Femme Writes: Withholding is for Paychecks

On the 5th of every month, bloggers from around the world are open to write about rights and issues concerning women. First started by Shine and Marie, we’re hoping to bring a variety of women’s issues to the forefront to make people aware of what’s going on. For the month of August, we’ve chosen to write about Physical and Mental Abuse. Please join us in telling us your stories, thoughts, and ideas on a monthly basis.

I was in the break room, pouring my first cup of coffee when she opened the door. Behind a thick layer of well applied make up, a rail thin girl looked back at me with two black eyes. I asked her what happened to her, even though I already knew the answer. She told me that she ran into a door. The silence between us was thick and heavy, until I locked eyes with her.

“Just because you love him doesn’t mean he’s good for you.”

The door hardly closed behind me before I choked back my own tears.

Because I couldn’t take my own advice.

As horrible as physical abuse is, it’s easier in a way. You can see a black eye. You can see the flinch that comes with a quick movement, a raised hand. There is no question about physical abuse- lay hands on me in anger, and that’s an easy problem to identify and solve. I swore a long time ago that I would never tolerate being hit ever again. I thought I broke the cycle.

I was so very wrong.

Mental and emotional abuse is a gray area. It’s fluid. Easier to take the blame for. I have a temper and a sharp tongue of my own. I can’t say I’m not sometimes cruel or ugly. I’m difficult. Demanding. Pushy. Impatient.

It wasn’t until I got out that I let myself realize how bad it was.

I still hear those words when I look in the mirror. When I get stood up for a date. When I have a bad day.

“At least I don’t beat you like your father did…”

“You repulse me.”

“You’re crazy. You’re fucking insane.”

“If you weren’t so needy…”

“You’re just being melodramatic and hypersensitive.”

Of course, there were good times. He was very charming and loving when he wanted to be. Manipulators always are. That was what he did. He whittled away at my self esteem, at my judgment. He kept me so busy worrying about and struggling to earn his affection, attention and approval that I didn’t often take the time to consider whether or not he was worthy of my affection, attention and approval. When I did take the time and he fell short, it was always my fault. I didn’t inspire him to treat me well. I expected too much. I was too needy. I put too much pressure on him to make me happy. I needed a life of my own.

So I got one. I made friends. I started writing. I caught a huge break in my career. I started college.

Things got worse and not better. Now I loved my friends, my “screwing around on the internet”, my “corporate jet set lifestyle” and my schoolwork more than I loved him. He was suffering from neglect because of this life he asked me to build. My outside interests were proof that I didn’t care about him.

I was the selfish one. I was the foolish one. We couldn’t pay our bills because he couldn’t keep a job, but I was selfish and foolish for spending $30 at Planned Parenthood on my birth control patches instead of $5 pills. The fight that ensued was horrific, and he said something that broke my heart, something so horrible and cruel and ugly that I cannot and will not make it public.

It was my fault he wasn’t attracted to me. I was unattractive, repulsive. I didn’t take care of myself. Never mind that I stopped taking care of myself because he quit paying any attention to my appearance, because I was exhausted, because there was no time, money or energy for makeup and cute outfits while I was struggling to support both of us.

That’s all behind me now, and I’ve linked to an article that I’ve memorized to keep it from ever happening again.

If your boyfriend or husband makes you feel worse about yourself, if you find yourself walking on eggshells, if you find yourself lying (even by omission, which was my specialty) to the other people who love you, you are being abused.

Love doesn’t have to hurt.

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