I’ve been doing some reading, and a lot of thinking this weekend.
I am starting to admit what I have not been able to.
My husband is verbally abusive to me.
I re-read a book that I hadn’t looked at in a long time, The Verbally Abusive Relationship by Patricia Evans. I read it first when I interned in a program for battered women (can we say “irony” boys and girls?).
He is not a yeller. I have never been afraid of physical violence. Most of the “conversation” examples in the book were nothing like what I experience. But it was still so dead on. I spent much of Saturday afternoon and evening in shock because of how accurately me and my situation were described by the book.
Where does this leave me? I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know.
Maybe I feel a little bit less like it’s my fault, though.
And yesterday I called my mom. I opened up a door there. I don’t want this to be a secret anymore. I’ve been hiding this, protecting him, and taking part in my own undoing for so long–because I never wanted anyone to think badly of him, of us. Before today I had only ever told one friend about the things he has said to me, the belittling, crazy-making, scornful, sarcastic things he says to me. I was so ashamed.
I don’t know where this is going. I am already stronger at setting boundaries (which has never been a strong suit of mine). Things should get interesting, to say the least.
This is so hard.