Tag Archives: recovery

They don’t want to hear my stories.  They refuse to believe what I say.

“Show me your scars,” they tell me, crossing their arms in disdain.  “Prove to me the harm he has done.  Without physical proof of your pain, I have to assume you have none.”

I suppose it is easy for the outsider to distrust wounds for which there is no physical evidence.  And I confess, such indifference further adds to my pain.

If only he would hit me.  Sometimes I wish he would.  Then they might understand what he has put me through, how much it hurts, that some of the deepest wounds never bleed.  Maybe if my bones were broken, if blood flowed from all the hurting places, the cynics and know-it-alls would not be so quick to downplay my fears or tell me that the things he does or says are inconsequential.

His mouth is full of curses and deceit and oppression; under his tongue is mischief and wickedness.

Proverbs 10:7

Just because an abuser is not raging does not mean he is suddenly safe or honest or genuine.  An abuser’s words cannot be trusted.  He is an artful deceiver and, in many cases, an out-and-out liar.  Words are simply a tool that can be fashioned to support his desired reality.

Of course, a healthy relationship should be grounded in truth, honesty and mutual concern, but the abuser does not share these values.  His primary concern is his own welfare, and where honesty should reign, he will not hesitate to construct and reconstruct a psychological house of mirrors that his victim must slog her way through, her objective being to somehow find some hard truth to hold onto amid the confusion.  The typical abuser seems quite adept at avoidance, deflection, deception, redirection, feigning ignorance, shifting blame or simply lying when the need arises.

In one such scenario, he might arrive home with an outlandishly expensive tool or toy that is either unnecessary or unaffordable (probably not the first time), but it’s something he wants.  Shocked by his spontaneous purchase, you may broach the issue by saying, “I thought we agreed we would not make any big purchases without discussing them.”

Journal Entry:

March 11, 2003

 I now look at life differently.  My children are more precious to me than ever.  I love to hear them laugh and to daily tell them I love them and kiss them good-night.  Colors seem more vivid.  The breeze on my skin is fresh and invigorating.  I find myself smiling for no good or apparent reason.  It is as though I have peeled off my old life, and a brand new one is emerging.  At 43, can life really begin again?  If so, I pray that I am living proof of it.

 My emotions are all so intense — whether joy or sadness, peace or turmoil.  Everything I am feeling seems to have been impassioned by some unseen force.  What is going on?  What has happened to me?  Is this a natural phenomenon that all people experience when they have gone through a tragic divorce, or a short-term phase in life which leads only back to mediocrity?  God forbid.  Is it because my depression and fear had held me in bondage for so long that now I am finally experiencing the true range of emotions which were trapped beneath the surface?  That is exactly how it feels.  And, I fear the possibility of going back into that dreadful prison.  Even feeling the pain in its fullness far surpasses the numbness which came from locking it inside, running from it, believing I could somehow override it. 

 So, this is what life is like.  What angels long to peer into.  I’ll take it.

No list holds the power to change a person’s heart.

It finally arrives – the heartbreaking yet liberating moment when you simply cannot live the lie for one more minute.   The loneliness, shame and exhaustion can no longer be rationalized or minimized.  There is nothing left to sort out or piece together or hope for, and you finally break through the wall of dysfunction you had foolishly accepted as normal.  And you leave.

 As the first days pass, you find yourself moving tenuously through the haze of disillusionment and exhaustion and catching a glimpse of clear sky, relishing every breath of free air and then falling into bed at night in peace.  If you are lucky, in the abuser’s absence, the numbness of soul to which you have become accustomed gives way, and you find yourself savoring the joys of a few days, hours or minutes free of constant fear and confusion.

I would like to introduce you to Amberly – the youngest of my four children, a sweet-natured darling, a delight to know and have around.  At 18-years of age, she is a petite little thing, standing at five-foot-nothing, with long dark hair and soft hazel eyes. Since the day she was born, she has been an easy-going child.  Compliant and sweet-natured, I have never witnessed her being deliberately harsh with anyone, not even her siblings.  I can count on one hand the number of times I actually had to discipline her, and in those moments when I did, I thought her little heart would break just knowing she had disappointed me. On more than one occasion when she was young and I would accompany her to her friends’ birthday parties and school carnivals, a mother would introduce herself and kindly inquire as to whether Amberly was my child.  Upon replying with a smile, the woman would gaze at me with a measure of awe, and might teasingly ask if I might be willing to trade my Amberly for her little trouble-maker.  I would smile proudly and offer a definitive “No way.” She was such a remarkable little girl.