The Silence of Abuse

Abuse does not always leave bruises.

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Sometimes it is silent.

Sometimes it whispers.

Sometimes it rages.

Then comes the apologies, the tears, the bouquets of flowers.

I didn’t think I married an angry man, although there were a few early red flags.

When too much alcohol was consumed, there would be tears and woeful shrieks of pain that had to go somewhere. Alcohol provided the portal for its escape. Always frightening. Always deeply confusing.

Next came what I dubbed “nightly dumpings.”  After work, he would vent his frustrations and tell the stories of the day with anger and venom in the delivery. He felt better afterwards. Anyone around him did not.

A cycle emerged. I could feel it building. His internal pressure had a gauge. Day after day, the steam would increase until some small mishap would cause the explosion. There would be screaming, often throwing things. The children were sometimes shoved or handled roughly.

When the poison had been released, he was always contrite. Promising it would not happen again. Swearing to do better.

We walked on eggshells. Would today be a good day, with a happy, kind dad and husband?  Or would today be an angry day.

The children begged me to not leave them alone at home with him.  I had to go out, on occasion. Yes, I had chosen to be a stay-at-home mom, but the at home part had become a battlefield. Myself and my children were the casualties.

He expected me to make him happy. Several years into this, I told him that wasn’t my job. I couldn’t MAKE him happy.  I could contribute to his happiness, but couldn’t make him do or be anything.  I drew a boundary. It did not please him. In all things, we are architects of our own unhappiness.  (Jessica Jordan)

The cycles became more frequent. Sunny days, partly cloudy days, predictably led to storm days.

I took all the kids to my counselor once. As they each told their stories of their fear of their father, she told me I had to get out.  A single mom with four small children? Impossible.

We did many rounds of marriage counseling. Mostly, he sat on the edge of the couch with his arms folded.

One session, he lit into me, spending the entire 50 minutes telling me how I had failed him. Mostly, I had failed to express appropriate appreciation for him. All he did, all he provided. I was not grateful enough.  I left the therapy session shamed and broken. As I processed this experience, my resolve to escape grew.

From his point of view, the problem was that I could not forgive him for his behavior.  I patiently explained that I always forgave and hoped for better, but I never forgot. I was chastised and shamed for this. If only I could truly forgive him, we would be happy.

My faith teaches that true repentance is a turning away from sin.  What results is changed behavior.  He seemed to want forgiveness so he could feel free to explode again when the pressure grew.

Then came the gaslighting. This has many manifestations in dysfunctional relationships. In ours, he would say things or declare things, then deny or forget he had done so.

We had some kids with issues, so clear communication was a necessity.  To meet the mental health and drug addiction problems we faced, we needed a united approach.  Instead, we got more crazy-making.

On Monday, he would declare, “We need to do XYZ to deal with this issue.” It would be agreed and settled.  On Friday, I would inquire, “How are we doing on the XYZ?” Angrily, we would respond, “I said no such thing.”

Over the years, this made me question my reality.  I needed to check myself.

I began to keep a journal of our conversations. If he said ABC on Tuesday, I’d write it down. When the issue arose again, I would pull out my journal and say my recollection.

This did not make him happy.  He became more withdrawn and sullener. And angry.

Silence became his weapon. We could go for weeks without speaking a word to one another.  Moving silently around each other when we happened to cross paths, my quiet desperation grew.

And people in our church and social circles wondered how I could leave such a wonderful man.