Normal

...I am just one of untold thousands of ordinary women who have experienced emotional abuse. The key word here is "emotional." That's pretty vague, isn't it? So, what's emotional abuse? What's the difference in an unhappy marriage and one that is emotionally abusive? These are very complex questions. That's the problem. The answers are elusive, not easily written in succinct sentences. It's not obvious like physical abuse when a woman has a swollen lip or a black eye; in fact, it can't be seen at all. Emotionally abused women act normally to the outside world. I can almost bet that someone you know is or has been emotionally abused. Yes - I really mean it. There's that many. Comparing it to an invisible plague which gradually and insidiously creates debilitating mental trauma is a fitting image. It is contracted through years of exposure to a partner's abusive use of his controlling mental powers. Having this plague is a numbing losing-of-the-self experience. Because of the mind's protective shield of denial, the victim doesn't even know that she is infected. Its quarantine period is counted in years; mine was a half-century. My memoir will show you the answers to what you may be thinking - "Why didn't you leave?" and "How could you not realize what was happening?" I am just an example of this reality that so many endure; however, by journeying with me through the memories of my life, your awareness will be expanded. It will see and be able to trace the seemingly innocuous happenings that changed my reality. At the end, I share what I call the key to the silent prison and how to use it to escape. Please ask yourself, "Am I in this story too, or do I know someone I think may be?" Even if you answer "No" to both questions, my hope is that your consciousness will be heightened as you internalize the very real existence of this heinous abuse. I invite your mind's eye to become one with me. My deepest desire is that at the end of my story, your heart will be filled with compassion and understanding. I continue to believe that God blessed me with a childhood of unconditional love to prepare me for my coming adult life of abuse; that He wants me to share my story and what I learned, so others may be helped or enlightened. Like Robin Roberts says on the Good Morning, America show, "Make your mess, your message." I don't remember the details, but it was a weekday night. All four of us were in the living room watching television together, a normal scene of hominess if viewed from the outside. I don't remember what we were watching, probably a movie. Possibly, one of the boys casually said something or maybe one of them picked up the remote control to the television - I have no idea and never have asked. I didn't even realize that anything had happened that might set Max off. For whatever reason, he got up out of his chair and walked down the hall to our bedroom. I didn't think anything about it, and the boys and I continued to watch the show. When Max returned, he didn't say a word. He walked towards the television, stopped, and raised his right arm. I was sitting to the left and did not have a clear view, so I didn't realize that he was holding something. If I had, I would have had at least a nano-second of warning. But I didn't. Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! It was a gun in his hand, and he was shooting the television. So close! So loud! So utterly unexpected! The explosions continued in rapid succession until the gun was empty. The unrealness of the situation and the shock of someone - no, not someone - my husband and the boys' father - doing something so violent was unfathomable. My mind wouldn't accept my eyes' vision. Like a sea creature who when startled, withdraws in a flash into the supposed safety of a shell or a hole or a small cave, I ducked my emotional self into the comforting space of nothingness. I have no memory of what I did or what my children did as the cordite from the firing pistol drifted through the air, acting as if it was the gas coming through the mask that an anesthesiologist places over your face to prevent you from feeling searing pain. My survival skills had been sown - tiny seeds sprouting, peeking out of the fertile soil of my life. The first to bloom opened its petals and scattered its pollen of withdrawal which I inhaled deeply. I have since learned that a traumatized person's mind has the ability to automatically turn on an emotional mechanism that disengages feelings in order to protect the self. My time of surviving had started. As the days floated by and I continued this on-automatic life, I began to lose myself - little flakes of me silently sloughed off. The easy bantering and familial closeness between my sons and I were shattered day after night after week the instant one of them would say, "He's home." Little did I know that this was just the beginning of a living nightmare.