In The Shadows Of My Mind

My abuser has a space in my mind and doesn’t pay rent.

Photo by Joe Gardner on Unsplash

It’s been 12 years since the Detroit police took him away in handcuffs. The trial nearly sent me over the edge or would have had he not realized his goose was cooked and pleaded guilty. Even though to this day, he maintains his innocence. I deserved it. He was training me. That was his argument to the court and to me.

It seems cliched to say that the whole relationship wasn’t bad. Almost as if I’m making excuses for my abuser. The truth is much more complex than that. On the surface, to people who have not been through it, yes it can seem as though excuses are being hatched to excuse his behavior. However, there are good times in the worst relationships. Abusers know they need to thread the needle, give their victim something to hold onto.

It’s these times that they use to defend themselves. “Are you seriously complaining after we had a nice dinner out?” My abuser would use that line often. Or he would brag about how hot the sex was. This was a big one with him, the more he could lead me to a happy ending, the more he ensnared me in his nasty web.

The first time he punched me, it was because he was watching Star Trek: Voyager and after about 7 hours, I wanted to watch something that wasn’t that. After a small argument that was going nowhere, I decided that maybe it was time for me to go for a walk. This would not do, since he was expecting dinner right at 6pm. When I told him to feed himself, he punched my nose. Even now it twitches when someone asks what I’m making for dinner. The coppery taste of blood fills my mouth.

Almost immediately after he hit me, the apologies poured in like quicksand. “I’m so sorry, baby. It’ll never happen again.” But it always happened again. There’s never a time when it doesn’t happen again. Forgiveness is the abusers’ cue to keep doing it because there are no consequences. To get to the forgiveness, the abuser will always turn on the charm.

They are so good at it, many people won’t believe the victim. When I started talking about being hit by my abuser, everyone was shocked. “Him? Really? No, you must be confused.” Because I couldn’t possibly tell who was whooping my ass and there were so many guys lining up to do so. It wasn’t until recently that I realized how he had manipulated everyone and not just me.

Saying I should have noticed the signs is a bit like saying Trump is a crook. It’s an easy thing to say until you’re wrapped up in the drama of the relationship. There was not a moment when I was not under scrutiny. Despite working AND going to school full time, my abuser expected me to have dinner on the table for him when he got home from his part-time job. One night I missed the deadline and there was Hell to pay. He punched me and let me know what was expected. The next day I dropped out of school.

That isn’t a poor me line. Rather just a simple fact. Truth be told, I wasn’t exactly doing my best in classes as it was. My body was worn out and what little self-esteem I had was being used to fend off depression. The constant beatings and beratings were taking their tolls.

When I wasn’t the punching bag, I was the fat one. For someone like me, who had built their value on being the prettiest, the thinnest, the most desirable one around, it hurt. There were constant digs at my expanding waistline. “I like my guys with a little extra meat on their bones.” Even as he would point to twink after twink being the one he wanted to screw in front of me. Why did I stay?

Useless fear. My abuser had me so convinced that no one would love me that I bought into the hype. Nobody wants to die alone. And that was my fate, he promised, if I broke up with him. Or got out of line. Even that didn’t work though.

What the abusers don’t tell you is that they just want to hit you. They feel horrible about themselves and want you to be just as miserable as they are. He got his wish. Nothing about that relationship worked. And yet neither of us seemed to want to leave it.

His wanting to keep it going makes sense. I paid for everything. Literally. His car payment, insurance, even his cell phone bill were covered by my check. That was on top of the rent, utilities, and groceries. Man, what was wrong with me? That’s a fair and unfair question.

Careful examination of my mindset at the time shows that I was under duress and dickmatized. It sounds strange, doesn’t it? As bad as the relationship was, the sex was awesome. For months after he was arrested, I found myself tempted into trying it just one more time with him. Ultimately, the rational side of me won out. But I would be remiss to act as if there wasn’t a lust factor in play.

He told friends about some of the things we did in bed. At one point, he tried to force me to perform certain acts on his friends. If I loved him, I would just shut up and do what I was told. The ensuing fight nearly brought the building down. Not only was I not attracted to the friend but I was not someone’s sex slave. Even if he thought I was. And trust me, he did think I was.

Not just a sex slave. My abuser thought of me as his property. He could tell me to do whatever he wanted and I should jump to it. For a long while, that is how it worked. No part of me wanted to rock the ship. Even if it were a living Hell, it was what I knew and what I was comfortable with. Still, I knew it wasn’t healthy nor would I be able to stay alive long term if the relationship continued on. Then he brought up the one subject where we had always agreed was a big no.

Kids. At some point during our time together, he decided he wanted to have children. I was expected to stay at home and raise them. Like a 50s housewife or Rosie the Robot. There was no conversation, outside of him telling me that it was happening. Over my dead body, I retorted. That went over about as well as one would imagine.

He told me that it wasn’t negotiable. When I struck back with he had to prove he could go without hitting me, all bets were off. Being hit was my fault. There were lessons that I needed to learn and since I didn’t learn them the nice way, well, that was my fault. When I countered that nobody forced him to hit me or teach me any lessons, he explained to me that his dad taught him it was his job to keep his partner in line.

With that, I told him I didn’t need to be kept in line. He went to bed angry. Too bad. Pleased with myself, I called my friend on the phone. After a while, my phone died. I sat in the living room and let it charge. If I went into the bedroom, I knew we would end up in bed having angry sex. Then he would win and I didn’t want that to happen. Maybe if I held strong, he would see me for the strong, independent man I thought I was.

Such a stupid thought to have. My abuser saw my insubordination as more evidence that I needed to be subdued. This time though, it wasn’t his fists he hit me with. At some point, I fell asleep on the couch and woke up to a metal blade pressed against my throat. Tears streamed down his eyes as he threatened to kill me if I ever even thought of breaking up with him.

Thank God a neighbor overheard the arguing and saw something disturbing in the window. They called the police, who arrived in the nick of time. For those few minutes between waking up and them arriving, I was certain that my time was coming to an end. He tried to play the victim but they saw right through him and arrested him on the spot.

Most days, I don’t think about him. Truthfully. What happened has very much shaped me and made me the way I am but the actual abuse gets very little conscious thought. However, in the deeper recesses of my mind, he lingers there. Convincing me that I am not worthy of love. Telling me that no man can ever love me the way he did.

For the record, I believe he is wrong. There is someone special, who has taken the time to show me the love and compassion a partner should show.