I'm cold. Not my hands. Not the tips of my ears. Not even my feet. I'm cold on the inside. I'm cold in a place that hot showers and heaters turned on full blast can't touch.
Yesterday I was forced to face a harsh truth of my past. It was a routine conversation with someone I have had many deep conversations with. I was sharing some memories of my past, and my friend was so plainly saddened and angered by what I had lived through. To me, it was just another conversation, not much emotional weight to it. I was somewhat taken aback at her reaction because it seems "normal" to me. It is a part of my history, something that I take for granted, an integral piece of "me". I usually don't think much about it, and probably didn't when I was living it either because it was a very painful, confusing, dream shattering time for me. I chose at the time, and apparently in the years since, to live in a sort of bubble, protecting myself from the real feelings that I'm sure I must have felt and still feel. I can talk about it like it's just another story, no big deal. But to my friend, it was so very obvious that what I went through was a very big deal, not only not "normal" but truly unhealthy and heartbreaking. I spent most of yesterday evening thinking about the conversation and trying to assimilate my friend's reactions. I didn't want to have to face the possibility that she was right. It left me speechless at how well I had convinced myself that my experience was "normal", how well I had walled myself off from dealing with it. I have spent most of today realizing that my friend is right, and coming to terms with the fact that I have been in denial for a very long time. Which means I have a lot of work to do (damn). I am sometimes surprised at how adept the human mind and heart can be at reframing and/or ignoring things that are right in front of them.
I had always thought of myself as mature for my age. In a lot of ways I was. But I also led a very sheltered childhood. There were many things I simply had not experienced. Because of this I was protected from many things but was also sometimes left unprepared and defenseless, very easily charmed, manipulated, and taken advantage of. When I started dating my husband I was still a little girl in so many ways. Only 21, still in college, I hadn't been single for more than a couple of months at a time since I was old enough to have a boyfriend. All I wanted was someone to love me, to take care of me and protect me, to comfort me. To laugh with me and grow with me, to experience life with me. To encourage me to be the best person I can be. To hold me when I fall asleep. And to let me, want me, need me to do all these things for him. Really, that's still all the little girl in me wants.
The best day of my marriage was my wedding day. It was the perfect day. I had a beautiful dress. Several people told me I looked like a princess, which was the point, and it made me glow. Most of my friends and family were there to celebrate with me. It was a lovely day. I was giddy. I was married! I was a wife!! I had a husband!!! Life was going to be grand.
I had such a perfect vision of what being married would be like. We'd go off to work in the mornings. We'd come home in the evenings, have dinner together and talk about our day. We'd go for a walk, watch TV or a movie, make love, fall asleep cuddled or holding hands. On weekends we'd go to the coast or to the city shopping. We'd do fun things, go places, visit family. On clear nights we'd lay on the grass and look at the stars. On rainy days we'd play games or put together puzzles, read books with the cat curled in our lap and then make love and take a nap. Such a beautiful, rose tinted life. This does not even come close to describing the real life of my marriage. Never once did I think marriage would mean being controlled and belittled and patronized. Made to feel stupid, worthless, unimportant. Ugly, useless, unwanted, unnecessary. Lonely. Sad. Angry. Powerless. Anxious. Hopeless. Weak. Impotent. Inferior. Scared. Crazy.
I was an abused wife. I hate those words. I hate thinking them. I hate typing them. I hate saying them. I hate admitting that they are true. It has taken me fifteen years to admit something that was immediately obvious to my friend. Fifteen loooong years to admit to myself. To acknowledge it, to say it out loud. Husband and I were together for seven years, married four of those years. I have been divorced almost eight. That's a lot of years living in denial, pretending that what happened was "normal", "ok", that the pain was all in my head, I was crazy, and that somehow the marriage would have been manageable had I been a better person, a better wife. I was aware while married that I was desperately unhappy, miserable, depressed, but had never labeled the situation abusive. I was never hit or pushed or slapped. My body was never bruised or battered, scarred or broken. My heart was. My soul. My mind. But never my body. I couldn't fit together my experience with the word "abuse". I had no bruises or scars or broken bones, no physical signs. How could I cry abuse? How could I call myself abused? So many women, so many children live with such abuse every day. I would have felt wrong and weak calling my marriage abusive. I never wanted to be a whiner, a victim. I never wanted to be THAT wife, that ex-wife. I still don't.
I hate myself that I put up with it. For so long. At all. Why did I marry this person who made me feel so awful about myself? I knew him for three whole years before I married him. What the heck was I thinking? I thought I was strong and smart. Maybe he was right after all.
Yesterday I was forced to face a harsh truth of my past. It was a routine conversation with someone I have had many deep conversations with. I was sharing some memories of my past, and my friend was so plainly saddened and angered by what I had lived through. To me, it was just another conversation, not much emotional weight to it. I was somewhat taken aback at her reaction because it seems "normal" to me. It is a part of my history, something that I take for granted, an integral piece of "me". I usually don't think much about it, and probably didn't when I was living it either because it was a very painful, confusing, dream shattering time for me. I chose at the time, and apparently in the years since, to live in a sort of bubble, protecting myself from the real feelings that I'm sure I must have felt and still feel. I can talk about it like it's just another story, no big deal. But to my friend, it was so very obvious that what I went through was a very big deal, not only not "normal" but truly unhealthy and heartbreaking. I spent most of yesterday evening thinking about the conversation and trying to assimilate my friend's reactions. I didn't want to have to face the possibility that she was right. It left me speechless at how well I had convinced myself that my experience was "normal", how well I had walled myself off from dealing with it. I have spent most of today realizing that my friend is right, and coming to terms with the fact that I have been in denial for a very long time. Which means I have a lot of work to do (damn). I am sometimes surprised at how adept the human mind and heart can be at reframing and/or ignoring things that are right in front of them.
I had always thought of myself as mature for my age. In a lot of ways I was. But I also led a very sheltered childhood. There were many things I simply had not experienced. Because of this I was protected from many things but was also sometimes left unprepared and defenseless, very easily charmed, manipulated, and taken advantage of. When I started dating my husband I was still a little girl in so many ways. Only 21, still in college, I hadn't been single for more than a couple of months at a time since I was old enough to have a boyfriend. All I wanted was someone to love me, to take care of me and protect me, to comfort me. To laugh with me and grow with me, to experience life with me. To encourage me to be the best person I can be. To hold me when I fall asleep. And to let me, want me, need me to do all these things for him. Really, that's still all the little girl in me wants.
The best day of my marriage was my wedding day. It was the perfect day. I had a beautiful dress. Several people told me I looked like a princess, which was the point, and it made me glow. Most of my friends and family were there to celebrate with me. It was a lovely day. I was giddy. I was married! I was a wife!! I had a husband!!! Life was going to be grand.
I had such a perfect vision of what being married would be like. We'd go off to work in the mornings. We'd come home in the evenings, have dinner together and talk about our day. We'd go for a walk, watch TV or a movie, make love, fall asleep cuddled or holding hands. On weekends we'd go to the coast or to the city shopping. We'd do fun things, go places, visit family. On clear nights we'd lay on the grass and look at the stars. On rainy days we'd play games or put together puzzles, read books with the cat curled in our lap and then make love and take a nap. Such a beautiful, rose tinted life. This does not even come close to describing the real life of my marriage. Never once did I think marriage would mean being controlled and belittled and patronized. Made to feel stupid, worthless, unimportant. Ugly, useless, unwanted, unnecessary. Lonely. Sad. Angry. Powerless. Anxious. Hopeless. Weak. Impotent. Inferior. Scared. Crazy.
I was an abused wife. I hate those words. I hate thinking them. I hate typing them. I hate saying them. I hate admitting that they are true. It has taken me fifteen years to admit something that was immediately obvious to my friend. Fifteen loooong years to admit to myself. To acknowledge it, to say it out loud. Husband and I were together for seven years, married four of those years. I have been divorced almost eight. That's a lot of years living in denial, pretending that what happened was "normal", "ok", that the pain was all in my head, I was crazy, and that somehow the marriage would have been manageable had I been a better person, a better wife. I was aware while married that I was desperately unhappy, miserable, depressed, but had never labeled the situation abusive. I was never hit or pushed or slapped. My body was never bruised or battered, scarred or broken. My heart was. My soul. My mind. But never my body. I couldn't fit together my experience with the word "abuse". I had no bruises or scars or broken bones, no physical signs. How could I cry abuse? How could I call myself abused? So many women, so many children live with such abuse every day. I would have felt wrong and weak calling my marriage abusive. I never wanted to be a whiner, a victim. I never wanted to be THAT wife, that ex-wife. I still don't.
I hate myself that I put up with it. For so long. At all. Why did I marry this person who made me feel so awful about myself? I knew him for three whole years before I married him. What the heck was I thinking? I thought I was strong and smart. Maybe he was right after all.
He was NOT RIGHT!!!! He manipulated and tricked you. Even strong and smart people can be taken in by a master-look at Hitler, Jim Jones, etc. If you weren't strong and capable you would still be in that relationship. Because you are strong and smart you figured it out and got out. You actually figured it out way early but denied what you knew. You need to give yourself credit for ending it and moving on. You are making a great life for yourself. That is the best revenge you can have as it takes all his power away.
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