The Abuse Post; A Personal Story And Honest Advice

   The relationship that I had with my daughter's father was abusive. That's a hard thing to admit, because I had always said that I wouldn't put up with abuse ever again. If someone hit me, I would damn well hit back, and then I'd call the cops. That's how I was gonna be; I was never going to be hit again.
    The problem was, I had already been abused and in bad relationships, and once you've been in that type of relationship, my personal opinion is that falling into another abusive, bad relationship, is that much easier: the ground work has already been laid.  The other problem was, I was used to thinking of abuse as something physical. I was used to abuse being someone knocking your ass through a TV and then following up by bashing you in the head. Someone putting hands around your throat. Someone trying to run you down with their car. These things had been done to me, and that is what I considered abuse.
   The thing is, there are all kinds of abuse. I am not downplaying physical abuse at all, but that is the type of abuse, to me, that is easiest to recognize and easiest to prove. So what do you do when you say something to the person you've chosen to be with, and they respond to you by saying, "You're a dumbass. And you're accent makes you sound like a hick." And another day, you say something, and they say, "God, you're so stupid. Stop talking." And another day, you say something, and they say, "You don't do a damn thing to help, ever. You're useless."
   Well, the first time, you get mad. If you are smart, you leave. But people make mistakes; they put their trust and faith in the wrong people. And if they have, already, as I did, a foundation of abuse, maybe they already believe these things about themselves, and then that makes leaving a harder conclusion to end up at. And after a while, you stop arguing with the person saying these things to you, because you love that person and you've made commitments to them, and you have a family together. So instead, what you do is you stop talking so much. You don't bother anyone with what you are thinking or how you feel, because you think it doesn't matter. You keep yourself small and you keep yourself private. That was one type of abuse that I suffered with my daughter's father.
    Another type of abuse is economic abuse and isolation. These are linked with me. When I first started seeing my daughter's father, I was eighteen. I lived on my own in Mississippi, and my mother had already relocated to Washington, so she never even met him until after my daughter was born. I worked, and I rented a house that I shared with roommates. I was independent. I met him at work, and one thing led to another, but I never felt abused by him, and eventually, I was pregnant. I was panicked, because I had no medical, and my job didn't really have any policy regarding maternity leave, and then the 9/11 attacks came (also my birthday, 9/11) and I was sitting there, preggers, scared, and unsure about the future, and he said, "We need to move to Florida, and I have a job waiting, and my family will be there to help."
   Florida was a mistake. In Florida, I had no job of my own, I had no family, no friends, nothing. I had to rely completely, on my now ex, and that is when the emotional abuse really started, and that is also when we decided that I would stay home now, and take care of the baby, and he would provide. This was a joint decision, one that he pushed for, which is something that I feel I need to point out, because when the time came for that support, he raged against providing it. There were many things that I had to beg his grandmother to provide, such as diapers, sanitary items that I needed as a female, formula (I tried breastfeeding but there were complications and health issues, so my daughter was only breast fed for about three months), and so-on/so-forth. I couldn't get things that I needed from him at all, and always had to ask for outside help, and I could only get him to provide things my daughter needed about half the time. Anytime I would bring up something that we needed, the response would go something like this, "You don't do a damn thing to help in this house. Maybe you should do something to fucking help provide." But I need to add to this the fact that he really pushed me to give up working and stay home, and with this in mind, we had sold my car to help fund the move. Even then, I did bring up trying to find work, and this was always blocked, by him. However, he only blocked my not working in private, in public, to his parents and friends, he would say that I refused to work, or didn't want to work, but at home, he would tell me that I wasn't taking his car, that he didn't want to work and then spend all his home time taking care of the baby because I wasn't there, he wouldn't get enough rest, and a ton of other reasons. I always backed down. I felt, what else could I do? We lived in a country-ghetto trailer park, a thirty minute drive away from the nearest store, and I felt stuck. There was no one for me to talk to who wasn't related to him. I had no friends, no nearby family, and he didn't even seem to like me spending a lot of time with his family. He wanted me to be home.
   We fought. Whenever we fought, he would do his best to make me feel that I was crazy. He wouldn't let me hold the baby. He'd take her out of the house, drive away, and stay gone for the day, without telling me where she was or where he was or if he was coming back. This was punishment; punishment for talking back, for arguing. He did, during those fights, become physical twice. Once he grabbed me (while I was holding her, no less) and shook me like a dog would shake a chew toy. This was no mild shake, but a violent, forceful shake that had my head snapping back and forth, and terrified me because I was holding an infant. The second time, he hit me upside the back of my head. This was the time when I told him that if he ever hit me again, I would call the cops. His reply was, "If you ever call the cops on me, I'll beat the living fuck out of you before they have time to get here." We lived thirty minutes away from everything; he was right, he would have had time to beat the living fuck out of me before help ever arrived, but he didn't hit me again after that. He did something worse. Every time we fought, "If you leave this house, I will take our daughter away, and you will never see her again." "If we don't stay together, you aren't taking her. You will never see her again." I was young, and I was terrified, and I didn't know any better. I believed him; I was afraid to leave. I believe that I would have left if he had hit me again, but he never did. Instead, he threatened me, belittled me, and acted like a decent guy in public so that no one ever knew, and it worked for a long time. After a while, I even stopped fighting, unless I fighting over something to do with my daughter being taken care of. I just despaired.
   Eventually, I did go to work, after my daughter was about three. His grandmother had stopped working, due to health issues, and when she realized that I was willing to work, she offered to watch the baby and she let me use her car as transportation. He was pissed, but his grandmother was not someone that he could cross, she provided him with a lot of money. My job was belittled by him at every turn. "The little cashier job that didn't provide enough money to pay bills." That little cashier job was the beginning of the end for our relationship; in retrospect, he was right to fear me working. I had completely supported myself when we were dating. Sure, I was poor, but I was able to pay my rent and buy the basics. Once I started working again, I didn't have to ask him for things the baby needed, I didn't have to ask him for things I needed, and I was able to escape that oppressive one room shack that originally was a chick coop, with a tin roof, walls that didn't meet the floor, and a floor that was rotting out. I began to wake up. I began to talk. Once I started talking, I started having coworkers shoving fliers for women's shelters into my hands. I realized I had options, and my independent nature started to fight it's way back to the surface.
    I've been free from that mess for almost nine years now. I don't date because my trust isn't what it should be. I'm strong, but I was broken, once, and recovering from that is an uphill battle. Most of the time, I am very happy, but sometimes, I still get depressed. After being in an emotionally abusive relationship, one that had me getting belittled and devalued on an almost hourly basis,  teaching myself that I did have value, was a hard, hard thing. Sometimes, I still have to remind myself. Emotional abuse sticks with you, long after the abuser is gone. We have a kid together, and none of my personal abuse has ever been reported, which was a dumb move on my part, but then, how do you report something like emotional abuse or economic abuse? How does a court judge that? Still, I have my daughter; he's never even filed for visitation, and I keep contact as minimal as possible. I get judged for that, but I try not to care. In this matter, I do believe that I know best; certainly, I know better than anyone who wasn't with me for those years, in that house.
    And I've moved on. I have plans. Where once I didn't see a future, where once, I didn't even want to live anymore, I now have rekindled myself and taken out goals that I had locked away. I'm working towards things and making my life better. Life is good. So why talk about this at all?
   Because maybe, just maybe, someone is reading this, and they are going through something similar. Maybe, just maybe, this might help them realize that they can break free; they need to break free. I recently read, online, a piece of advice from an asshole, telling someone who had been in an abusive marriage that they had no reason to get a divorce; that this person's abuser was the one who really needed help, and that this person, as the spouse, was the best person to help the abuser find help, and that leaving would be selfish. I was aghast. But the fact remains that there is a lot of crappy advice out there, especially pertaining to abuse. Despite things like 'climbing divorce rates' and 'hook-up culture', leaving a relationship can still bring a lot of harsh judgment, a lot of stigma, especially if there is a marriage and/or children involved.
   At the risk of adding more crappy advice to a sea of crappy advice, I have to urge anyone being abused: leave. GET SAFE. It's gonna be hard. Nine years later, you are still going to be dealing with the emotional scars, you are still going to wake up sad on some mornings, but you will be alive to do so. Leave. Maybe your abuser can be fixed, but that isn't your job, it's theirs. Your job is fixing you, is fixing your kids (if kids are involved) and you need to get that done. And if you think that the abuse isn't affecting your child, guess again. I thought I was protecting my daughter. I thought that I was hiding the trauma, the sadness. We came here, to Washington, when she was three, almost four. She told me that she missed people in Florida, but that she was happy we moved because I didn't cry anymore. She noticed, and my sadness affected her. Children are so observant. Even if they are not being abused, you don't want them to see you being abused. You don't want them to grow up thinking that this type of behavior is okay.
   I don't know if my advice is any better than someone who says to stay. But as someone who has been there, I think so. I've seen women die. Not just heard about it, not just seen a statistic, I've seen women die; I've known them personally. I've seen a woman so driven to the brink, that she put a gun in her mouth and pulled the trigger. I've seen a woman overdose, just to stop the pain. I never, NEVER want to see these things again. So I think my advice is better, because I don't want to belittle anyone, or judge anyone - I just want people to be safe, and if you are in an abusive relationship, that means leaving.  

Strong and Single

   This is a story that I thought I wouldn't tell on this blog. This is very personal, and somewhat unfair, because there are two sides to every story, and even I do not fully know the other side of this story. Yet this is something that still affects my life to this day, something that I carry with me. A hurt that may never heal, so  I feel that I have the right to express my feelings and my views about the events that have shaped my life and will probably continue to shape my future. But please, as you read this, keep in mind that this is only my side of the story; my views and emotions and understanding of events.
   My daughter's birthday is in 10 days. She will be 11 years old. So of course  I spend a lot of time thinking about when she was born and when I found out I was pregnant and all that's in between that time and now. We have come very far from where we started, and this has not been easy.
  I was nineteen when I found out I was pregnant. I cried for two days straight, and they were not tears of joy. I was never going to have kids, you see. I had been careful and used birth control and protection, but the pregnancy happened anyway. I think, looking back, that I can pinpoint a few careless mistakes, but  I am not entirely sure. I may not have made any. Sometimes God intervenes and there is nothing you can do.
   My daughter's dad suggested abortion, but I couldn't do that. The thing was, however, that I had been considering leaving him, something that I have never told anyone but my sister, mom, and bestie. Now you all know, but I stayed because I didn't think I would be a good mother. I didn't think that I would love my child, as painful as that is to admit. Also, as  I said, I was 19, I was a high school drop-out; I did not have a GED. My job was really crappy, and I had no health insurance. Plus, although I had been starting to have strong doubts about my boyfriend, I was sure he would make a better parent than me. He wanted kids, he was older than me, more stable (I thought) and even had taken a semester of college, which  I thought was something, being that I didn't even have a high school education. He was in a better position to be a parent than I was.
   Then the 9/11 attacks came, while I was pregnant, on my 20th birthday (yup, I have a 9/11 birthday) and that was scary and frightening for us all. My bestie's boyfriend (now her husband) was in the Navy and was immediately shipped to Iraq, and all that fear and uncertainty that we all suffered made me even more unwilling to leave what I hoped would be the formation of a secure family for my daughter. And he used those attacks to convince me to move from Mississippi to Florida, stating his huge family wanted to help us out and would provide additional support and stability, and even lied about having a job lined up there that would bring in more money for our child. I have to admit, he didn't have to try hard to convince me, but what I didn't realize was that this move would effectively cut me off from immediate help from my family and friends. I would be all alone, states away from anyone that  I had ties with.
    Once we were there, I discovered that there was no job lined up. We were living off of his family for over 3 months and because  I had sold my car to help fund the move, I had no means of transportation, and I was not the savvy bus rider and walker that  I am now. Nor did the area  that we moved to have a good bus system, because we lived in the country and I was out of walking distance from everything. I was cut off from the world, and my world shrank to a terribly small size and the only contact with people that  I had was my boyfriend, his family, and my growing fetus.
   Signs that had warned me that leaving him would be a good thing continued to emerge. He never wanted to take me to my prenatal checkups, and I would get cussed-out for scheduling a morning appointment, even though often there wasn't much of a option in times and I took what was available, and I would have to beg his grandmother to take me. His grandmother became my sole support and the one I could rely on. She took me to many of my appointments. I loved her, and  I love her still.
    When the baby was born, her father didn't want to buy diapers, so again, I had to beg his grandma. I also had to ask her for things that I needed, because he wouldn't buy my necessities either. He had also started making cracks about me. He would say things like, "God, you're a fucking dumbass." And, "You're so stupid, but that's ok, because I love you." I didn't realize how invasive these words are, and people who say words don't matter are wrong. Because these words mattered. They touched everything that I did and everything that  I was. And I heard these comments and similar comments so often, that  I began to believe them.
   I finally got a job when my daughter was two. I couldn't stand having to beg people for things that I needed; things I had to have. He wouldn't let me use his car, but his grandmother had been buying these things for me, and she must have known some of what he was doing to me, because we were living with her because his job couldn't support us, and she allowed me to use her car. I got a job at a grocery store, and all I heard was put-downs and snide remarks about how  I didn't pull my own weight and my job wasn't good enough. By this point, I was being called dumbass and whore and bitch and all manner of names so often that these comments didn't really phase me. I could finally buy things that my daughter and I needed without having to beg for them; that was all I cared about.
   Then he was fired. The official reason was gross misconduct, but as I listened to one of his calls from the place that fired him, I heard them mention sexual harassment. He had a mean sense of humor, so I don't know exactly what he did, but  I do know that he never understood why he deserved to be fired. He had hurt me so many times with his words and jokes at my expense, that  I did understand. I feel so sorry for the woman he hurt, and still feel ashamed that someone I was with did this to another person.
   Now I was supporting us all, because he wouldn't take another job. Not couldn't find: he wouldn't take. My job was not good enough, he would not work in a grocery store. He would not work at a fast food joint. He wouldn't take any job that he considered 'beneath' him. What was good enough for me was not good enough for him.
   And through this, I was terrified to leave him. You see, at this time I was about 23, and he was about 30, and he had told me that if  I ever left him, he would take my daughter, and  I would never be allowed to see her again. He told me that if he decided to leave me, I could live with him and whoever his new girlfriend was, but if I left I would lose her. You may be wondering why I believed that, but  I did. I was terrified. Though  I had not believed that I would, I loved my daughter with all of my heart. She was, at that point, the only person keeping me alive. If  I  killed myself, like I had considered, she would be left alone with him. No one would protect her. He didn't use his hands much; in the 5 years that  I was with him, he had probably only hit me 3 or so times. But the things he said to me; those words killed my spirit. I couldn't leave her with alone with that.
   All this time, I had a coworker who suspected something was wrong. She loved me and wanted to help me, so she kept giving me information about women's shelters and abuse hotlines. But I threw all that away, and didn't pay attention until my daughter started to become terrified for me to leave her sight.  I know that there is the whole parent-separation anxiety thing, but we had been through that, and she was now 3 and had been staying with his grandmother while I was away at work. But his grandmother got really sick, and she couldn't take care of my daughter like she used too, and my daughter got scared. And then  I got scared, because  I wanted to die. What if he was hurting her too? What if she began to feel about herself the way  I felt about myself?
   So I called my mom and cried and begged, and he took us to the airport. He thought we were just going up there until he found a better job and could move out of his grandmother's, and that is actually what I thought too. Even at this point, I could not imagine being a single parent. But while  I was in Washington, around people who cared about me again, away from someone who was constantly emotionally abusing me, I started to wake up. And  I realized that I couldn't let him back into our lives. So I left him.
    But the thing that some people don't understand is how hard leaving an abusive relationship is. Emotional abuse was something I didn't even really consider as abuse. When  I thought of abuse, I thought of some person beating the shit out of their partner. I did not realize how much words could affect you. Even years later,  I am affected.
    I also live with the shame that  I allowed this to happen to me. People say that they would never tolerate this, and then  I feel weak and small, because I did. Not only did I tolerate this behavior, but  I tried desperately to change the person that  I was, because  I thought this was something that happened because  I was screwed up. I did not place the blame on him; I placed all blame squarely on myself. I feel ashamed because  I am a strong woman, but I wussified myself and made myself weak, made myself less, just to allow someone who was hurting me to have a sense of empowerment over me. And I still struggle with the sense of inferiority that  I helped to instill in myself.
    When  I went to get my GED,  I dragged my heels, because I was certain that I would fail.  I passed on the first try, having taken no GED classes and with high scores. My GED scores reflected that in reading and science, I ranked in the 99th percentile, and that in writing I ranked in the 95th percentile; math and social studies where lower, but still respectable.  But I was convinced that  I was a dumbass. I am in college now, and have been on the Dean's List every semester but one for the last 2 years, and  I still can't think of myself as a smart person. But if I never do anything else with my education, the money I spent paying for all the classes and books and computer equipment was still well spent, because my education has provided me with irrefutable proof that I do have intelligence and has helped with the rebuilding of my self-esteem and self-worth.
   Another thing that was affected was my love of writing. Those who grew up with me know that  I was always writing stories and poems, but he tore my writing down so badly that  I stopped. I have been away from him since 2005, but this blog is the first writing that  I have seriously tried to do except for school work, even with teachers telling me that  I should pursue writing, and I just started this blog not even 3 months ago. I don't consider myself a good writer, when once writing was the one thing  I was firmly confident of.
   I can't take a complement. I tend to think that the person is lying, or wrong, or just trying to be nice.  I struggle with bouts of depression and have to work on building up my esteem and self-value. These are all the after-effects of living with emotional abuse. No one realizes what words can do to you. We say 'sticks and stones can break my bones but words will never hurt me.' This is the biggest lie ever told. Words may not break your bones, but they do worse: they break your heart.
   I have been single for almost 8 years now, and  I am really much better, so don't be alarmed for my well-being: I'm good. However, I do not yet trust myself to have another relationship, because I have only had bad ones, and I will not be the only victim. My daughter will be a victim too. Everything  I do affects her, and even at 3, when we moved, she had an idea of what had been going on. I had tried to hide everything from her, but even at that young age she was telling me she was glad we moved because I didn't cry anymore. Children are observant, and they really do learn by example, and  I know how to be strong single.  I would rather have my daughter learn from me the ability to be strong and single than have her learn from me how to be a partner to someone who is abusive and has no regard for the person he is with.