Feminists

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.