I have been on my knees. On the ground. On my knees. In front of the man that I loved and trusted more than anyone, begging him to stop. Begging him to stop trying to gain control through force. Begging him to stop yelling, to stop using physical intimidation, to stop scaring all of us. Begging him to hear me.
Hear me.
In a loving-kindness meditation, my teacher once repeated the following phrases, slowly and deliberately:
May I be blessed with peace.
May I be blessed with joy.
May I be blessed with love.
May I be blessed wth safety.
May I be blessed with freedom.
May I be blessed with safety. May I be blessed with freedom. These resonated deep in my body and gave me shivers. I have been searching for safety and freedom for as long as I can remember. Safety from psychological fear, from violent behaviour, and from confusion. Safety from others and from myself. Freedom from the painful thoughts, beliefs and behaviours that had developed in response to years of depression and anxiety.
I did not know at the time what abuse was when I was growing up. I did not know at the time that I was in an abusive relationship as an adult. I have never been hit, beaten or abused sexually.
I have been shaped by moments in my life when I knew that something wasn’t right and was told adamantly (by the person behaving in an abusive manner) that it was not abuse. Even questioning if what I had experienced was abuse was described to me as a dangerous and irresponsible act that would have very serious consequences.
I have been shaped by moments in my life when I witnessed abuse within my family, towards the people that I love most deeply, and was told that what I was witnessing was something else. Frustration? Maybe. Behaviour that had to change? Sure. But not abuse.
I’ve come to know now that I was experiencing intimate partner violence. I’ve come to know now that the gaslighting, violence and rage that I witnessed in my family was abuse.
I have experienced and witnessed abuse in the workplace.
I believed them when they said that it was my fault. I took on the blame and shame.
The denial and threats I’ve encountered when I’ve had the audacity to use the word abuse affected me very profoundly. I still question myself despite years (actually decades now) of numerous experts assuring me that, yes, indeed, these were experiences of abuse.
I spent many years drowning in the effects of abuse. I did not truly feel safe in my life until I was 45.
And unless you are one of the very few people with whom I have shared my story, you might not have been able to tell.
I’d done all the ‘right’ things. I had a Master’s Degree in Sociology and a secure job in my chosen profession with room for advancement. I was married with three amazing children, lived in a lovely neighbourhood, had wonderful friends and was part of a close-knit Jewish community. On paper it all looked great. Except.
I was unhappy, felt isolated and was growing increasingly frightened of what was going on in my home. As a sociologist and experienced policy advisor, I had all of the training I needed to be able to take a good hard look at problems, figure out the real issues and then find solutions. And yet none of this inoculated me from finding myself living in a toxic and violent situation in my home. Chronic stress and crises were daily parts of life. I was in a situation that I didn’t want to be in, didn’t understand, and certainly didn’t know how to handle. I felt completely alone and isolated.
I. Was. Drowning.
Every day. Again and Again. For years.
Finally accepting that there would never be a point in time when my husband and I could live together in a safe and happy way completely derailed me. Making the decision to leave my long marriage to a man I loved deeply brought me back to my knees. I FELT broken for a long time.
I have been healing and growing for many years and am still learning how to move through life’s storms with happiness, calm, grace and gratitude.
Truly acknowledging the abuse did not start until I was sitting in the police station in front of a Victim Services counsellor. I had been referred after one of the many calls I had made over a number of years to women’s shelters. It was always after something had happened that I knew was not ok but also was not sure could be identified as abuse. I always called with the same questions – What is this? What do I do now? Walking into the police station that day and sharing my observations and concerns was one of the hardest things I have ever had to do. And it was a turning point in my being able to step into the mess that I was in, clean it up and move on.