Surviving seven years of abuse

By: A Cogent

I was being held up by my throat… and as he hissed at me in a drunken rage, threatening to do the same he’s done to enemy soldiers during his time of combat, all I could think was “I’m going to die.” I began to try to gasp for breath. But I couldn’t even take one in. He dropped me on the floor, and I remember attempting to gain air at that point.

But the world turned black.

The next thing I knew, I was waking up on the floor.

I don’t know how long I had been lying there, face down. But what I do remember is that he didn’t even seem to notice. He was too busy going through my watch that he must have taken off my wrist while I was unconscious. He was more concerned about whom I had texted for help right before he grabbed me, than he was about my well being.

It all hit me like a ton of bricks, much faster than it takes to describe. I remember screaming in terror as he turned his gaze on me. I tried to scramble to my feet, but he towered over me. I cowered as close to the corner of the kitchen cabinet as I could. I began sobbing.

“What are you whining about?!” He taunted.

“You… you…” I stuttered. I was trying to catch my breath still, it seemed. “You almost … killed me.”

He laughed. He actually laughed. “You’re so dramatic,” he retorted.

I stared in shock. Did he really not know? Was he that drunk? Or did he not care? Utter panic filled my body. “YOU ALMOST KILLED ME.” I yelled it stronger, louder, in an almost desperate attempt to snap him back to reality.

He got on eye level. Smiled. And said “I could. You don’t think I’ve ever taken a life before?!”

It was then I knew I had to slow my panic and figure out a way to get away. I knew he’d block my way to the car. He’d done it before. I spied my phone lying on the counter. I scrambled back up to my feet as he threw my watch in my face “You put a f***ing PIN on this?! What are you trying to hide?!! Who did you call?!”

I grabbed the pot of steaming rice on the stove next to me, and threw it at him. I heard his string of expletives, and then another laugh. But it gave me enough time to run up the stairs, grabbing my phone on the way. I heard him follow me, as he yelled out taunts. He was actually amused.

I dialed 9-1-1. When he made it up to me, I was crying into the phone. “He’s gonna kill me. I don’t know if he even knows. He’s gonna kill me.”

He grabbed my wrist, twisting it tightly. “You b**ch.” But I yelped in pain, and I was relieved to feel him let go, and turn. I heard the front door slam downstairs. I sank down on the floor, trembling. I’ll never forget how my body felt in that moment. It was the first time I had trembled that hard out of pure terror.

By the time the police arrived though, I was already internally defending him. Prepared with a plea. Yeah, that’s right. I blamed the whole thing on his PTSD. “I don’t know where he went.” I said. Apparently he had been waiting for them to come, and had attempted suicide by cop. Now, he was in their car. And they were attempting to see how much damage he had done.

“Did you land on your head?”

“Why do you have rice on you?”

“Ma’am, the EMT’s are here. Can they check on you? We need to clear you from a concussion.”

I tried to explain. But I was so focused on his well-being. “He doesn’t know,” I kept saying.

One of them actually seemed to understand, “He seems like the man you fell in love with, until he snaps… until he drinks… until he’s not?”

7 years. 7 years I held onto such an explanation. Defending. Pleading. Even in court, months later, when he had attempted to drive me off the road, carrying a loaded gun. I had a very good friend who tried to tell me the truth. But I was too ensnared. I was determined to save him from himself, even if it meant I lost myself.

Which I did. I did lose myself. Even if I made it physically, internally I felt … and was… dead. And you know what’s crazy?! I initially went to therapy not for my trauma, but because I thought I needed to be a better wife, because I had nothing else to give. I thought I was failing.

It didn’t take long for me to be shown otherwise. At this point, I wanted better for my daughters, and was much more open to the truth. 2 questions from my therapist (and many more things later on) struck me during this time: 1. So he knows to stop if you call for help? 2. So he knows he loses it when he’s drinking, but he drinks anyway?

“He won’t stop drinking,” I remember saying. “Even when he came back from jail and mandated rehab, his first demand of me was to go buy some beer.”

“And you still blame yourself for calling 9-1-1?”

“It ruined his ability to get a job for 5 years.”

“You almost died.”

“He didn’t realize.”

“And when he was told? When he was sober, what did he say when he knew?”

“He laughed.”

I winced as I admitted this out loud for the first time. It was the first time since that year that I recounted the story. It was the first time in years that I admitted his continued abuse. It was the first time I ever called it abuse. It was the first time I said out loud since that night I was screaming it: “He almost killed me.”

I’ve since embraced the truth that trauma is not an excuse to be abusive toward others. He used his childhood and combat trauma as an excuse to become an abusive alcoholic. And I let him. Until it was pointed out to me: “You too have trauma. And yet you’re here, trying to figure out how to be a better wife. What’s wrong with this picture?”

It took several more months before I let the truth fully sink in. I started the process of separation, but it was indeed a process.

It’s taken years to unprogram myself from the lies that kept me ensnared in the abusive cycles I was in for 7 years.

But now I share my story with others so they know they are not alone. Because there are so many layers and facets to an abusive relationship— not the least of which is the feeling of isolation.

I share mostly on my page “Woven with Wounds.” My mission is to reach that ONE person who needs to know she’s not alone. As a mother of two littles who’s also since found a healthy and loving spouse, navigating motherhood and life in general has been intense as I’ve sought to heal, and not pass on toxic habits to my children. Intense yet, I’ve found, possible.

This is just a glimpse into my story, but I will always share these because truly any abusive relationship only has glimpses, as layers are uncovered. Praying for another step toward freedom for anyone reading this.