LANGUAGE AND GRAPHIC CONTENT
Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.
Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.
Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.
Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.
I never thought that this was something that I would have to live with. It all began 17 years ago now. 17. A young girl in love. Believing that she had found the perfect man, the perfect heart, the perfect companion, the perfect life. When I look back I was told it was all my fault. From the very beginning. I had a problem with separation anxiety. My then boyfriend/fiancé told me that unless we got married, he was leaving. That there would be no point in our relationship if I could not commit to him. Deep inside I knew I wasn’t ready for marriage. I knew. He packed his things and was getting ready to leave. He was yelling telling me to get away. My biggest fear – being alone. I thought, or maybe I didn’t think at all – that what he was saying was just a way to get me to give in. It was me who hit first. I slapped him. Trying to snap him out of it. he was literally dumbstruck. He told me “what the fuck did you just do?” My brain was cluttered, I was shaking, I was scared and all I knew was that I didn’t want him to leave. After that I broke down crying. He finally came back inside after I apologized and told him let’s go. I told him we would go to Vegas and elope. That I was ready. That night we left and that night we got married. Two years before we were married I had learned an awful lot about him. But it never mattered to me. I believed what he had told me. He had been married before. Had a daughter. His wife took his daughter in the middle of the night and left him. After things went wrong, while he was trying to fix things, he ended up in jail. He said he only wanted to talk to her, but the police said it was considered kidnaping and she didn’t deny it. After a few weeks in jail, he had jumped head first off a two story platform. Obviously he survived. Got out on bail and was supposed to return for a hearing. He never showed. I didn’t know all of this until it was close to when he wanted to marry me. I knew some of it. But he told me if we ever wanted a life together, he had to go back and face the charges against him. And he did. He spent about 6 months in jail. While he was in there, I had prepared his divorce papers, as I knew he was still married. The divorce was final before he got out. After he came home, things seemed great. I had lost a hell of a lot of weight keeping busy all the time while he was gone. Didn’t eat much because I was always so depressed. He found out that one night I had gone out with his brother to have a couple drinks because I was so down. I guess his brother told him. He was livid. Told me it was over. Which he had done several times while he was in jail too. Always I ended up in tears. Being alone. He always came back though. Never really left, just made me believe he was leaving. Then came the first slap. Of course, it didn’t matter because he never would have hit me if I hadn’t slapped him that first time months ago, but because I hit him, it gave him the right to hit me. Then as usual came the apology. Then, the I can’t stay here anymore, I can’t live like this. And me begging he would stay like a fucking idiot. As time went on, things got worse. The hitting became more often and much harder. I was told if I wanted to talk to him like a man, I would be treated like one. This was because I argued with him or talked back to him, and sometimes, I tried to stand up to him. It was a losing battle, but still - I didn’t want him to go. I was afraid. More afraid of being alone than being hit by him. I was told many times what a fuck up I was. “Do you know who you’re talking to?” That was the line that told me cover your face. I’d act like I wasn’t afraid and go sit on the couch but he’d come up to me and put his face right in front of mine almost touching mine and scream at me calling me a fucking bitch, a clit, a whore. I’d start shaking and he would get even angry so he would throw a blow to my head. I’d try to move away and block my face and he would still hit me. When he was through he would tell me to get the fuck away from him. So I would. And then I’d get in trouble because I listened. Because instead I should be making things right. I could never win. Telling me to leave meant stay and telling me to stay, meant leave. There were nights that he would tell me off all night. And make me tell him like a five year old what I did wrong. Why I did it and how I was going to change. So many times I was told that he wished he had a fucking mirror so I could see what I looked like when I talked to him or a tape recorder to hear what I sounded like. But still... I didn’t want him to go. I loved him. How sick is that?
The years passed and the thought of a child came into our minds. So we tried and I became pregnant with my first son. I thought it would change things. Maybe I was being selfish or just plain old stupid thinking that having a child would change our lives. I had been told he was sorry so many many times. And that he would never hurt me again. Other times I was told, if I’d been good he wouldn’t have hit me or kicked me. Or if I wouldn’t have acted like a shithead he wouldn’t have treated me the way he did. Always me. When I was pregnant it didn’t stop. The blows still came, the yelling, the kicking, yes, while I was pregnant. After I had my son, things stopped for a while. I thought maybe, he’d changed. I loved him. I thought now, we could work on being a real family. The way it should be. But things slowly started again. This time to protect myself, I’d always have the baby with me. He wouldn’t hurt me if I was holding the baby. So many times he’d tell me to put him down and walk up to me. All I could do was back away hoping I’d keep my son and myself safe. Other times, he’d be holding him and he’d get mad for one reason or another. So angry. Most times I didn’t even know why. And those were the times he’d start yelling and threw the baby at me. I think consciously he threw him easy enough knowing I would catch him. I always did. And again there were so many times he would tell me to fuck off and he was leaving and not taking this shit anymore. And me being a fucking idiot would take his keys and his wallet and hide them. Why? Because I was afraid to be alone. Because inside, I thought I loved him. I still thought somehow he would change. There were times too that I wished he would just go and never come back, but at the last minute, I was scared and would beg him not to go. That I was sorry. That I was wrong. That I didn’t mean to be disrespectful. That it wouldn’t happen again. I did this for 14 years. The hardest part was knowing my children were hearing parts of what was going on. And the other part was having to do things to make things right. Being touched. Being told he loved me. How could he love me? How could I possibly be lovable if he did these things? I hated being touched. I hated listening to him. I hated when I really knew I did nothing wrong but had to admit that I did do something or things would get bad.
Eventually, after going on meds, things started to change. A whole other post that someday I will write. But I was finally able to say enough. That was over three years ago. Since then I’ve been living with my parents along with my children and my brother. I know you all will tell me he should keep the hell away from my children and sometimes I believe that too. Or how dare I let him near them. But I also see the love my children have for him. And that matters to me. But this isn’t about that either.
The reason for this entire post is something my mother brought to my attention sometime last week which has me a bit “fucked up.” I don’t know how many of you have heard of Maury Povitch. He is a talk show host. My mother and brother were in the waiting room of my dad’s dialysis center and the tv was on and Maury Povitch was on. The subject of the show was abusive husbands. My mother and I were sitting at the dinner table after dinner and she brought it up. How awful it was watching it seeing these men and how they were saying, they are kings in their homes and if their wives deserve to be hit, they’ll be hit. The wives brought them on the show to try and knock some sense into these husbands, but when they are abusive, they simply are abusive. They’ll probably go home and beat on their wives for bringing them on the show. My mother said I couldn’t believe these women – crying on the show saying, but I still love him....how much more of an idiot can these women be!!!!!! All I could do was keep my mouth shut. My hands were shaking under the table and right then and there I was seeing and hearing things in flashbacks – because I know why these women were idiots. I was one. I know what it’s like to love someone and not want to leave them. Or believe you love them because you don’t’ want to be alone. I know what it’s like. And you would think that my mother would have enough sense in her mind to keep her mouth shut when it comes to abusive marriages. My marriage could have been worse. But it was bad enough that I finally left. I went back on my anti-depressant about a month ago. I was told by my mother that it’s just a band-aid and I should be over this by now. It’s been over three years. But ya know what mom...... it doesn’t go away.
I had a summons for jury duty about a year ago. I was called into the box at the end of the first day for a case on spousal abuse. I fell apart in front of the judge telling them that as much as I could hope I could be partial and fair, what they were asking me to do was sit in a fucking courtroom and listen to what happened and throw myself into continual flashbacks. I was excused, no more questions asked of me. It took me a long time to get over that one.
Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.
Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.
When does it end.....or does it?