Telling About Abuse

About Telling

People who have been, or are being abused have a strong need to tell what has happened to them, and often, also, a strong need not to tell. This blog is a way to do both. Those who share their stories here do so anonymously. Names and certain details have been changed to protect their privacy.

No one knows their true identity except me, unless they choose to share the information.

I’ve been studying abuse, particularly subtle emotional abuse, for several years. This site is a special project of mine to help spread understanding about the true nature of abuse and what it does to victims and their family members. It is also here as a witness to the courage and strength of those who have escaped the abuser(s) in their lives and rebuilt and restored themselves.

I hope everyone who reads what is written here will be wiser, more resourceful, and kinder as a result. And, that they will work to make abuse a thing of the past rather than a thing of the future--which is what it will be unless all who are abuse participants or observers take responsible and effective action to end it here and now.

Pat Gundry

Diane: I Did Not Know

First of all, thank you Pat for creating a place where we can tell our stories. I’ve wanted to tell mine for a long, long time. A few people know part of my story, no one has known it all.

I’m going to call my husband Harold, and Hal. It’s not his name, and mine isn’t Diane either, but those are the names I’ll be using for us.

I met my husband-to-be in college. We’d both gone to different schools for our first year and had transferred to the same mid sized religious college in Oregon for our second.

During the winter semester we found ourselves studying in the small library at the same time, began to have discussions about one thing and another during breaks, and formed a friendship that grew closer over the next few months.

One of the things I liked about him was that he related to me as an intellectual equal and answered my questions straightforwardly. He didn’t play games with me, or talk down, or put me down. Eventually, we began to date, casually, things like accompaning each other shopping and running together.

Looking back later, when I was so puzzled by his behavior after we got married, I can only see a few hints of what was to come. I could not have recognized them at the time for what they were, indicators of the man hidden beneath all the good things I saw in him.

He began to change, almost imperceptably, a few weeks before our wedding. He was slightly morose, looking on the dark side of things, seeming insecure and almost dependent, and yet domineering too, in little things. But, I thought this was just a guy who was a bit overwhelmed with getting married, making our small apartment ready to live in, having car trouble, and working long hours, etc. But, it wasn’t that. It was a shift into the new person I worke up to after the honeymoon.

It was as though he’d changed into someone who looked like him--no, often his whole look changed too. He looked like someone related to the person I married, but not him.

I didn’t know what was wrong. I only knew that I felt increasing presssure and stress, and like escaping, like running and not stopping. I wanted to throw a book through the big window in the apartment, and then another and another, and then the bookcase and furniture. I’d never felt that way before. I thought, What is happening to me!? I felt like I was being robbed of my own life, of my self, my identity, that I was being taken over, and that I had no real choices of my own anymore, and the terrible feeling of being trapped. But I didn’t know how it was happening.

It took me years to find in a book a description of what had happened. It had a section about what the author called a “punisher,” what we now know as someone who engages in abuse.

At that point, it was mostly emotional and psychological abuse. There were physical elements, but they were all “accidental,” and minor. He’d leave doors half open in the dark, and I’d run into them. Drawers would be left open where I’d bump into them. He’d thrash about in his sleep and hit me with an elbow, or a hand or foot. All of these, he was sorry for, he said, but they kept on happening.

Diane: After The Honeymoon

I was puzzled by the changes in Hal after we married. But, I’d heard repeatedly that it takes time to get used to being married, that adjustment time is reasonable. I thought it could all be worked out, that we could talk about any problems, come to reasonable conclusions and find solutions. He’d been so reasonable, so logical, so respectful of my own thinking before I married him. I had no reason to doubt that it would continue.

But, it was different now, he was suspicious of my motives when I wanted to talk about something personal between us. There was a subtle shift, to the effect that he felt he had to protect himself from me, that I was an adversary. It seemed that nothing was ever actually settled in our discussions. He’d agree to something, after a long debate about it, but he’d not change what he was doing, or if he did, he’d simply find a new way to do essentially the same thing.

He’d make me late, but insist it was me who was always tardy, and that it was inconsiderate and embarrassing to him for us to show up late. Then he’d punish me in some way for making him late. The punishment could be anything from forgetting something important to me, accidentally trashing something of mine, a thousand variations. I didn’t connect, at first, what would happen afterward as punishment, but realized eventually, that that’s what was happening.

The way he’d make me late would be to remind me repeatedly about what time we needed to leave, then, at the last minute, or near it, suddenly ask me to do something for him or take care of something in the house like close the windows. He’d distract me, and then quickly add something for me to do. Because I didn’t know what he was up to, and because I’m a courteous and helpful person, I’d do it. When I figured out what was happening, I confronted him. At first he denied it, was shocked that I’d even suggest such a thing. But, I persisted and proved it. He then admitted, yes he did that. He was so sorry, he had no excuse, didn’t know why he did it, must have been his bad upbringing. I think that was the first one of the cyclical abuse, deny, repent, promise, and then begin all over again sequences I later learned is one of the central identifying features of abuse.

He was emotionally unavailable most of the time. He’d also switch from one personality to another within moments. He could go from acting childlike in a cuteish manner if he wanted something from me or mildly didn’t like something, to being a cold, frozen faced and totally unapproachable robot if he didn’t like my response, or seemingly for no reason at all. He might leave the house as one personality and come back as a different one.

One of the things I found particularly unsettling and unsatisfying was that he’d routinely turn off and on with me. That is, he’d turn from me to his book or his work like turning off a light. I was just not there to him. He’d actually ration time for talking with me, stopping what he was doing and saying, “I can talk with you for thirty minutes now.” At the end of the time, he’d turn away, go back to what he was doing as though I did not exist. No working together and conversing as we worked, little casual interaction during the evenings or on weekends. Every part of his life, I was finding, was planned, and executed to plan.

Because I’m a spontaneous person who doesn’t plan her day that way, I’d not have a ready answer when he’d ask me “What are you going to do today?” I’d give some vague answer, or say, “I don’t know,” not being accustomed to being asked that sort of question.

He would then take that as an indication that my day was his to plan, and he’d make “suggestions.” Those suggestions were my marching orders for the day. If I didn’t find that satisfying, he’d then become hurt, or impatient, or accuse me of not wanting to be cooperative. Then, he’d either pout, with some form of disagreeable experience awaiting me later, or he’d try to argue me into doing what he wanted me to.

Before going to a social event he’d suggest to me what to say and not say, how to behave, and recap it and correct me afterward. I was not someone who needed such advice. If anything, I was more socially adept than he was and less likely to commit a faux pas. But, this had the effect of making me feel like I was somehow not quite up to the mark, inadequate, gauche, flawed, an outsider in an area I’d not felt like an outsider before, among my friends and acquaintances and in new social situations.

Outings, recreations, entertainment's, visits from guests, tended to go wrong somehow. Something would happen to spoil it, or diminish it, more often than not. He’d be offended by something I’d supposedly done or not done, or he’d try to embarrass me, or do something “accidentally” that inconvenienced me, or forget to do something essential that he’d said he’d do, or do it in a way that ruined it, or in some way took the edge off the pleasure. Or he’d just not “be there,” he’d be emotionally flat and distant.

You’d think that all this would have been obvious to me, the way I’m laying it out now. But, it wasn’t. It was in hindsight that I put all the pieces together. There were some good times too. I thought he was just inept, and had a few rough edges. I’d gone to school with him, I knew he was a capable and intelligent person. I’d seen him with other people’s children, I was sure he’d be a great father. I was married for life. We’d work it all out, I’d find some way to do it. I’d never even heard the term “abuse” and the identification of a habitual “punisher” that I read about later was years of searching beyond me at this point. I was full of hope and determination. I’d learn more, and then we’d fix those little things that weren’t working.

Sarjenka: The Turning Point

Rather than beginning in the beginning, I will begin
at a place that was the beginning of the end - the
end of my abuse legacy, the beginning of my healing.

A number of years ago, a newly-made feminist, I just
had made some very interesting discoveries about my
faith. One of those discoveries was the feminine
imagery of God. God was like a mother, the Scriptures
said, nourishing us, birthing us, crying out in labor.
Jesus himself had maternal qualities, longing to
gather His people under His wings as the hen gathers
her chicks.

It was supposed to excite me and make me feel good.

It disgusted me.

I was beginning to dislike God. Most remarkably, I was
beginning to dislike Jesus. I was beginning to see
Jesus as manipulative, self-pitying, threatening and
pushing my buttons, just like my mother.

Suddenly, I realized that I hated, loathed, detested
everything that had to do with motherhood. The posters
promoting the benefits breastfeeding made me feel
physically ill. If God was a "Mother" (even a little
bit), I wanted to have nothing to do with God.

I made an appointment with a pastor of a friend's
church at that time. He listened quietly as I spilled
my story to him. I told him everything. He listened,
without saying a word. He listened to me saying how
much I hated everything that had to do with
motherhood, and how much it all made me physically
sick. I told him I did not like my mother (an anathema
in Christian circles).

Finally he spoke. His first words to me were, "I am
not surprised at all . You
were abused."

I exploded in anger. "You people in the western
culture are always whining about abuse! Everybody is
crying abuse all the time, no matter what happens, no
matter how minor it is."

He backed down. "Okay, let's not call it that," he
conceded. "Can we, at least say that it wasn't
acceptable behavior?"

I nodded, choking on my tears.

He spoke to me. He told me that God is not like that.
That Jesus does not say to us, "go do what I say, or
else I will hurt myself/die on the cross." He spoke
some more, imparting a feeling of grace and acceptance
to me. I wasn't judged for my feelings. I was told
that it is okay to be angry and to feel hurt - and
that it doesn't mean that I am 'unforgiving'. I was
also told that it is okay for me not to like my
mother, or have any warm feelings towards her.

"You won't tell anyone what I told you?" I asked as I
was leaving.

He shook his head with a smile. "Yeah, I will tell
everyone about Sarjenka and her terrible crack habit."

We chuckled. He placed his hand on my shoulder as he
was seeing me out and said simply, "You are beloved of
God". The grace of that moment was overwhelming.

I chose that day to be a turning point in my
reconstruction of myself.

Shannon: Telling

The first time I told, I was really telling something else. I was desperately trying to save my marriage from another problem, and seeking the advice of a friend. The friend said I must confront the problem, and I said I was afraid he would hurt me. I simply stated it as a matter of fact. I didn't guess that my friend would see that as a far bigger issue than the other. It was something I had accepted as normal.

The next time I told, it was 5 a.m. I had stayed awake all night, my eyes wide, my heart pounding. There was no chance I would fall asleep. My abuser lay snoring soundly, contented now that he had resolved his angry feelings by giving them all to me. I tried to wait until a decent hour, but I didn't dare wait too long, lest he wake up early. At 5 a.m. I called my pastor. This time I made a plea for help. I knew now that the hitting was the biggest problem. I no longer accepted it as normal. But I viewed it as a relationship problem. I made sure to acknowledge that "I am not perfect, either." And the next day as we sat in counseling, I presented my case as if it were a deposition. Accuracy was paramount, and I was willing to say that my words were my "perceptions," not truth.

Later, I continued telling. When I told my parents, I was careful to point out my own inadequacies, faults and problems. When my abuser told my grandmother "We have a mutually abusive relationship," I did not argue.

I told my story to a counselor, in very careful, precise, accurate detail. I wrote it down so I wouldn't forget anything. He said that my desire for security came from the fact that God created Eve inside the garden, and my abuser's desire for adventure (e.g. hitting his wife) was because God created Adam outside the garden. When my abuser kidnapped the children and threatened to shoot them, my counselor told me, "Don't do anything drastic."

I told a lawyer, who advised me that only divorce would allow me to adequately protect my children.

I told a judge, who issued an order of protection.

But I didn't tell the judge who issued my divorce. I told that judge only what my abuser told me to say. I was just grateful to get out alive.

I never told a police officer. I never filed a report. It never occured to me. I guess it never occured to the counselor or the lawyer, either.

I told my story to a divorce support group, and walked out when the leader responded that, "Divorce is a sin. But it can be forgiven."

Now I am telling again. This is not a deposition, so I won't be laying it all out in careful, precise, chronological detail. I will strive to get at the deep truth, to convey what is at the heart. I won't be seeking a judgment. I won't qualify my telling with confessions of not being perfect, as if a perfect person would never be abused.

I am telling so that you may hear.

I am telling so that you may understand.

Or not.

Shannon: The Man Who Abused Me

The man who abused me said I provoked him to it. I wonder who is provoking him now?

The man who abused me said I was not a wife. The next day he gave me a plaque proclaiming that I was the best wife in the world. He didn't understand why I didn't want to hang it on the wall. I wonder if it is still on that wall?

The man who abused me said he taught me everything I knew about raising children. It is true he taught me much. He taught me that adults are more important than children. He taught me that children wet their pants on purpose, and can always hear you calling them even if they say they didn't. He taught me that children should always obey the very first time, and should never ask why or "talk back." Do you think my children are happy that I have now learned a few things he didn't teach me?

The man who abused me said that I was a rebellious wife. I didn't think I was rebellious when I couldn't finish the laundry on time. I didn't think it was rebellious to talk to his male friends, in his presence, about subjects like prayer and evangelism. I didn't think I was rebellious when I wanted to pay the bills. I didn't think it was my rebellion that caused him to wreck the truck when I motioned for him to stop and he didn't stop because he couldn't see me motioning. I thought he should have told me to stand in another place BEFORE he started backing up. But isn't that is just what a rebellious wife would say?

The man who abused me said I was becoming more rebellious all the time. I decided to fulfill his prophecy. I rebelled against being slapped, choked and dragged through the house. I rebelled against name-calling and sex on demand. I rebelled by telling people what was happening in our house. I rebelled by not pretending that everything was okay. I rebelled by telling our children that it wasn't okay for a man to strike his wife. I rebelled by putting only my name on the new car title. I rebelled by moving into the little house we had just bought, and telling him he wasn't welcome there. I went so far in my rebellion, that I actually got a court order to prevent him from hitting, harassing or threatening me. Then I filed for divorce. Now he cannot say he has a rebellious wife, can he?

Gwen: I Didn't Start the Fire

At first it was unclear to me exactly why I didn't tell for so long. But as my world crumbled around me, a new world was being built: one of truth and love, free from abuse. With the telling came a destruction of perceived reality and the building of true reality which would only grow stronger.

My telling didn't begin by my own work; it began at the hands of my abuser. It certainly was not his intention to reveal that his "dearest" wife was daily used for emotional target practice, but still he did. It was also the farthest thing from my mind to consider that his treatment of me was even wrong and that I might have some recourse against it. Years before I had steeled myself against the harsh perception that I was destined to remain forever bound to the maniac who called himself my husband. So when the day came that I was unable to find a suitable excuse for his outright abuse, I was terrified. How was I to maintain the image of marital peace when I was now being treated the same way in front of others as I was at home? How was I to defend his actions when others were now witnessing the very behavior?

It had been "comfortable" to be abused in the privacy of my own home. No one else saw it, I didn't have to make excuses, and once I left the doors of my home I began the play-acting that I called my life. Because there were never any bruises, it was not too difficult to hide. Being in a new city among people who never knew "me" before, made it easy for my abuse to avoid notice. For them, the absence of bruises meant the absence of any cruelty. They never saw the inside, however. They never saw the disappearance of hobbies, interests, skills, gifts, talents, or other little joys because they had nothing with which to compare me. To them, the real "me" was the one being created in our home, changing ever so slightly each day until I became the person the abuser wanted me to become.

Because of these facts, the telling was only believed by those who knew the original "me" and could recognize the changes. It was those Precious Others who made it possible for me (both the old and new) to begin telling. Once it started I found it impossible to stop. Of course, I still qualified everything, taking as much blame as possible, downplaying the abuse as if I could somehow redeem it. Thankfully those I was telling could quickly recognize when it was the old me or the new who was speaking. Until I was able to make the decision to flee, they helped to slowly strip away the new me, peeling back the layers of protective deceit and false happiness until they found the person they once knew. The real me.

Once I saw the difference in all of its raw glory, the telling spread from those Precious Others to a pastor and some friends. It was their involvement that began the escalation of the abuse and the eventual necessity of my leaving.

So I didn't start the fire (of telling), but I didn't put it out, either. It was that fire that lit the path that led me home.

Gwen: But He Repented

In Christian circles, it is often believed that repentance means there should be no consequences. This is never stated, but for all practical purposes, it is a belief held quite tenaciously. It is also commonly believed in Christian circles, that because a person says he has repented, it must be true. And if that person can then perform his “repentance” in front of others, all the better for his story.

It is when some other person takes this repentance and exposes it for the falsehood that it is, that the uproar begins. No one wants to believe that a man who mourns his condition, apologizes fiercely for his sin, and weeps over the loss of his family has some ulterior motive. Likewise, no one wants to believe the wife who challenges his sincerity and does not immediately obey his command to return.

Something happens, though, when abuse occurs. More than the just physical or emotional maiming of a life, there is the destruction of a relationship that may never be restored. When a man so abuses his wife that she flees and does not even miss the man that she fled, he has caused more damage than the naked eye can see. The common Christian counselors miss it (or ignore it) because they are only looking for change. At the first glimpse of brokenness or sorrow over sin, they jump all over it, inwardly touting their own skill at helping others. For some reason they are never taught that their subjects may be performing a great drama in their office, and returning home to further abuse the family. For the wife who sees this, she feels utterly alone and helpless to do anything. Attempts at revealing the true nature of her husband only cause the counselor to believe she is bitter and hard. And when that wife becomes convinced that the marriage is dissolved, she is in sin and the Bible is used as a weapon to bludgeon her with guilt.

For those who have not experienced this, it is often very hard for them to understand why an abused wife would not return to her repentant husband. Does she not love him? Does she not care about her husband and children? It is somehow not possible for them to view the intricacies of their own marriage and recognize the damage that is caused to all areas when even one is violated. She is supposed to want and desire to immediately return to him, resume physical intimacy with him, and proceed as if nothing ever happened. But for the woman who has had her self stripped barren of all dignity and value, that may never be possible.

I have been, am, and forever will be this woman. While I am not still removed of my me-ness, I am considered by many to be the one in sin, unrepentant, unjustified, unbiblical, and with a seared conscience, unable to acknowledge conviction of sin. What these accusers are unwilling to recognize, is that I am also the one who was told by her “repentant” husband, that she would be better off dead than separated from him. I was told that the children and I should be cast out on the street without any resources. We would then be faced with our need for him and would happily return. My situation was likened to that of a prodigal child and an unwed mother depending on her parents. Yet I was expected to desire a reunion with this man. It became a sin for me to allow the natural consequences of abuse to run their course. Because he was able to produce tears on demand, his acts toward his wife and children were ignored and the attention turned toward his rebellious wife.

While I could ramble on and on about the inconsistencies of so-called Christian counselors and their unwillingness to really see truth, there is more of my story to be told. Through it all there is likely to be a thread of frustration that therapists are not more informed and open-minded. The reader will also notice the reality that just because my husband claimed repentance, the desire for reconciliation is absolutely non-existent. When my entire personality was violated, so was the marriage covenant. My refusal to return is the natural ramification of a broken vow.

It is my hope that someday there will be more understanding in “Christian circles” for wives who feel abuse to protect themselves and their children. Someday I hope they will be seen as whole people who truly hold marriage in highest esteem and in so doing will not submit to its abuse.

Shannon: Simile

Living with an abuser is like sleeping on a bottom bunk. You hit your head whenever you try to rise.

Marrying an abuser is like being invited to sit in a beautiful sportscar--only to find out that the inside is full of trash, the doors have locked automatically, and you can't get them open.

Resisting an abuser is like trying loosen a seatbelt while it's still fastened. Every time you pull for a little more leeway, the belt just gets tighter.

Pleasing an abuser is like living inside a casket, and being told it's time to downsize.

Sex with an abuser is like eating a tootsie pop, and finding a roach instead of a candy at the center.

Leaving an abusive relationship is like cliff-jumping in the dark. You hope there's water down there....

Life without abuse is like a wide, endless meadow.

Shannon: He was a big man, and he liked to eat.

He had given up smoking and drinking and LSD and cocaine, and food was his new drug. He liked spaghetti with Italian sausage, sweet and sour chicken, empanadas, jumbalaya, super-supreme pizza (by the pizza, not the slice), filet mignon, jumbo shrimp, a whole sack of Krystal hamburgers, Twinkies and Ho-Ho's and chocolate chip cookies. He liked them all in the same day, if possible. He liked Chinese food because he believed it was low fat, but he cleaned plate after plate from the buffet. He was a big man, and he liked to eat.

But it wasn't just his gut that was big. He had a big voice, and a big aura, big visions, and a big following. When he stood behind the pulpit, he seemed to fill the entire room with his body and his shouting and his gestures.

So, too, at home, he seemed to fill the whole house. There was little room for me, so I became a smaller package. I shrank as he grew. I quieted as he boomed. I condensed myself until my ribs showed, and the ribs of my little nursing baby. She cried for me, because I no longer had a voice.

The 30-acre farm was too small for him, so he moved us to a remote farm atop a mountain. He bought a bigger car and a bigger truck. He hired a bigger staff. He hired a cook when I wouldn't cook anymore, because I didn't like hearing all the complaining. My sauce was too thin and my steak was too tough. My jumbalaya was too greasy and my sweet and sour chicken was too sweet or too sour. That's why he needed to hire a cook. He was a big man and he liked to eat.

He grew larger, larger, larger than life. To look on him was shocking. He seemed ready to explode. And he did. Sometimes out the mouth and sometimes out the other end. His life was defined by consuming and exploding. He tried fad diets, and he worked out, but still he grew larger, larger, larger than life. He was a big man and he liked to eat.

One day another minister pulled me aside and said, "You're such a thin, trim young woman." He gestured at my husband. "Surely, you could help him lose some weight? Maybe your cooking is too good.... Maybe you could make him go on a low-fat diet?"

I smiled demurely and said nothing. If I had a voice, I would have said, "Can't you see? He's already on a low-fat diet. He's eating me."

Gwen: Never Alone. Always Lonely

It didn’t help that he left for work so early in the morning. He didn’t return home until late afternoon, and that was no real comfort either. Technically, we didn’t spend a lot of time together. But he was always there.

I crawled out of bed by myself each morning, but I was never alone. Oh my, I’ve slept too late. What if he calls and asks what I’ve been doing? Quick! Start doing something “busy”.

Except for the sounds of the children, there was not a lot of noise in the mornings, but still I could hear him. Why are you putting on makeup? Isn’t that expensive? I can’t even tell when you put it on. It’s just a waste of time. You know you don’t need it. You shouldn’t use a blow-dryer; it’s bad for your hair. Why do you take so much time to get ready? Why is the bathmat wet?

During the day, I liked to think I could do as I pleased, but he was always there, making sure I did my job to “please him”. I must remember to run the garbage disposal long enough. I must not forget to bring in the mail today. I must make sure to have supper ready. Did I move anything of his? I must be more careful. There. I’ve been talking on the phone. Now where did he leave it last? Don’t want him to see it’s been moved. I guess I should clean out the refrigerator today. He would want me to. But what if I get it too clean? He’ll say I wasted food.

I had always been very good with children, especially my own, but his “remote presence” was constantly chiding me to do it his way. Don’t put soap on the kids. You’ll just dry out their skin. They don’t need this many baths per week. Why are you putting them in shorts? I always wore jeans when I was growing up. Why is this diaper still out? That was irresponsible. Why isn’t he eating his food? Make him eat. Keep him quiet! Can you take him out of the room? Turn up the fan so I can’t hear him crying. Stop going in there with him. You’re feeding him again?

Even until a few months after I left him, every waking moment of my life with that man was with him. I couldn’t see him or touch him, but his presence hovered around my every move, wafted out in every breath, and often even spoke for me. It challenged every decision, no matter how menial, and caused me to question my own judgment on the simplest of issues. My days became filled with dialogue like the above; plotting the answers for the questions I knew would begin when his body came home.

This is, perhaps, a commonality between good marriages and abusive ones: a constant feeling of the presence of the “other one”. The difference, though, is in the feeling. My image of marriage was always one where I looked forward to my husband coming home, enjoying each other’s company, but respecting each other’s space. My reality? I was a caged animal, pacing back and forth, looking for that safe corner where I could truly be alone.

The concept of marriage itself implies a certain understanding. You are a couple, two people made into one, a single-minded unit, a blending of hearts and hands, a companionship where the strengths and weaknesses of both people are recognized and understood. It also implies a desirable togetherness. So these questions may seem out of place in most contexts, but it may yet be worth asking: Just how alone are you allowed to be? What about your thoughts? Are they yours, or are you forced to change them, for fear of being asked, “What are you thinking about?” Are you you, or are you becoming someone you don’t even know?

Are you lonely, but never alone?

Shannon: At Their Father's Knee

This is not the story of my abuse. But it is, in a way, the story of how I came to abused. Abuse is learned at someone's knee. This is the story of how my abuser learned to abuse.

Victor was a man adored by his children--and feared as well. Even to this day, they will brag about his inventions, how he took on the government, and so on. Interspersed amongst this praise, they will tell the rest of the story. What they don't say, that's where the horror lies. But I'll just tell it like it was told to me.

Victor had two bright sons. He and his wife bought a large farm in upstate New York, and they took in a foster girl. She was a teenage girl with big, brown eyes. We'll call her Carrie. The older boy (who never had a name, in these stories) fell off his bicycle and cracked his skull. This was before helmet laws, you understand. He died.

The death of the older son was a terrible blow to Victor--and to his wife, who also has no name. It drove them apart until she left. She left her husband, her one remaining son, and her foster daughter. She left and never returned.

Victor, in agony over the loss of his son, was driven into the arms of the teenage foster daughter, Carrie. In a number of years, she produced a number of babies, most of them sons. She raised the son from the first marriage. She groomed orchards, sewed clothes, managed businesses, butchered chickens, raised rabbits, and cooked delicious Chilean meat pies called empanadas.

But Victor became cruel. He beat her and terrorized her. Carrie was a smart, resourceful thing, in spite of her immaturity. She found ways to strike back. When the neighbor's pesky horse kept getting into their garden and Victor berated Carrie about the loss of vegetables, she said nothing. The next day, she caught the horse, butchered it in their barn, and fed her husband horsemeat for dinner. Victor had diarrhea for three days, so they say.

One day the children heard his voice thundering up the stairwell. "Boys! Boys! Come down here so you can watch me blow your mother's brains out!" Carrie was kneeling on the hardwood floor, a handgun pressed to her temple.

He didn't shoot her. No one ever says exactly what happened to cause a different outcome, but I know that he didn't shoot her, because she left. Just like the first wife, she disappeared while Victor was at work. And she left the five remaining children, even the one who was still in diapers.

Of course it did not end there. He told the children what a shameful disgrace this woman was, to abandon them so. He decided to pack up the farm and follow Carrie across the country. He enlisted the children in his attacks, which were often public. He plastered fliers on all the cars at the college she attended. He included her picture on the flier, so everyone could recognize the selfish, irresponsible slut who had left her own children.

Carrie survived. She married a good man, she finished her education, and she sought to rebuild her relationship with her adult children--who all despised her, for leaving them.

And what of the 6 children Victor sired? One, of course, is dead. (Maybe I am slow, but some fifteen years after hearing this story, I've begun to wonder if he even had a bicycle.)

The next child Gary grew up to marry and have a daughter of his own. His wife divorced him, saying he had sexually abused his daughter. Of course we all know that this was a feminist plot to get more money, since Gary would do no such thing. His response was to kidnap the child. Carrie was there to help him when the little girl's uncle showed up to take her home. She plunged a butcher knife through the crevice between the door and the frame, slicing the man's hands until he left to get medical care. But in the end, Gary lost. His daughter wants nothing to do with him now.

The next-born was Gavin. When I met him, he was a full-time minister seeking ordination. The ugliness of his past (drug abuse, abortion, a child outside wedlock) and the ugliness he'd grown up with, were all considered part of his "exciting testimony." At least, it would have all been in the past had he not married an independent, rebellious goody-two-shoes like me. So the story goes. Like Victor and Gary, he tried to keep me imprisoned by threatening that if I did not behave, I would never see my children again. And like Gary's wife, I took the children with me when I left. He said I must want to play "hard ball." I've never been sure what hard ball is, but apparently Carrie had wanted to play it, too, for Victor had used these same words. I don't know if Gavin was a worse hardball player than Vince, or if I had harder balls than Carrie, but Gavin lost and moved in with Gary.

The next child was a daughter. She experienced a succession of abusive relationships, one of which landed her in the hospital. She was devestated when she discovered her infertility, and never married.

The next son was so abusive, last I heard he never found a woman who would marry him. He couldn't get through the second or third date without exploding.

And the youngest son Jackie, the one who stood in a soiled diaper watching his mother drive away, became a drug addict and criminal. Jackie married at age 17, did a couple of short prison stints and fathered three or four sons last I heard. Jackie liked to brag that he had once slit a cop's throat out in California. He did it for his wife's sake, he said, and so he felt no shame. Jackie's wife came to me and Gavin once for refuge. I hid her when Jackie came looking. He had a bandage around his hand where he'd shot himself wrestling her for a gun. It happened under the bed, where he'd held her hostage all night. I helped her rent a U-Haul, and I warned her not to trust Gavin, who always said that blood was thicker than water. In the end, she did drive cross country with her three boys--but she took Jackie, too.

What can be said of these men, who admired yet hated their father so? They learned their lessons well. They believed that the best pumpkinshell to keep a woman in, is her love for her children and her desire to be with them. They saw children as both trophies and pawns.

Victor must be in his eighties now. Perhaps he is even dead. But how long, I wonder, will his legacy continue? I think about those three little boys, watching as their mother was held hostage at gunpoint under a bed. I think about them bumping across the United States in a U-Haul truck, and asking their Daddy why he had a bandage on his hand. God save the next generation from the lessons they are learning, at their father's knee.

Gwen: Only One Thing Lacking

It is extremely important to be on time for your own wedding—and I was. In fact, I was ridiculously early. Painstakingly applying mascara to every eye-lash, and being certain my lipstick was the exact shade of tawny rose became a matter of national importance. My hair had to be perfect, my nails newly painted. The crinoline under my ivory gown had to be smooth and flawless. There could be no thread out of place, no hair unaccounted for on this day—this Day of All Days.

My shoes were carefully chosen, appealing to my “fun side”. Sure, they came from Target, and tied up with white shoelaces, but who would see them anyway? I took great pleasure in finding ruffly white socks to complement my clunky white sneakers, and waited with great excitement for the day I would wear them.

Jewelry is also important on That Grand Day. My decision was to wear a pearl necklace I had been given at the wedding of a friend, as well as matching pearl earrings I had purchased for my own Special Occasion. The rings would be forthcoming, so my left hand remained bare in anticipation. Shortly before the ceremony I was given a diamond necklace from the groom, bestowed upon me by my future father in law. The chain was a bit long, but with a little creativity and Scotch tape, everything was set. Everything would be perfect.

There were still last minute details, however, and they were given every attention. I remembered my dress still needed a slight alteration on the shoulders. With a flash and a flurry, an attendant had whipped out a needle and thread to make the necessary adjustments. Everyone helped to make this day the most wonderful for me. No one forgot a single minute detail.

As I began the walk downstairs with my friends, I inquired about the location of the groom’s ring. With a quick double-back to the room (that I pretended not to notice), all was set and we made our way to the ceremony.

The girls proceeded to their places in line while I waited in a nearby classroom for my cue. We had worked very hard, and everything was in place. The music was beautiful, the decorations seemed to have an extra shimmer, and the world smiled at me.

My “moment in time” had come, and as I took my father’s arm I tried to remember every second. This day had to be perfect in my memory.

Then that moment in time was over. The closing piano selection accompanied me as I walked from the front of the church holding the hand of my new husband.

No! Wait! This day was going to be perfect! My smile… why did it feel this way? So plastic, so forced. Why did I not look at the photographer when he tried to capture that first moment as a new couple? Why did my heart lurch in embarrassment to be kissed by this man? Why did I feel that rushing panic in my head? It was all so hurried and unexpected. What had I forgotten?

The cake was there and the gifts were piled in gracious abundance. My hairs were all numbered; I had said ‘I do’. There was a kiss, music, laughter. There were flowers, pictures, a smiling audience, my new shoes, and the love of friends and family. I could see nothing out of place.

Lists had been made and checked, double-checked, triple-checked. RSVP’s were received and inventoried; place-cards were in perfect array. We found an affordable caterer, a photographer, a preacher; and a honeymoon was planned. My heart was ready for the giving, my lips for the kissing, and my hand for the holding. A new life would be joining mine, adding to what I lacked, lacking what only I could add. A unit of harmony and care and sheer marital bliss was to be formed on this day. What else could I have forgotten?

It took four and a half years for me to know what was left behind, and no amount of list-making or planning could have made it appear. It wasn’t I who had forgotten anything, it was he.

Yes, he had a tux and a fresh haircut. He was not late. There was a gift for the bride and a ring for her finger. There were tears at the altar when the vows were read. There was that “first kiss” he had been counting on. He said ‘I do’. His faced showed a look of triumph and satisfaction meant to demonstrate his love for his bride. But there! That was the forgotten thing.

He had forgotten to sing to me with his heart, to talk to me with eyes, and to listen to me with his arms. His face forgot to read mine. His hands forgot to hold mine. His body forgot to respect mine. He forgot the cherishing, the adoring, the nurturing, the caring, the hoping, the helping, the guarding, the longing, and the creating of a place in his soul that only I could touch.

He had forgotten but one thing on that Day of All Days, but without that one thing, all else was for naught.

He had forgotten to love me.

Sarjenka: Schadenfreude

Schadenfreude. A german word for "deriving pleasure
from someone else's misfortune." I don't think there
is a word in English that conveys the same meaning.
Glee? Gloating? No, that's not it. The emotion I am
thinking about is a lot more subtle, refined,
exquisite. Schadenfreude.

My mother perfected the art of of Schadenfreude.

I realized it only recently. I was leaving the city
for good. I was at an airport terminal trying to
re-pack my enormous bags and avoid a hefty $70 fine.
Embarassing? Frustrating? Stressful? Well, yes, you
could say that.

She was there to see me off. I looked around, but
could not see her, so I went back to re-organizing and
packing. Finally, I made it. The bags were sealed and
sent off on the conveyor belt. I left the counter with
a huge sense of relief. She was waiting for me nearby.

"I am so glad I got to see everything!" she said,
referring to my troubles. She looked so pleased. So
satisfied--as if she just had a nice, pleasant meal.

My misfortunes satisfied her, I realized suddenly. She
was feeding on them.

"To be honest, I don't understand your happiness," I
said drily. An hour later, I was boarding my plane.
Goodbye.

It wasn't an isolated incident, of course. As they say
on the Simpsons, "it's a rich tapestry."

The first incident I remember was back when I was 6
years old or so. I was taken to a doctor for a medical
test. Without going into details, it was a very
humiliating and somewhat painful experience. I left
the medical office blushing heavily but refusing to
cry.

As we were walking home, my mother informed me that I
could have avoided the procedure by lying. "But, I
know you are an honest girl, and you don't like to
lie. So I didn't tell you. I figured, since you are
honest, you can have your ---," and an obscene
reference to the medical exam followed.

Yes, I was honest. I disliked lying. She hated that
about me. She wished I would lie more.

But if that couldn't happen, she could at least enjoy
my misfortunes.

She walked slightly ahead of me, so pleased, so
satisfied, so amused by her own wit. I made a fist and
hit her as hard as I could. I don't regret it.

Gwen: How to Marry an Abuser 101

It’s really not as simple as you think—this business of marrying an abuser. In fact, it requires the methodic loss of key life skills, and the gain of other “skills”. Of course, to get to the actual marriage of an abuser, you have to first snag them and keep their interest. This is easier said than done, so it is of utmost importance to discuss the techniques necessary for meeting, maintaining, and marrying an abusive man.

I. Meeting the Man of Your Nightmares

This is probably the easiest part of the entire process, as the number of abusive men rises daily. You can find them anywhere: your local bookstore (they’ll be browsing but never buying, creasing the spines and dog-earing the pages), on the internet (they’ll innocently ask if you would let your hair grow long if they “preferred” it), and even at your local church (where they will frequently be found rubbing shoulders with anyone in authority).

At first, though, they may be difficult to spot. Many of them are smooth talkers, clean cut, with nice teeth. (Still, there are others who never bathe and have had the same haircut since 1989.) Because they enjoy the instant gratification of a blushing female, they may shower you with compliments and praises. Just keep listening… this will last only as long as their simple desire to see you blush. As their needs increase, so will the demands. In case you’re afraid you won’t notice this subtle act, remember to look back at the early days and compare. This is the only way you will feel confident of having found the abuser you desire.

II. Maintaining the Ego of a Broken Record

Broken records only say one thing, and they say it over and over and over again. Abusive men are no different, although the uninformed victim might overlook his methods if she is not educated. The average abuser has a mantra that keeps his lifestyle alive. Listen closely and you will hear it: Yourjobistomakemehappy.
InMEyouliveandbreatheandhave yourbeing.
Withoutmeyouhavenootherpurpose.

To maintain a functional relationship with an abuser, it is crucial to understand his life motto and to satisfy it daily. When this does not happen, either the abuse will escalate to far less comfortable proportions, or you will be dropped. To avoid either scenario, you must play your cards right.

Remember these rules for Maniac Maintenance:

1. A “request” is a command. Obey immediately.

2. His wish is your command. Respond appropriately.

3. Your life is his to alter. Do not resist.

4. His faults are your fault. He treats you like a child only because you act like one.

5. Your friends are his to steal. Do not expect to ever have normal friendships again. Hey, the sacrifice is worth it, right?

6. Your family is unimportant and uninvolved, except when they’re over-involved—which is always. Don’t you know what it means to “leave and cleave?"

7. His freely-given “rebukes” are always well-deserved. You really should have known better.

8. What’s yours is his, and what’s his is also his. Stop being so selfish.

9. Forgiving means forgetting—completely. You shouldn’t be so bitter.

10. Your job is to serve him. Isn’t that in the Bible somewhere?

11. These are secret rules. Don’t ask, Don’t tell. Obey them perfectly.

There you have the 11 essential maxims for the proper upkeep and continuance of a perfectly unhealthy abusive relationship.

III. Marrying the Man behind the Mask

Now that you know how to nurture the high needs of your budding relationship, it’s time to examine the issues surrounding marriage to your Commandant (we will cover other “pet names” for your abuser in later classes). Remember not to expect too much romance. For a man with such a single and high-maintenance need, it would be too time-consuming for any great thought to go into, well, anything. Expect utter simplicity and be happy if you get lemon in your water. Don’t worry, you’ll get used to the monotony.

When he asks you to marry him, it’s completely normal to feel an obligation to answer “yes” based out of fear rather than love. In fact, you’re likely to think it was your “fault” that he proposed anyway. He probably felt sorry for you, and this is his attempt to provide some stability in your life. Remember, you’ve been unable to cope with much of life since this relationship began, and you know it’s because of your deep-seated needs for affection and approval. At least, that’s what he tells you, and he’s never wrong. Isn’t this exciting?

As the day approaches for your wedding, it is wise for the no-longer-blushing bride to prepare for certain responses to time-honored events. Your abuser will likely be offended that he is not invited to every bridal shower (this will apply to the water kind after you are married), he will pout when the gift registry includes more kitchen items than garage items, and you may be asked to present your vows for approval. I repeat: this is normal, and you will adapt.

Your wedding day will be a blur, and your honeymoon will be the official consummation of your abuse. Now you are alone, and you will be silently ordered to obey rule #11 flawlessly. Only disrespectful wives tell anyone about their husband’s rancid behavior. But you have taken this class and you are prepared to give up everything you have ever known or loved to be the wife you think he wants. Of course, you’ll never get it just right, but that’s half the fun!

Sarjenka: The Point Of All The Songs

None of my things were fully safe. I never knew what
she would grab and toss into the garbage if I was
"bad". It could be a favorite item of clothing, a
tool, or a toy.  It would always be unexpected.
Anything could be taken away, if I was "bad" (namely
if I was crying, if I failed at cleaning my room, if I
was slouching, if I was squinting, or "destroying
myself" in some other way.)  Right now, I live in an
apartment filled with clutter and millions of things.
It is as if  I am trying to protect myself. If I have
many things, each individual thing matters less, and
it won't mean as much when it is taken away from me.

But, of course, it wasn't just the material things
that were taken away.

One day, she entered my room, and took away my songs.

Once, after a minor fight with my mother, I was
sulking quietly in my own room. I pulled out a tape
that I liked, and was listened to my favorite music. My
mother entered the room, and looked at me. "What is
the point of all the songs you are listening to, and of
all the books you are reading, if they are not helping
you become a better person?"

I understood perfectly. It is not okay for me to have
any inner life of my own, unless it is making me more
compliant with Her, more obedient to Her. She had to
be the ultimate standard by which my inner life would
be measured, evaluated, and judged. She would hold my
spirit in her hands, and decide which way it could go.

She would make sure that I didn't have any songs that
were not about her.

Diane: Cruelty/Leave/Can't Leave

My first awareness that I'd married a cruel person was after our first child was only a few months old. Hal was minding the baby, holding him in his lap while he read a professional journal. From the next room, I heard the previously peaceful baby suddenly cry and went  to find out what was wrong. Hal said he'd put an ice cube from his ice water on the baby's back, and evidently he didn't like it. Shocked, I said, "Why on earth would you do that?" He replied, matter of factly, "I was curious about what he'd do."

It was a chiling experience for me, not only for the baby. What kind of man had I married, who would put ice on a tiny baby's skin just to see what he'd do? I couldn't imagine a loving parent doing that, not even a parent who wasn't particularly loving.

Hal didn't want to be left with the baby  for any length of time. Before I'd go out on an errand or doctor's appointment he'd quiz me on how long I'd be gone, what I'd be doing, and insist I be back as soon as possible. If I took a little longer, he'd be upset about it when I returned. It was as if he didn't actually want to be with the child for more than a few minutes. He also seemed clumsy with the baby, not able to read cues to what was comfortable and not comfortable. Increasingly, I realized he was that way with me too. He seemed unable to truly empathize with another person, so much wrapped in his own self as to be unable to perceive what others needed or felt.

A second big rememberance of his cruelty was the period of time before the birth of our second child. He came home from the office one evening during the eighth month of my pregnancy, preoccupied, as I later learned, about having to let an employee go. I'd saved some little piece of childhood behavior our older son had done that day, eager to tell him about it. He cut me off as I began to share it, and demanded to know why I'd not taken out the trash.

After answering his question, I said, "I was going to tell you about something special, but you've ruined it now." He demanded that I tell him, and when I wouldn't, he suddenly grabbed my arm with one hand, and punched me hard with the other one, the blow landing on my shoulder. He'd never hit me before, and I was stunned and began to cry.

His excuse later was that he was upset about the situation at work. But, it was a watershed moment for me. I now knew that he was definitely not the man I'd thought I married, and not someone I wanted to be with. However, like all women about to give birth, I knew this would be bad timing to leave, so I didn't, but my plans to do so began right there.

He'd also make it difficult for me to have naps during the latter part of the pregnancy, doing something that made noise, waking me to ask a question, finding something that I needed to do. He had a talent for making anything already difficult, more difficult for me.

Hal has only hit me purposefully one time since then (probably because I told him after the first incident that he'd have to sleep sometime and if he ever hit me again I'd wait until he was asleep and dent his head with my cast iron skillet), kicking me hard when I brushed against his bruised arm . But, he  has "accidentally" caused me many discomforts.

His cruelty also included ruining things: trips, visits, eating out, recreational activities, holidays, company meals. He'd do something to spoil the atmosphere, like jerking a child out of a chair and spanking them for a minor offense, or any number of inconveniences and embarrassments he'd create for us.  He is a genius at creating unpleasant experiences for others during what would otherwise be happy times.  I got to the place where I'd dread those happy time events, knowing that more often than not Hal would trash them somehow, but not knowing when or how it would happen.

He had a way of making the children cry soon after he came home from work, and he'd set them up at the dinner table to need punishment. At least he decided they needed punishment. He'd entrap them, and when they'd respond, he'd punish them for their response.

The children also would frequently get hurt "accidentally" when left in his care. Finally, I told him that if any one of them were ever hurt significantly while in his care that I'd leave him immediately, and not come back no matter what. After that, the accidents stopped.

Years later I realized I'd painted myself into a corner with that edict. When I eventually decided I could now leave him I knew that I'd have to allow him joint custody and unsupervised visitation. I would never be able to convince a judge that they were not safe in his care. I realized my presence was the only guarnantee for their safety. I stayed.