It was the nicest thing that had ever been done for me by far and I wondered why I wasn't with someone who would take care of me sometimes.

When he got the urge to uproot us again, I took a stand. I decided it was my turn to choose where we were going to live. I quickly found a job and a place for us to live.  We headed back to the Bay Area, a place where we had family support so I would no longer be isolated and could have access to therapy. Our marriage didn't last a year past that.

I still struggle with calling my experience abuse. Every year since the divorce I've worked to heal the emotional damage done to me in those twelve years with my ex. I try to remember that I don't need to apologize for having desires or a libido that differs from my partner's. It's taken me time (and a patient partner) to learn that intimacy can be achieved without intercourse, that a kiss can be just a kiss, and that I can actually enjoy sex.

Most of the time I know now - despite professions that he is a concerned environmentalist, a philanthropist, a good citizen - that my ex is only concerned about himself and how the world and other people can satisfy his narcissism.

Domestic abuse can be subtle. It might leave no visible marks. Your abuser can convince you that you are at fault. Sometimes, your abuser has no conscious intention of harming you. Still, it's abuse and you don't deserve it. Your feelings are ALWAYS as important as your partner's.

Abuse - physical, emotional, economic, sexual or otherwise - is never EVER okay.

November is Domestic Violence Month here at Band Back Together. If you'd like, please share your stories of domestic violence to remind each of us that we are none of us alone.

None of us.

He only shoved me once.

It was on our first anniversary. We had been drinking, celebrating at an inn on the Columbia River. I was naked, wrapped in the bed's comforter and dying to go outside. It was dark, no one would see us. It was the kind of thing we'd done before we were married.

He had different expectations of me after we married. Or, in his view, after I became "HIS wife." Suddenly it wasn't okay that I didn't cook. Suddenly I didn't look good in pants. Suddenly I was socially awkward. Suddenly people didn't like me. Suddenly I was too obsessed with my graduate school classes. Suddenly I could only follow his lead.

None of this was explicitly stated, of course. We were feminists; flannel wearing Pacific North-Westerners who went to brew pubs and read the alternative paper. Being young, in love and a little screwed in the head, well, I didn't see the expectations as rules. I saw myself making my husband happy. I saw myself trusting my husband's opinions. I saw myself making sacrifices for looooooove.

I'd like to say that that night changed things. That after he shoved me because I had the audacity to try to go outside even though he didn't want to, I realized what a controlling jerk he was. That lying to everyone about how I'd sprained my wrist made me see that something was wrong.

But instead it just made me scared. Scared that he would leave me because I was "so wild." Scared that he'd shove me again. Scared that anyone I knew would suspect. Scared that I could make him so mad that he'd "resort to getting physical." He had me so confused and insecure by the time he shoved me, I was absolutely positive that it was my fault.

Surely no guy who cried over the plight of starving children in Africa, who worked for Greenpeace, who thought women should be running the country - surely that guy couldn't be abusive. I was out of control, I was a bitch, I had to fix myself - even though I didn't feel broken.

I tried. I tried so hard and my stress level got so high that I had my first ulcerative colitis flare. The steroids I needed to fix that, plus my natural inclination to eat when unhappy, caused me to gain a lot of weight. His put-downs got more overt, his attitude became nastier, and our physical intimacy always had a mean edge to it.  He suggested I needed therapy so that I could lose weight and "stop being so whiny" about my lifelong autoimmune disease.

His sending me to therapy just proves how deluded he was. He really thought that therapy would make me better at meeting his expectations. I never even told the therapist about the shove or all the times he would keep me trapped in a room until I agreed with him. I didn't have to.

It took a few months before I realized that his expectations were bullshit. Suddenly I grew less afraid of the anger and the threats. He suggested a separation. We'd been married just over 3 and a half years at that point. He was still so sure of himself and so sure of my incompetence that he offered me my freedom, thinking to terrify me.

The separation would commence, he said, when we moved to Kansas City so he could go to graduate school and I could teach. I'd never lived alone. I knew no one in Kansas City - wasn't even due to start my job until 3 weeks after we got there.

I said that if I lived alone for any amount of time, I'd never be able to live with him again. If we separated, that was it. I said that I took my vows seriously, that I thought we should try marriage counseling in Kansas City. He said I was the one with the problems and that I'd fall apart on my own. We separated.

It was just like removing the splint from my wrist - suddenly there was so much freedom, suddenly I was capable again. Suddenly I could use all parts of myself again.

Our divorce was final a year later.

In celebration of our one year anniversary, we’re working to highlight other sites around the Internet that are Doing Good. Every Tuesday at noon (central time, yo), we’re bringing you a story of why someone else chooses to devote their time Doing Good.

You know our beginnings. Now it’s time to see theirs.

I’d like to introduce you to Kristin from Wanderlust and Speak Out. Kristin came to us and asked if we would be interested in being the designated charity for Speak Out, an event this Friday (Nov. 18) to bring awareness to domestic violence.

What Kristin is doing is amazing and also very humbling to us. We're beyond honored to be a part of this day.

But this is not my story to tell, it’s hers. Welcome to The Band, Kristin!

I can remember it like it was yesterday. Sitting huddled on the bathroom floor, cradling my crying children, listening to the 911 operator tell me to take deep breaths, repeat myself, that help was on the way. I didn’t know if he was still in the house. The bathroom door was locked, though the top had been shattered by his fists. I heard a loud knock on the door downstairs. “They’re here,” the operator told me, “the police are at your front door.”

Every abusive relationship has a pivotal moment. A moment when you stop making excuses for your partner’s behavior and see it for what it really is: abuse. For me, that moment arrived in August of last year when I was assaulted in my home.

Two weeks later my husband came under criminal investigation for child pornography and was prohibited from having any contact with me or the children. Fourteen months later, the investigation is still ongoing. For fourteen months, I have locked the doors at night, set the alarm and slept lightly.

When I started talking about all of this on my blog I was stunned at the number of women who wrote me and said they, too, had lived with abuse. Scores and scores of women. A few were still in the thick of it. Why are there so many of us, I wondered? How come no one talks about this?

Well, on Friday, November 18^th there will be a whole lot of people talking about it. Together with Blogcatalog, I have created a social media campaign called Speak Out. In an effort to raise awareness about domestic violence (DV) and encourage those living with abuse to speak up and seek help, bloggers and other social networkers will be posting about DV.

When I spoke out on my blog I was overwhelmed and comforted by the amount of support that poured in. When I spoke out, I became firmer in my resolve to build a healthier life for me and my kids and to never, ever again tolerate abuse. When I spoke out, I found myself again.

If you take anything from my story, let it be this. Everyone, everyone, deserves to live free of violence, abuse and coercion. Everyone deserves to feel safe in their own home. Everyone has the right to surround themselves with people who will reflect back upon them love, kindness and support. If you are living in fear of your partner, you owe it to yourself and your children to seek help now.

Do you see that donate widget in the sidebar?

As part of Speak Out, we are raising funds for Band Back Together, which is wholly run by volunteers and donations, so that you and others will have a safe space on their internet to tell your stories. Would you consider throwing a few dollars their way?

I hope you will join us on Friday and put up your own post as part of the Speak Out campaign. If you’re not a blogger, you can tweet or Facebook your message. Even if it’s just one or two sentences, it needs to be heard.

Just one voice in the darkness carries great power. But together, we can change the world.

You can follow Kristin on Twitter, Facebook or on her site.

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If you have found this site because you are scared and feel so alone, please remember we are none of us alone. One in every four women will suffer domestic abuse in her lifetime. On this site alone, you will see so many survival stories. You too can survive. Never, ever give up hope. We are here if you need us to listen and support you. We are all survivors of something. You too, will survive.

Call 911 for all emergencies.

The National Domestic Violence Hotline: 1.800.799.SAFE (7233)

A State By State Directory of Resources for Battered Women

 

November is Domestic Violence Month here at Band Back Together.

If you’d like, please share your stories of domestic violence

to remind each of us that we are none of us alone.

None of us.

It seems like no matter where I go, my past is there to haunt me.

This is the first time I've written about my past like this, and I'm not going to go into detail. I'm just going to tell you how it is affecting my present and possibly my future.

I suffered through 4 months of physical abuse when I was 14 by a boy my parents loved - the good Christian boy everyone adored. A man who got angry when I refused sexual activities with him and got off by strangling me until I saw stars.

Years later, I was sexually abused for 9 months, convinced that I deserved everything that happened to me. I deserved to be forced to pleasure him because I messed up. It was my punishment.

Now I am in a relationship with a wonderful man, though sometimes it feels like our gender roles are reversed.

Last night he got so very angry at me. He was shaking, looked like he was about to scream, and he couldn't breathe properly. I was absolutely terrified. I ran downstairs into our living room, looking for my roommate to help me. My boyfriend, angry at himself and me at this point, packed his bags and told me he was leaving. He then asked me if I planned on stopping him. I just sat on the couch, curled in a ball, shaking. I said nothing.

As he left, he punched his car and bruised his hands. I was overcome with fear that he would get hurt driving away. I got my room mate again and begged him to go outside and stop him from driving away angry, to stop him from getting hurt because of me.

Minutes later, both of them came back inside. I wouldn't let my boyfriend touch me. I was so scared, even though I knew he would never hurt me physically. Every fiber of my being knows that, but I wouldn't let him touch me.

He yelled at me, calling me a bad girlfriend, and told me that if I truly loved him I would kiss him and hold him, not be afraid of him. He went upstairs, and I slept on the couch with my college friend sitting on the floor next to me, talking and comforting me until 7AM.

All of this could have been avoided if I could let go of my past, if I wouldn't let it affect me this way years later.

Why can't I let go?

I may have lost an amazing man because I can't forget, and I can't ignore my fears.

What's wrong with me? I'm scared that I'll never allow myself to be happy.