During the same time period, too.

I left in 1992 and missed voting in that election because I was too busy trying to save my life and that of my three daughters to worry about voting.

And that was the day I was finally free.

Sadly, most of my family and friends at the time responded with "it's about time.", as they apparently suspected what was happening to me, but only my older sister ever tried to help me.

He was a nasty asshole. We all knew that within a year of the marriage. We knew that he was controlling, prideful yet insecure and an alcoholic. What we didn't know was how horribly she and her children were abused.


She kept up the perfect facade in public. As a kid it puzzled me that everyone else could see he was awful and yet she didn't seem to see it. As I grew up I suspected that it was a self-defense mechanism but I wasn't in a position to confront her about it. Her mother had confronted her and she denied that anything was wrong. It was only after he died from liver failure that she opened up about how bad it had been.

I am still frustrated that we couldn't help her for the twenty odd years that she was married to him.

I think that living with the shame that they were right helped me to put up walls. I doubt that anyone, to this day, knows how bad it was, but they did see the bruises and the chipped teeth and the broken nose.

I got in a car accident about 10 months after I left. I had an incredibly swollen black left eye from impact with the steering wheel.

One of my friends saw me and her first question was "Oh, wow, are you back with him?". I was confused at first and then I realized why she asked... because I had a massive black eye.

It made me think... and most of my friends didn't come out looking too good. I gave my family more of a pass because they did try to stop me from marrying him, but not very hard. And they were quite religious... didn't believe in divorce, so when I did finally leave him, my father wasn't pleased at first, until I told him more about the drug abuse and how he was starting to abuse my then 4 year old daughter. So, he accepted it, but he still never liked it.

I would hope that there is more understanding of signs of abuse and how to reach out. I think that mandatory reporters have made a difference for children and I'd like to think the the way docs and hospitals screen certain injuries has helped too.

Still, there are far too many who live in daily fear and I will NEVER judge them for staying in the situation.

Last edited Sat Jul 4, 2015, 07:13 PM - Edit history (1)

I was in an abusive marriage - not physically but in every other way. It was the cycle I had always read about: his first shocking verbal attack over an innocent thing I did... Then the apology. Over time the explosions got more frequent and I (a feminist from birth, I might add) became that woman whose mind was captive to the constant anxious worry: "Can I wear this skirt or will it make him angry? Can I spend this ten bucks or will it set him off?". The walls seemed to have closed in, and I knew he was unjust and his accusations were insane, but I could no longer see beyond those walls to freedom. It would have been so hard for me to leave: 3 children under five; an 80-hour-a-week job that my whole future depended on, and that I couldn't afford to lose. I never even considered leaving him. Never crossed my mind.

My mother criticized him. And I? I spat nails at her and defended him.

She criticized his religious bent, as she had from the beginning: "He won't let you celebrate Christmas? Why does he get to force Islam on the children? Why does his religion make the rules of the house? Why did you promise to stop wearing shorts? I would never agree to any of this stuff!"

I stopped telling her the worst things, for a simple reason: humiliation. It was humiliating to admit he was a bad guy. My mother's criticism of him, actually felt like criticism of me.

I was, after all, the woman who had insisted to her and all my friends, "Dint stereotype Muslim men! That's just prejudice! He's wonderful!". I had chosen him. I was staying with him. I had protested self-righteously that I was fine with all the conditions of our marriage. Who cares about wearing shorts or not; modesty was wonderful and sexy. Who cares that the kids must be raised Muslim - they would surely turn out kind and upstanding like their dad.

(I had already successfully silenced my own horror at his inflexible, soft-spoken ultimatums. After convincing my own brain that up was down and rigidity was love and patriarchy was feminism, it was easy to spout those same arguments at everyone else.)

The worst thing my mother ever said to me, she said in an offhand way - as if she were commenting on the new carpet in the bedroom: "You've certainly changed a lot. You're way more docile than you used to be.". Docile! Like a pet sheep on a leash! WTF! I was sick inside, and furious, and I told her off. And after that, it was even harder to ever admit he was a bad guy. Docile! I still want to vomit, and punch her face in, whenever I think of that.

Humiliation.

Pride.

My desire to keep up appearances; my fear of the smug "I knew it all along" - that's what kept me quiet.

That, and this: If I had ever admitted how bad it was - how enslaved I was - it would have been too humiliating to go on living with him, with my mother knowing I was such a weak, pathetic person. I would have had my hand forced. I would have had to leave.

And leaving would have been so much harder than staying.