MY STORY - Walking On Eggshells

Welcome to the  new segment on my blog where brave individuals share their stories of how they left, or in some cases, escaped abusive situations. Each story is different, but the main thing is that these people are fighters. Even though they were faced with difficult times, each one of them chose to believe they had the power to change their situation. We hope to inspire others to realize how much power they have over their lives, and that they too can make a change. If you wish to leave a comment, please remember that these stories are to remain anonymous. If you think this sounds like someone you know, please don't use names. We wish to protect the innocent.


Let's begin ...

WALKING ON EGGSHELLS

I remember the day I picked up the book with that title. I read the back cover, shocked to see that many traits of a person with Borderline Personality Disorder pertained to my husband. Now I’m not diagnosing him, but in that moment I felt a little less crazy. As I read the book cover to cover, my world began to make sense.  All the years of feeling like I could never do anything right, having expectations placed on me I wasn’t aware of and always fell short on, the put-downs, the apologies, turning every argument around on me so I’d question myself – in short, I knew not everything was my fault.  

When I first met my now ex-husband, we were in high school. He was polite, chivalrous, and funny. His quiet mannerisms intrigued me. He could tell a joke that would make me bust a gut laughing! Sadly, I didn’t know the pain he held down on the inside. I’d only catch glimpses of it, never realizing that his workaholism was the way in which he dealt with it. The more he worked, the less he’d have to face his pain. And to this day, he hasn’t really faced much of it.

I’d love to say we had been happy once upon a time, but our relationship was rocky from the start. We had happy moments over the years, like the day we married, the days our children were born, or family outings. A lot of the time, though, we argued. We never understood each other and always seemed to be at odds. He’d never want to take responsibility for his part in a problem always shifting blame to me. For quite a few years, I took it all upon myself for how could I think ill of him? He made me feel like I was the unreasonable one, so it must be me, right? As long as I thought everything was my fault, then he could get away scot-free without having to analyze his own behaviour, or make any changes to better our relationship. In my own head, I created this fairy tale of happy ever after. People would comment on how lucky I was to have a man like him. He worked hard, after all. But he would lie about spending money, or if I think we'd compromised, he'd go behind my back and do something anyway because in his head he heard me say, "No." I cringed inside every time someone made a comment, wishing I could tell the world how difficult it was to live with this “perfect” man.

A lot of his behaviour was childish; teasing me until I couldn’t take it anymore and I’d burst into tears, giving me the silent treatment so I’d think he was mad at me, sexually teasing me all day, making me think later we’d make love. Then he’d go to bed without saying goodnight, claiming he was too tired. His angry outbursts were unpredictable, often leaving the kids and I to wonder what would set him off. To the outside world, we were the perfect family.As the years went on, his anger would surface in increasing frequency. When he yelled, he roared. I never cowered though. If he wanted a fight, I yelled right back. When he’d take his anger out on the kids, I’d step in and protect them. It got to a point where I couldn’t live like that anymore. I grew up in a house where my parents yelled all the time, and didn’t want my kids to live that way. We went for marriage counselling for a short period, but then he wouldn’t go anymore, so I went alone. I began to face my fears one at a time. I got stronger emotionally. I became happy with myself. However, the happier I got, the unhappier he became.

I never tried to change him, but I spent a lot of time trying to figure him out. He could go from calm to rage within seconds. I wanted to know what kinds of things triggered his anger, and unfortunately, became a drill sergeant, always trying to get the kids to clean up so he wouldn’t get mad or trying desperately to do things the way he’d like them done. The kids would complain I was just like him. I lost myself in trying to keep a calm household, always changing how I behaved in order to keep the peace. It never worked because there was no rhyme or reason to his behaviour.

I’d always believed people who loved each other were supposed to take care of each other. But if I needed him in anyway, he’d make sure he wasn’t around. When I had a tumor removed, he returned to work the next day, leaving me to care for our then one year old. Years later, hospitalized with a massive breast infection, a ten minute visit with him and the kids was all the love and attention I received. He sat across the table from me and told me “to get rid of it” when we discovered I was unexpectedly pregnant. (I refused.) When I had to have a C-section with said child, he barely visited me at the hospital. After my arrival home, I remember the emotional devastation I felt when he shouted at me to get up and get the baby myself. (Anyone who has had a C-section knows what doctors tell you—to take it easy, no lifting or chores.) He told me he had too much work to do to help me. It's no wonder I battled anxiety and post-partum depression for two years.

I spent a lot of time in a busy household feeling alone. A few months after I’d left him, I found a journal I’d written twelve years prior. I’d had the same thoughts and feelings for that long. Why didn’t I leave earlier? I have no definitive answer for that. Perhaps it’s because emotional abuse and manipulation are insidious. They work their way into your psyche and the bruises are so deep you can’t always see them, or have time to deal with them. Eventually, I got the inner strength to walk away from his taunts or when he tried to pick a fight. 

The final straw came for me the night he picked on me in front of the children. My oldest daughter heard the put down, and hugged me. I knew then I didn’t want her to grow up thinking this was how a man treated a woman he supposedly loved. That night I confronted him, asking him if it made him feel better to put me down. Of course, he blathered on about how I was too sensitive and he couldn’t measure up. When we went to bed, he tossed and turned on purpose, elbowing me like a petulant child. I asked him to leave the room, so he did. The walls felt like they were closing in on me, and I needed to get out, get away, take a breather. Muttering to myself, I stomped down the hall, and slipped on my shoes. He stormed out of the living room, rage contorting his features. That night was the first time I’ve ever been truly frightened of him. He grabbed me by the arm, and threw me out the back door where I landed on the deck. (His grip on my arm left a hand-shaped bruise that lasted for over a week.) My sobs broke into the echoing sound of the slamming door. I remember looking to the heavens asking why, after everything I’d done to make our lives good, this had happened. The answer came loud and clear: the kind of relationship I wanted would never be with him. The absolute worst part was that our oldest son heard the entire altercation and to this day feels he should've protected me.

If a man had done what he did to my girls, I would’ve called the police on his sorry ass. Sadly, I didn’t that night. Only two people in the entire world knew my circumstances, and I was ashamed, afraid; you name the emotion, I probably felt it. My heart broke. The sensation in my chest was akin to someone taking a pin to a balloon. I kid you not. That’s when I realized broken hearts weren’t just a metaphor—they're real. I went numb inside. When my sobs subsided, I re-entered the house, and asked him how he could do something like that. I swore at him when my questions fell on deaf ears. Defeated, I went to bed.

It still took me months to leave but when a small issue he refused to deal with resulted in him saying he didn’t have time to work on the marriage, I heaved a huge sigh of relief, and gave myself permission to let go. I got the courage to tell him it was over. That will be a night I’ll never forget, and the weeks after were some of the more extremely difficult ones I’ll ever have to endure. He did some weird stalker-ish type things before he moved out, but once he left, the tension disappeared. The kids and I relaxed. Telling my friends and family was no picnic, but once it was out in the open, I felt like I could just be myself. And that’s all I’ve ever wanted to be in the first place.

There were times I felt so exhausted I didn’t know how I could keep going. I cried a lot, but it’s how I released stress. And I’ll never forget the day the piece of my broken heart was healed. I’d been talking to a man, one I’d been interested in. I wanted to tell him something, but was afraid of what he’d think. However, I’d promised myself that with any future relationship I would never hide myself again. If he thought it was stupid, then I’d know where I stood. Surprisingly, he did understand, and in return revealed something about himself. I heard the “click” as that broken piece of my heart fit back into place. I began to cry. Wonder of wonders, this new man wanted to talk about my feelings! I felt like someone finally understood me. I have no idea where the relationship will go. It doesn’t matter. I enjoy his company, I look forward to seeing him, and I’m content to take it day by day. I have issues to work on and more healing to do. But I'm smiling, and that means a lot.

I’ll never be the same, but then I don’t want to be. I don't want sympathy either. You've heard 20 years of my life in one short essay, so I imagine most people would wonder how I survived all of that. My answer: I just did. All the events of my life have led up to this point, and I’m at a great place now. The kids and I go for counselling regularly. My career is growing and I have many wonderful friends. And like one of my dear friends told me, and I believe more every day — I deserve to be happy. And I am. Anxieties rear their ugly head from time to time, but I strive not to worry about the future, but enjoy each day as it comes, revelling in the small joys, and secure in knowing I’ll be able to handle whatever comes my way, even if the waters get rough.