I am a writer. I am not published. You won’t find my book on some shelf at a book store. You won’t be able to download one of my novels onto to your Kindle or Nook. For years I have written stories about women, their struggles, and their happy endings. It took me years, and a long hard look at myself to realize that writing to me was a way to cope. A coping mechanism so that I wouldn’t have to admit that there was something wrong with me, with my marriage, with my life… That I was not happy.
Like I stated before in my stories there is always a happy ending. Barbara, my character ends up with Robert. Her husband Derek dies, freeing Barbara from a marriage she wanted to end but didn’t have the guts to do. Derek the man who she fell in love with in high school, her true love, swoops in, and they ride off into the sunset happy and in love. End of story. It’s so simple to write the happy ending but in the real world nothing is simple. At least in my case the word simple isn’t even part of my vocabulary, because there is nothing simple in my life.
Well that’s not true. That’s no longer the case. Once upon a time there was nothing simple about my life, now after years of struggling, of taking a hard look at myself, after enduring a horrific war that I didn’t ask for, I can admit that simple is a word that is now in my new vocabulary, along with the word survivor.
Because that’s really who I am a survivor. I had a blog once. Three years ago. A blog that was private and only friends were able to read it because I needed to vent. I needed to tell my story. There were four entries. It was raw. It was true. It was me. Recently I deleted it. But it took me three years to be able to do that. To have the strength to delete my words which detail the war I had to face. When I say detail, I mean detail. It was a blog that I used to humiliate my husband. I gave the link to everyone who knew us. I did it as a means of revenge. Back then I use to say vent, but now I can admit it was also revenge.
If you were to see me, one day and you had no idea who I was, you wouldn’t see anything but a regular woman who dresses well and loves to read while sipping tea. You may even catch a glimpse of my hubby giving me a nice long kiss. The type of kisses that make a woman’s toes curl. I love those kisses. When they stopped it killed me inside. The thought of not having those kisses was not something I would want to lose. I’m thankful that before I sat down to write these words, he gave me that kiss and said I love you. Write. It’s you. Writing is who you are. So, I’m writing.
There is nothing extraordinary about me. I don’t have a tattoo on my forehead that reads VICTIM. But truly, I am a victim – A woman who endured emotional, mental, and verbal abuse; a woman who took it but also gave it right back. I did have a choice. I could have chosen to leave. But I didn’t, I didn’t leave I stayed. If my husband who we will call Mr. Newport and I argued, I wasn’t the meek little woman who said nothing. I was the woman who could insult right back. I gave it back to him without realizing that what we were doing was ugly. That it affected our children. And I could have chosen to break the cycle but I didn’t. Instead I got really good at throwing things at his head. If he called me a name, I would call him something worse. The arguing didn’t happen every day. We were happy for a good part of our relationship. But when it did start boy was it bad. And as I write this I have to admit that he too was a victim. As you read my story you may not think so. I sure as hell didn’t. But in my journey I came to the realization that there was no way I could not admit that I too abused him. I will get to that later. It’s too long to explain. And right now I really don’t want too. Right now I’m writing about me in hopes that a woman or man reads this and is offered a bit of hope or courage. Because the truth is that many blogs I read gave me hope and courage to make changes in my life.
Victim is a hard word to explain at least in my case. I didn’t realize that I was a victim until recently. To me a victim was something different. It was at least in my head someone who had survived a horrible tragedy – A woman who had been beaten by her husband, whose bruises could be seen. While he never put his hands on me and I don’t have the bruises or broken bones, I do carry inside me scars.
Victims of mental, verbal, and emotional abuse are not only women. They are also men. Its not discriminated by gender, wealth, or age. Mental abuse and emotional abuse is awful. There are many different ways to describe it. Most who are victims don’t. It’s not something that is easily explained, or even something that most want to explain to someone who they may know or don’t know. It’s a secret. It’s shameful. It’s horrible. It’s confusing and hard to admit.
I know that three years ago if a male friend had said to me “I am a victim of mental abuse by my wife” I would have looked at him like he had three heads. I wouldn’t have understood his words and no way would I have told him I too was a victim of the same thing his wife was doing to him. I had yet to realize my true reality. I had yet not undergone the transformation I began too. I was not the woman that is writing these words. I also thought my hubby was the biggest shit in the world and no way would I have ever said he too is a victim, he is a victim of me.
Talking to people about the struggles we face when our spouses treat us like dirt causes people to be judgmental. To give their opinions which we don’t ask for, but they give it to us anyway.
Example: I told my college roommate who knew both my hubby and me, she laughed. She said you two argue. He is a great guy, quit throwing things at his head. I didn’t say another word to her about it. I just kept quiet. I enjoyed the good days in my marriage, I wrote, I read books. I talk to my friends. . But it got worse. The fights were horrific and the silence the dreaded silence that’s what ended up breaking me. I was ignored. Being taken for granted, feeling invisible. I cried about it. I screamed about it. I told my best friend Glow worm about it. I even spoke to my husband about it. But nothing changed.
I became a woman I’m not proud of. I decided if he was going to make me feel invisible and cause me pain, I was going to do the same. As I think about it now, I can hear his words in my brain. “How simple it would have been if we had talked.”
But I don’t think it would have been simple and it sure as hell wasn’t. I don’t think we would have changed. I doubt it. In life we have to endure some harsh realities that force us to become different people. As I write these words I am not the same woman who I use to be. I had to realize who I was, what I could endure. I had to get strength from a place inside me that I had no idea exist. Because, I had to fight a war. While I was crying and praying that Mr. Newport would snap out of his depression or whatever it was he was going through and would pay attention to me.
A grenade exploded in my life. Her name is the Bunny Boiler – The woman that my husband had an affair with and the reason that I am a survivor. This blog is about my journey. What I endured. What I learned. About hope, knowing your worth and most of all how my marriage changed and how I am no longer a victim because I will never accept it. I now know what I’m worth and Mr. Newport knows where the door is. Three years after DDay I write these words in hope that a man or a woman reads them and is helped by them.