Statistics have always been comforting to me. They somehow help me make sense out of the world. Validate my experience or affirm my opinions with a cold hard percentage and it strangely brings me peace. It turns out, my attachment to citing statistics is somewhat of an autistic thing.
Sometimes a statistic will help me gain clarity about a decision. Like getting the vaccine in spite of the higher potential for harmful side effects my chronic illness brings, because the statistics are clear that those with the vaccine are not getting infected as much or as severely as those without, and I couldn't live with myself if I somehow infected one of my grandkids.
Here's a statistic I heard today--on average, it takes a woman seven attempts before she finally breaks free from an abuser permanently. It took me five formal separations before I finally broke free of the mindset that took me back to my husband over and over, not counting all the times I took up residence in a different bedroom, or the studio floor, or the back seat of the car, or a friends guest bedroom for a few nights. Maybe it was 6, if I count the time I checked into a hotel out of desperation. Don't even ask about my two previous marriages.
One time, early on in this marriage, he was having one of his rage episodes. Picture a tiny Godzilla storming through the house, veins popping out of his neck, eyes bulging, nostrils flaring, screaming threats as he tore through closets and drawers looking for the items deemed his whenever he raged - my car keys, my money, my checkbook, my debit cards, my phone. Anything that would enable me to seek help or land on my feet if I did escape. The punishment for making him angry was to have it all withheld and be told I had to leave, but then he would block the door and demand even more, telling me to go, while physically blocking my ability to do so.
On this particular day, I hid in my kids basement bedroom with a few of my own possessions, my purse and car keys tucked inside my coat, while I frantically packed the kids belongings into their school backpacks listening to him rage through the house overhead, demanding all the things.
We were a household of four of his kids and three of mine, all living in a single story ranch house with one bathroom and makeshift unfinished basement bedrooms we built when my kids and I moved in.
That day, I slid the window of his oldest daughters bedroom open - not an english basement, or a deep window well, with a large window - this was one of those tiny crawl space kind of windows that slid to one side, and one by one I lifted the kids that were home through and we all piled into my car for the only place I could think to escape - his ex in-laws house, because they happened to be out of town and we were keeping an eye on their place.
It wasn't long before he came looking for us there. With more raging and threats to turn me in for kidnapping, he gathered all of his offspring up and made them leave with him, screaming at them about their loyalty. About a half mile down the road, he pulled over and made his junior high aged daughter get out of the car and walk back to her grandparents because she hesitated too long when he demanded she respond in agreement that I was the enemy. I'll never forget how she rushed into my arms sobbing her anguish and confusion when she got back to her grandparents house.
It was the last time any of his kids failed to express their loyalty to dad when he raged. After that, whenever he had one of his episodes, he would gather them on the couch afterwards and whisper insulting jokes about me into their ears to make them laugh, while I cooked their dinner and walked on eggshells trying not to trigger him again.
I tried hard to prove my love to them. Went out of my way to prove I didn't favor my own kids, to my own kids detriment. The bond I tried to form with his kids was severed over and over and to this day they would agree with him that I am just another one of his crazy exes. I finally see how he painted this picture of the crazy ex to me. How easy it was to believe that story because she turned to alcohol and drugs to cope. I actively worked with him to win custody of his kids, because it was so apparent what a mess she was. God forgive me.
The raging is no longer a part of my life. We have not lived under the same roof for nearly three years now, yet we are still married. The divorce has dragged on and on. I sit here with that same pounding heart and flood of PTSD symptoms and memories welling up, as I compile an ungodly number of documents to prove that I am not hiding income from him. This was his response to my attorney informing the judge that I was in the process of applying for disability. The abuse is now being done through the legal system.
Sixty-two percent of women on disability report having been physically, emotionally, or sexually abused throughout their life. Higher still among women on the spectrum.
No comments:
Post a Comment