My Survivor Story and Continued Healing Journey
It’s been about 12 years since I got out of an abusive relationship. Understanding how this trauma is connected to my childhood trauma and attachment to abuse in general has been - and continues to be - a journey I’ll learn from for the rest of my life. When your earliest years of life include such violent and traumatic experiences, being violated emotionally, physically and in so many other ways eventually becomes the norm, seemingly a fact of life. It did for me anyway, and I didn’t even realize it until decades later (these childhood details will be another story for another day).
An Emotionally Abusive Marriage
Before I was in a physically abusive relationship, I was in an emotionally abusive marriage. I was married to my college sweetheart who was smart and creative–and not really like other men I had dated. The truth is though, our relationship was broken and terrible long before we were married. I was far too young and didn’t realize it was okay for me to have expectations of my partner. The hurts were varied and constant–whether it was having no concern for the 4 jobs I had to work to support us while he was in graduate school or choosing to get drunk with his classmates rather than spend time with me on the rare occasion I had a night off. Or making sure I never left the house without a comment about what I was wearing or how I looked (HINT: his comments were never nice or positive). On the brink of divorce, we went to one therapy session where my now ex-husband admitted to all of his emotionally abusive behaviors: gaslighting me, manipulation, taking up so many of my emotional and financial resources–the truth is, he just didn’t like me, and he reminded me every day. I remember him telling the therapist that he knew what he was doing was wrong but couldn’t promise he wouldn’t do it again. Something in me snapped, and I started laughing–it was somewhat of an out of body experience. I hadn’t laughed in so long, and here I was laughing at the admission that he had been treating me like shit for the better part of a decade. I stood up and told him, “I have no more time to give you. I’m done.” And I walked out the door.
“ I stood up and told him, “I have no more time to give you. I’m done.” And I walked out the door. ”
The decision wasn’t easy. Being a first generation, daughter of immigrant parents, plus the very specific feelings about divorce within my Palestinian culture, meant there were more dynamics at play than the simple fact that I was miserable and suicidal. I was the first person from the US-based family to get a divorce, and that decision came with judgment. My mom couldn’t comprehend my being able to take care of myself without a man in my life. I would remind her over and over that I had been working four jobs to provide for both of us, and that the ex-husband actually wasn’t contributing a cent to our livelihood. (I’m happy to report that today, my mom understands and I think even appreciates my independence). My dad was so upset with my decision to get divorced that he did not speak to me for months. In my parents’ defense, they had no idea how unhappy I was because I had never told them. As stubborn and rebellious as I’ve always been, there was something my mom would tell me often as a young woman and into my adult years– “Don’t talk to your family about what’s wrong in your marriage or to your husband about what’s wrong with your family…you will get over it, and they’ll always remember.” I took this advice to heart in the most extreme way–I didn’t tell anyone anything. Not even my brothers, who are two of my very best friends. My older brother moved in with us while we were in the midst of a guest bathroom renovation, which meant he would have to use ours. I remember him asking me, “Won’t that be weird–I mean what if I walk in on you two or something…” I laughed and said, “Seriously nothing to worry about there…” He didn’t ask for an explanation and I didn’t offer one–but we were not having sex, ever. If I tried to initiate anything, he always had an excuse of why he couldn’t or wouldn’t.
Coping After Emotional Abuse - The Hard Way
There was almost unconscious judgment from some friends and family when I told them we were getting a divorce–that sad head tilt, followed by, “awwwww…you couldn’t make it work?? Maybe if you worked less…didn’t have so many strong opinions…weren’t so career-driven…” And then there was just pure malice–things like one family member, an aunt by marriage, who told people that the ex got sick of me and left. Another opined, “He doesn’t beat you and he’s not on drugs…what’s the problem…” Yes, those words were actually spoken in an attempt to have me reconsider the divorce.
On this day so many years ago, I had no idea how my life would be forever changed …
As a means to distract myself from being 20-something and divorced, I started to go on a lot of dates. Not the best decision in the world–I understand now that distracting myself was synonymous with not addressing my feelings and how the entire relationship actually affected my well-being. During that time, I was managing a gubernatorial campaign in Texas. My candidate was hosting a big event in Dallas with Willie Nelson that required special press access. There was a guy there from a local magazine–he was charming, funny and handsome. He checked a lot of boxes, but he also showed me some immediate red flags. Shortly after meeting him, I actually journaled that I had met an attractive, charming man at the Willie event and that he, “...seemed to be the kind of guy who always says the right things but shouldn’t be trusted…” I knew in my gut that something was wrong. And I ignored it. I took his constant questions about where I was and what I was doing as sweet and just being concerned–after getting out of a marriage where my husband couldn’t have cared less about where I was or my well-being, it was a welcomed change–so I thought.
Once I was spending more time in Dallas, It didn’t take long for his concern to reveal itself as control. He demanded to go to work events with me. His movements were so sly, so perfectly calculated, that I didn’t even realize he was worming his way into my existence, my self-worth. He had convinced me that I couldn’t function without him. He made me think that my ability to successfully execute the work I had been doing for over a decade was somehow wrapped up in his presence, and that I couldn’t operate at my best if he wasn’t around, supporting me.
Not Just Physically Abusive–But Also a Total Mind Fuck
The physical abuse started about a month into the relationship. He would throw me on the bed and wouldn’t let me leave his apartment when we would argue. I remember thinking to myself, ‘Come on, it's a bed…it’s not like that hurt…’ In the months that followed, it escalated to throwing me against the wall and holding me by my neck and slapping me. Each time he would beat me it was more violent than the last. Eventually he began to throw me onto the floor and kick and punch me until I would give up and wish he would just kill me so it would stop. Right at that moment, the moment when I would be sobbing and give up trying to get him off me, he would get down on the floor with me, put his arms around me and say, “Don’t cry. I’m here.”
He knew my vulnerabilities and weaknesses after such a terrible marriage. He knew that my confidence was at an all-time low and I was faking every shred of confidence I presented out in the world. He also knew that I felt sorry for him and thought his family treated him unfairly. The very first time I met his dad, his father said to me, “You seem like a nice girl–[He] is not a great guy–if I was you I would run away and never look back.”
During this time, I got really good at covering up the reality I was living in…
It was the ultimate mind fuck from someone who read me like a book, and I was primed to receive it. He had complete control–over my emotions, my finances, my movements. It was never clearer than a time in May when one of my best friends from high school was getting married in our hometown, and I was one of her bridesmaids. The abuser and I were staying at my parents’ house with two of my best friend’s colleagues staying in the room next door because hotels were incredibly expensive during that weekend. He got upset that I went out with my friends after the rehearsal dinner when he didn’t want to go. When I got back, we started arguing. He threw me on the bed and started choking me. I remember thinking that this was it–he was going to kill me and it was going to happen at my parents’ house. I was flailing and trying to get him off me. I punched him in the face, hard enough that it shocked him and he moved backward. I ran out of the room and to my parents’ side of the house. I sat in the kitchen, in the dark, hoping he would just leave me alone.
He never came out of the bedroom. The next day, he told me I owed the people staying in the room next to us an apology because I was being “so loud and inappropriate.” He knew the control he had over me–so much so that he knew he could nearly choke the life out of me at my parents’ house and I wouldn’t say anything–he said it was my fault, and I believed him. The very next week he even told my older brother that I had punched him in the face. My voice, my backbone, all of my self-worth, was gone. I wouldn’t tell my brother the full story of what happened until months after finally escaping the relationship.
I believed it was my fault and stored that shame in the deepest parts of myself–in my bones. It was the source of my self-judgment for so long as I tried to find myself again. Not shame and judgment because I was living with this secret. Not shame and judgment because I was presenting myself in public as a strong woman who had her shit together–someone who was working with and advising incredibly high profile individuals, from politicians to professional athletes, all while hiding this secret. The energy that it took to publicly present strength and poise is not something I would fully understand the effects of until years into my mental and emotional wellness journey. I was ashamed because I believed him and I really thought it was my fault and that I did owe my best friend’s colleagues an apology.
I had a necklace that I wore every single day from the age of 18–when I got to his apartment later than expected from a meeting, he became so upset that he walked up behind me in his closet, pulled and broke my necklace and punched me in the back. I fell to the floor. He stood over me, punching and kicking me. I flailed around, desperate to get him off me, and I scratched his face. It angered him more and he started beating me harder. For the first time in nearly two years, he left bruises on my face and neck. That was the beginning of the end–he left marks I couldn’t justify or lie about.
In textbook fashion, he would use the scratches on his face to create a narrative that I was in fact the abusive one. He would even say to people, “You know she powerlifted in high school, right?” A part of his story that he would repeat as a means to excuse himself even though he was nearly twice my size. A friend of mine at the time caught onto what was happening and confronted me about her theory–she had seen other bruises on my body before, but the scratch on his face, and the bruises on my face and neck confirmed her suspicion. She called me and said, “I know what’s going on, and he will never touch you again…” I didn’t make excuses. I didn’t lie. I breathed what I think was a sigh of relief and began to cry.
It’s Called Textbook for a Reason
He was a master manipulator and knew exactly what buttons of mine to push. He stalked and harassed me. He sent me texts and voice messages telling me that I was “playing the victim,” that no one would ever believe me, and that I had better keep my mouth shut. He said it was all my fault one minute, and then cried about how much he needed me and missed me the next. There were moments when his manipulation worked, and I tried to run back to him–going back to old refrains like I caused the abuse and it was my fault. One day, a friend said something that finally clicked, “If some guy left me these text messages and voice messages, would you, in a million years, let me go back to him?” This simple question seemed to turn something back on inside of me–an understanding that I would never sit by and watch this happen to someone else. Why wasn’t I showing myself that kind of love?
I eventually filed a police report that would later be completely mishandled (Note to anyone leaving an abusive relationship: Do not trust that law enforcement has your best interest at heart. Keep copies of everything–voice messages, pictures, texts…EVERYTHING. If you’re not a priority or are an inconvenience in any way, police have a convenient way of “losing” things. And bonus–there’s a long tradition of moving law enforcement around when they are caught mishandling evidence and cases…this will also be another story for another day).
In 2012, my work took me out of state for the better part of a year. After not being able to go anywhere alone for so long, it made me feel safer to be 1000 miles away from him. But feeling safer didn’t mean not being triggered. Men who had even a slight resemblance, certain words and movements–even being touched on the shoulders or someone trying to get my attention from behind– would bring back terrible memories, wrapped in fear. I obsessively checked my doors to make sure they were locked and didn’t like anyone to stand behind me. I was scared, broken, and a version of myself I didn’t recognize. Old traumas were bubbling to the top as well–all wrapped up in my brain that seemed to be turning on me and not allowing me to suppress thoughts and memories as I had in the past.
Self Discovery and My Wellness Journey
It was clear I needed professional help. I didn’t know what that meant or looked like. I grew up in a culture where everything was always “fine” and you didn’t talk about what was wrong, trauma, or anything that would let on that things weren’t perfectly in place. I had no experience or understanding of therapy at the time. So I wasn’t aware that finding the right fit on the first try might not happen. I was making so little money that finding someone I could afford made everything that much more complicated. Eventually though, I got lucky and found a woman who was willing to work within my budget and actually specialized in translating dreams as they related to trauma. She was absolutely amazing and helped me work through the very early stages of my grief and self-judgment. When she retired only 6 months later, she introduced me to a colleague who would be taking over for her. Let me just say that this new therapist was a bad fit. The only time I felt more judged during my healing process was when I filed the police report and the detective assigned to me grilled me for 30 minutes about why I stayed. I stopped seeing that therapist and wouldn’t try again for about 7 years.
I’m not a therapist, and everyone’s process is different and should be handled in partnership with professionals. I will share that for me, I fell into the trap of believing healing is linear–that I address an issue and then I’m “all better.” It became another source of self-judgment–thinking things like, “I already addressed this…why is it coming up again??” But the truth is, the work is ongoing, and there are so many layers. What helped me most was to do my best to be curious with myself, rather than judgemental–a realization that one of my dear friends and mentors, Suzy Batiz, helped me to understand (read more about my mental health and wellness journey here). Eventually, through intentional and consistent work, I recognized that I do in fact deserve to be happy. I am worthy of love and appreciation. And there is such a thing as healthy relationships.
As Suzy often says, there is no intrinsic value in judging ourselves. There’s not a single strategy to find our way out of abusive situations. Unfortunately, some people brought their own judgment into my experience. I had to learn and internalize that those judgments were their own, their opinion, and based on their own experiences that I didn’t always fully understand either. My work has been and still is to move past what anyone else may think or believe, past others’ judgments and into a place embracing my process and my journey forward.
There are still difficult moments, and I have to be intentional about navigating where certain feelings are coming from. Even putting this essay out into the world has taken me the better part of a year–I have had to work on acknowledging and embracing that it will never be perfect. But I’m confident saying I’ve made progress and hope sharing my story might help anyone out there feeling isolated, alone, helpless or maybe blaming themselves.
When I talk about my journey, it’s not just the “journey of healing.” It’s also been the journey of discovery–what kind of resources and processes are out there? What works best for me? And yes, who works best for me? I did talk therapy for many years, and it’s great. But it only took me so far. The same friend and mentor who helped me to see this process as a lifelong journey also helped me discover Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing (EMDR) therapy. This was a game changer for me–it helped me move from talking about my traumas and being triggered by them to remembering, discussing and NOT reliving the nightmare. Hypnotherapy has also been helpful as a supplement to EMDR and talk therapies. Again, these are processes that have helped me through my journey–it’s important to remember we’re all different and have different needs. I don’t have all the answers but do hope this might open the door for some people to explore what’s out there and discover themselves again…or for the first time.
Sources: https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/books/NBK499891/#:~:text=Family%20and%20domestic%20violence%20is,are%20victims%20of%20domestic%20violence.
Resources that could be helpful:
https://www.betterhelp.com/ - I have not used this site personally, but it has been highly recommended by sources I trust.
