my voice had long been silenced when that day came suddenly jolting us out of pretense
your roar slashed through a quiet evening iron fists splintered the pretty blue dresser she’d painted herself
thin shell of decorum shattered our family’s ugly shame exposed
then a chain reaction
gone– nervous fretting before you walked in the door all the names you would call me muscular arms pinning me down your handprints marking my skin in blues and purples
gone– my pillow & fuzzy blanket that white ceramic pitcher I loved my paintings four baby books those little details written down so I wouldn’t forget our babies’ favorite foods tricks for soothing fussiness
did she prefer pears or bananas? was it bouncing or swaying that lulled him to sleep? little flecks of gold left behind in the wake of our undoing
now, notebooks filled with therapy notes a calendar packed with counseling appointments and endless court dates
a sorrow-full trade
how do you grieve a loss you wanted? how do you mourn rescue?
I miss Snowpaws she used to push her face into my palm and walk all over my keyboard her tail tickling my nose that stupid cat how could I have known I would never see her again?
I wish I had told you one more time– not that it would have meant anything to you– I loved you I didn’t want it to be this way
I grieve the cost of your violence the losses are innumerable and I am ever coming up short to replace them
you lost your whole family in a day yet, I can finally breathe.
we found freedom exchanged dignity for safety
my feelings crash up against each other an incongruent mess longing, relief terror, jubilation compassion, bitterness like one of those ugly abstract paintings where the colors don’t make any sense and I think, this isn’t art.
I tilt my head where is the beauty? is it safe to hope?
an upward curve a smudge of yellow here is that sunshine peeking through the dirt?
Considering that 1 in 3 women will experience domestic violence in her lifetime, chances are that you have a friend or family member who’s in an abusive relationship right now. When your loved one shares that she is experiencing abuse, or you observe it firsthand, your first instinct may be to urge her to leave, but it isn’t as simple as that. Leaving an abusive relationship is a process that can take months or even years. For the victim, leaving puts her at an even greater risk of physical danger and even death. Only she can know if and when it’s safe to get out.
Here’s how you can provide help and support to your loved one that won’t place her in harm’s way as she navigates this complex situation:
Believe her. Abusers have very high standards for who they’ll allow into their lives. They want someone trustworthy who won’t lie to them, someone with a good and kind heart who will think the best of them, and someone patient and self-sacrificing enough to endure their mistreatment. A victim will often be confused and exhausted because of the emotional and mental abuse she’s suffered. Remember that these characteristics are symptoms of abuse, and should be treated as evidence that she’s telling the truth.
Don’t attempt to fix or rescue her. Though she is in an awful situation, know that she is strong and capable. She’s had no choice but to be; she wouldn’t have survived thus far otherwise. What she truly needs is someone to affirm her ability to advocate for herself and to walk alongside her as she emerges from the fog of denial. Rather than opine about what you think she should do, ask her what she thinks she should do. Only give suggestions if she asks for your input. Remember that she is bearing a heavier load than you can probably imagine; therefore, refuse to become impatient with her perceived level of progress. For every visible change you see, there is much more going on under the surface.
Don’t try to be her voice; instead, encourage her to resurrect her own. As advocates, we often focus on being “a voice for the voiceless” and we forget that God has actually given us each our own unique voice. Part of abuse is the silencing of one’s voice. Whether by intimidation or contempt, a woman has her voice forcibly silenced or she learns to bury it herself. Encourage her to speak up by being curious about her thoughts and feelings, and listening with interest and acceptance. Speak words of honor and validate her feelings, even if you don’t fully understand or agree with her perspective.
Foster a holistic and well-rounded relationship. Do not let the abuse or the abuser become the main focus of your friendship. He’s already stolen so much from her, don’t let him have you, too. Abusers take up most of the room in their relationships; thus your friend has learned to make herself small and live centered around him. Make space in your friendship for her personality and humanity to come alive. Your friend is a person to know, not a project to fix. A healthy friendship has layers. Ask her what music she’s been listening to or send funny memes back and forth. Keep a sense of sincere and light-hearted play, so she knows she has a place she can go to rest and be seen.
Refuse to be intimidated by her abuser, but follow her lead. Any abuser worth his salt is going to try to alienate your friend from people who care about her and who empower her. He’s not going to want to share her. Don’t let him bully you into giving up on your friend, but have grace with her, understanding that she may not be able to hang out as much or at the same times your other friends can. The safest times for her to reach out and connect might be while he is at work, or late at night after he has gone to sleep. Let her dictate the timing, and do your best to be a steady and faithful presence in her life. You can’t imagine what a priceless gift that is.
Speak truth over her in love. Call out her heart and remind her of her worth and strength. Tell her what you admire and respect about her. She has probably killed or buried parts of her identity in order to become “safe” for him, or from him. She needs to be reminded that those parts of her still exist and are valuable. You can be a voice of truth in her life to combat the lies she is hearing.
Model and practice healthy communication, differentiation, and self-care. Abuse teaches a woman that her needs and desires do not matter. She may find it difficult to even acknowledge that she has needs, or to discern what those needs are. You can help her find her way back to wholeness by modeling self-love. Speak your feelings and needs clearly and without guilt or shame, without placing demands on her. Over time, as you choose into healthy habits, you can become a beacon that shows her the way back to health. It’s important not to preach or lecture; simply living in truth is enough. She will notice the difference and be empowered by your life-giving practices.
Invest in her. Time, resources, and love: these are all well-spent on a survivor of abuse. Survivors are some of the sharpest, most resourceful, individuals you will encounter. Again, they have no choice but to be. Navigating life with an abuser requires delicacy and precision. This means that the longer she has been abused, the more new skills your friend has acquired; skills that will serve her well once she is free and healed. After being told she is unworthy in so many ways by her abuser, look for ways to remind her of the truth: she is worth investing in. Anything from a coffee shop gift card to financial assistance as she prepares to leave affirms her value in a powerful way. Be assured of this: she will prevail. It is your privilege and honor to be part of that process.
When we hear stories of coercive control, it’s the question on everyone’s mind: Why doesn’t she just leave? The answer is as layered and complex as the woman herself, yet very simple: at the end of the day, she feels she has no choice. Her specific reasons may vary, but at the core of things, it all comes down to a disordered wielding of her own power. She feels powerless and afraid to leave him, yet she also believes she is strong enough to endure the trauma. Here I’ll share some of my story and reasons why I stayed.
My bottom line was this: I was determined to save my marriage. I truly believed that if I was faithful, kind, patient, and respectful enough, I could carry us through. I stubbornly took on full responsibility for our survival as I gritted my teeth, put my head down, and shouldered my way through coldness, contempt, anger, and violence. I was strong, I was brave, and I was going to see this thing through.
I believed in miracles. I believed that impossible things could and would happen for us. I believed that we would become a beautiful picture of redemption, that he and I would undo all of the wrongs together. We were going to blaze a new trail of blessing and goodness for others to follow. It was a beautiful dream; a gorgeous trap that became my idol and blinded me to reality. I told myself this fantasy world existed somewhere in our future. It’s where I would go to hide when things turned ugly in the right-now.
My hope for healing led me to minimize the damage that was being done to me and our children. I truly believed I was doing the best that I could for them–that by fighting for my marriage, I was providing them with a secure foundation for life. When I did try to leave him, we ended up living in a homeless shelter, which was so traumatic itself that it made going home to an angry and controlling man sound like paradise. He was the sole wage-earner, and our kids were little. How could I even keep them fed without him? I wasn’t sure that I could.
It seemed wiser to focus on helping him; drawing out the goodness in him with love, kindness, gentleness; smoothing over pain with forgiveness. I believed that love would not fail me. I believed that I could respect and honor him into being a respectful, honorable man. I embraced the role of godly, long-suffering wife with zeal, placing myself as a buffer between him and the children. I filled up journals with prayers and petitions on our behalf. I was hyper-vigilant to maintain the “peace” in the house. I managed his mood and needs while insulating the kids from his dark side as much as possible. We stayed busy at parks, the library, play dates. I prayed for God to soften his heart.
Maybe the most maddening, confusing part of it all was how wonderful he could be sometimes. Like the Saturdays when he woke up late and the kids would pile on top of him and they would all giggle and snuggle and everything felt safe and perfect and exactly the way it was supposed to be. I, of course, would suppress my exhaustion and frustration that he’d slept in until noon while I had been up all night with the baby. I was happy to overlook little things like that in exchange for these moments, because we felt safe and connected, and that was a miracle. I drank it in like a magical elixir for the disease that was plaguing our family.
The scraps he threw my way became an indulgent feast; I savored every morsel of goodness. Those tiny beams of light breaking through the dark provided just enough warmth to keep me going. I told myself that we were making progress, healing was happening. Yes, this was going to be our new normal, and the kids would see God’s work in our family and it would shape them in such a good way. I told myself that there was hope.
Looking back, I see how even those mornings were all about him, about making him feel special and loved and wanted. We couldn’t stay in that happy bubble for long, because he didn’t reciprocate their enthusiasm. As soon as the kids sat on him the wrong way or got too loud or started to irk him with their silliness, he’d send them out. That was always the first crack in our perfect moment, and from there the whole facade would crumble.
I didn’t believe him when he told me he didn’t love me anymore. This information did not fit into my vision and dream for our family, therefore I refused to accept it. I was unwilling to waver from my pursuit of a whole, healthy, together-forever family. What I slowly came to realize was that while I was fighting so hard for that dream, I was sabotaging it. Because the whole time I was grasping and clawing for ground in this fight for our family, he was poisoning our souls with his anger, violence, and selfish indifference. I was too busy playing house to see that we were wilting. The light and life was being drained out of me and my children and I was singing redemption songs to them at night after they had been dragged to bed by their hair.
My hugs and kisses and prayers couldn’t un-abuse them. My light and love couldn’t heal the sickness in our home.
I began to believe we were trapped between love and violence. I might have stayed forever if it weren’t for our children. Kids will be kids, and they didn’t fully understand the risks of upsetting him. By being normal children, they revealed his ugliness in ways that even my placating denial couldn’t rationalize. It was his stubborn and unpredictable violence toward them that finally cut through the fog of delusion and energized me to start preparing for our escape, which came about in a way I never expected.
One of the threads that weaves consistently through the tangled web of abuse is confusion. Abuse is rooted in control, and one of the quickest ways to take away someone’s power is to confuse her, so abusers are often deliberately mysterious and difficult to read. They seem to be made up of a strange jumble of incongruous traits: funny and depressed, warm and cold, loving and contemptuous, passionate yet passive, hardworking in public and lazy at home.
I never knew for sure who my husband actually was, what he really wanted, or what would make him happy–if such a thing were actually possible. There were times when I thought I understood him, and yet every time I acted on the signals he seemed to be sending, following the clues I’d collected along the way, the landscape would suddenly shift. I’d find myself alone and bewildered with the wind knocked out of me; disoriented and wondering where I went wrong.
At first, I found him fascinating. He was a puzzle I would cleverly piece together, the riddle I would delight in solving. Over time, though, my confidence and wonder dissipated. I learned to carefully and delicately navigate our interactions, striving for connection and love. I yearned for closeness, yet he kept me at arm’s length. When I expressed my dissatisfaction with the distance between us, he simply sneered with derision, saying how unloving I was, how obtuse and self-centered; after all these years, how could I not understand my own husband? With this, I sank into a swirl of despair and turmoil. I knew I loved him, and I knew I was not stupid. There was another explanation: I wasn’t crazy; he was making me crazy.
My sense of confusion and futility in our relationship didn’t spring from a deficiency or lack of ability on my part; rather, it was a dynamic he intentionally created to maintain control over me. The more off-balance I felt, the less power I had in the relationship. The less I trusted my own voice, the more his could take over. It’s truly a marvel of twisted genius how well he convinced me to give up my power while simultaneously placing all of the responsibility for our connection onto me.
It was only when I learned to quiet myself and surrender my turmoil and confusion in prayer that I finally began to have peace and clarity. I came to find security and connection with the Creator, and that was enough. I grieved the lost desires of my heart and desperately sought healing for my marriage, but I didn’t need it to happen for me to be okay. As love & self-worth filled the cracks of my weary heart, I slowly became empowered and confident again.
Life with an abuser is a like a waltz on a balance beam across a roaring waterfall. Exciting, exhilarating, and dangerous. Hovering precariously above the roar of devastation, we danced along with smiles plastered to our faces (or were they grimaces?). Look at us, the beautiful family, isn’t this all so great?
He was someone who could fill a room with warmth and calm or cause it to pulse with his rage. You never knew which person you would encounter on any given day, or when you might get swept away in the current of his anger.
His rage was sudden and all-consuming. The warm, steady presence he sometimes exuded would vanish without a trace, like a puff of smoke swept away by a furious gale. In its place came fierce hatred and violent contempt. He was never out of control; rather, it was with cold precision and hot aggression that he spewed venomous curses designed to break me. Whether I calmly faced him nose to nose or cowered and cried for him to stop, it made no difference. He stopped when he wanted to.
There was never a more distinct silence than what came after a blow-up. After the tears (mine), rage (his), and terror (our children’s), a thick, anxious quiet would settle over the house. The kids and I turned into mice tip-toeing about, pretending amongst ourselves that everything was normal. We just did everything a little bit quieter. He became a stone: cold and hard; inaccessible. There was a feeling of fear mixed with relief; rather than waiting for the other shoe to drop, we were now picking up the pieces and cleaning up the mess it had made on its way down.
