⚠️ TRIGGER WARNING ⚠️
This post is for my healing. To get it out of me, and make it known. I can't stay quiet, because it's eating my insides. Truth can hurt, but it's still the truth. I'm not here to bad-mouth, and I don't claim to be perfect... But I'm done being a martyr.
For those who don't know, I was married for 17 years to my ex-husband. I was only 18 years old when I had a pregnancy scare, and his reaction shocked me to my core... He hesitated, shrugged, and said, "I've always wanted a family". I expected him to leave. To simply abandon me. But he stayed. No one had ever stayed before. Not my parents, not my family, not my friends, not my boyfriends, no one. So in that moment, my life changed forever. I devoted myself to him completely. I thought that because he stayed, I owed him everything. All I wanted was to make him happy. No matter what it cost me. But I never succeeded. And it cost me everything. I thought this was love. This was the trade off, and I was willing to pay it, because I simply didn't know better. He was faithful and didn't leave me. What more could I ask for?
We met and started dating immediately in March 2002. The pregnancy scare happened that summer. We got engaged in August, and were married in December 2002. Our daughter was born the following December.
Throughout the years, we fought. Daily. Our first fight happened right after we got married. We were screaming at each other, and he mentioned divorce. Asked me if I wanted out. I told him never to say that to me unless he was going to go through with it. And for 17 years, we never said that word again.
We always had the same fight. He would do or say something that hurt me, and I'd muster the courage to call him on it. Then after hours of yelling and crying and begging him to treat me better, to treat me like I mattered, he'd turn it around on himself. He'd tell me that he hated himself for the things he said and did to me, and that his rage was at himself, not at me. That he was always so sorry, and he always promised to try harder, but he never actually did anything to fix it... And every time I'd bring it up, he'd get so angry and then make me feel guilty for hurting his feelings by bringing it up in the first place. He would tell me that he wished he could control it, but he just didn't know how. And that I was making him feel like a horrible husband, over something he "wasn't capable of changing". So I'd spend the next hour or so trying to make him feel better and convincing him that he wasn't a horrible husband, that it was just his words and actions that hurt me. Reassuring him that I knew he loved me. That it wasn't his fault. And that I'd try to deal with it better. That I'd try harder not to let it get to me. For 17 years we had this same fight that ended with him sleeping like a baby, and me crying myself to sleep, stifling my sobs, making sure I stayed quiet so I didn't disturb him. I was so sure that he loved me, and that it truly wasn't in his control... So if I left him or even got angry at him for it, that would have made me a horrible wife, right? So I stayed. I walked on eggshells, always trying to keep him as happy as possible. Always afraid of that fight. But it was always inevitable.
Fast forward to 2016. I had some serious health issues. Multiple surgeries. And there was one surgery in particular that had a massive complication. While on the operating table, I thought I was about to die. As the doctors worked furiously over me, trying to problem solve, I layed there on the table, tears flowing down my face, not knowing if I had minutes or seconds before my death came... So I prayed to God as fast and as hard as I could in that moment. I begged, "Please God, just take care of my husband and my daughter. Please God, just let them make it through this. Please God."
And then I waited to die.
Later that night, I was sitting at home, going through the events in my mind over and over, numb, but terrified. The surgery had to be stopped and rescheduled because of the complication. And I was terrified that I wasn't going to be able to bring myself to go through with it a second time. I didn't know what to do. So my ex-husband came to me, annoyed at my emotional state, and asked me why I wasn't going to bed. So, hesitantly, gently as I could, afraid of his reaction as always, I told him. His response? Angry and confused about why I was so traumatized from the day; he said, "But you didn't die. You're fine." And then he went to bed without me. So I stayed downstairs all night crying, quietly, so I didn't bother him or my daughter.
I had never felt more alone. That was just one example of how he regarded my feelings. I was a burden; unless I was happy, or doing something for him. He claimed to love me, but he couldn't show me. He even had me write out lists to help him, of examples on how he could show me that I matter. There was only a couple things on it really. One was, "If I was crying, hug me. At least try to console me. Don't stand on the opposite side of the room, irritated, telling me you don't know what I want you to do." The other thing he agreed to do, which he never even ended up doing, was, "Once a month, we'll watch a movie that I like, and you'll try your hardest not to complain the whole time." Just FYI, we watched a movie or a show daily. And this was his big compromise; to give me once a month. This was his big attempt to show me that I mattered. And he couldn't even do that.
So far, I just wanted to give you some context on my daily life with him. The mindset. 17 years of feeling guilty and apologizing for things that weren't my fault. Conditioned to believe that this was true love. That everyone fought, but we were faithful. We beat the statistics. Love conquered all. Etc. Etc.
The last few years with him, my self worth grew, as I removed other toxic people from my life. Outwardly, he seemed happy for me. But he was always keeping me under his thumb. Backhanded compliments. Passive aggressive jokes. His insecurities grew as my confidence grew. In the bedroom, he became more aggressive. He knew I wanted the Dom/sub dynamic, and he absolutely loved it. The problem was he didn't know what it entailed, and he didn't care to learn. It wasn't supposed to be about him hurting me. It was supposed to be about trust. He didn't take into account my feelings, my triggers, or even my physical well-being. And he still probably has no idea what the word aftercare even means.
For awhile I just went with it. I couldn't fight him. Not about this. My PTSD wouldn't let me. But he knew me, right? Was married to me for over a decade and a half, and I've always been very open and concise with my communication. If he listened to anything I ever said, he knew me. He knew my issues, my feelings, my needs. He just didn't care, unless it was convenient for him to care. He cared about his orgasm. So many times, he told me that when he's having sex, he can't think, he just acts. He can't control what he does during. And I didn't know any better because I really had no frame of reference.
It got bad. For the last two years or so of our marriage, the bedroom was just a place where I knew I could get an orgasm, but at an extreme cost. I needed the feeling of release, but in the end, it was never worth it.
Countless times, I would lay there, eyes closed, and he'd be on top of me, getting frustrated when he couldn't "get there" fast enough... I'd try so hard to make the noises that you see in porn, just to get him there faster. But in the end he'd usually have to take out his phone, put it next to my head on the bed, and watch porn while he finished. Aggressively. All the while I'd be whimpering quietly, because I couldn't moan anymore, and I'd dry out and rub raw and bleed or get ripped open, and I'd beg him to "please just finish" or I'd say "please tell me you're almost done", trying not to cry. I was a human blow up doll, his cum dumpster, and he treated me as such. Then he'd go to sleep without a care in the world, and leave me to tend to my injuries.
He was proud of himself. He was so big that I would rip open and have to take time to heal. He told me to find ways to loosen up, so it didn't keep happening. I tried. I failed. My injuries didn't matter to him unless they kept me from preforming... They were tangible evidence of his "masculinity", and he thrived on that. He even told me that he bragged about it at work.
After Mitch moved in with us in May 2019, my ex-husband got particularly nasty. Mitch was my best friend. My ex-husband was totally on board with him staying with us, and was even excited to have someone else to play video games with... Until Mitch actually got there. My ex-husband became openly angry and hostile all the time, and much more aggressive, especially in the bedroom.
One day, not long after Mitch's arrival, my ex-husband took me aside and laid it all on the table... He told me that I was HIS. That I belonged to him. He threatened me. He threatened to kill Mitch. He said that would solve all his problems. He said he didn't want me to be anyone else's in any way. He told me that I was supposed to be his 24/7 and to not exaust any energy into anyone else, even my other best friend at the time Heather, if it meant less attention on him.
Then, June 7th 2019, the straw broke the camel's back. We were planning on having sex that night, because I was finally physically healed from our last encounter. However, I was feeling very sick all day, and that night I was exhausted. I told him, with Mitch standing there so there wouldn't be any misunderstandings, that I just couldn't tonight. I told him I was telling him now, because I was about to take NyQuil and didn't want him to try when I was too drugged to do anything. I was crystal clear. I said NO...
That night, in bed... The NyQuil and my physical exhaustion made it impossible for me to really move or speak, but I was painfully aware even though in a fog. He waited until he thought I was out cold, and snuck his fingers inside me from behind before lifting and moving my dead weight leg and inserting himself into me. The things he whispered...
I vividly remember thinking in that moment of shock, "He's actually raping me right now". I couldn't speak. I couldn't move. I would have fought him off, if I could have. My legs were spread out so wide it was killing me, and he pushed ALL of himself inside me, even though he knew I couldn't physically take it all without injuries. I just laid there, completely limp, and he contorted my body however he wanted to. At one point my face was covered by a blanket or a pillow and I could barely breathe... IT WAS LIKE I WASN'T A PERSON. I will spare you from further details about this particular night.
I had to pretend it didn't happen the next morning, because I couldn't admit to myself that it really did happen. But then the very first words out of his mouth in the morning were panicked, saying, "PLEASE tell me you remember last night"... As though he was hoping somehow that I was consenting, to alleviate his guilt and make himself feel better about what he did to me. It was like putting salt on the already festering wound. He then said that he should have known better. As if that made everything okay.
Violation saturated every fiber of my being.
I was a slave to his mental, emotional, physical, and sexual needs. He made me believe my purpose was to please him. And he always made me feel like a failure. It was never give and take. He just took. Until I had nothing left.
He acts like a victim, but he's not the victim of anything besides the consequences of his own actions. I'M the victim. I was blinded for too many years by the fact that he never cheated on me or left me. I thought that was enough. I thought I was LUCKY to be his wife. And that this suffering was simply the price I had to pay to have someone who wouldn't abandon me.
The truth sucks, and I'm sure many people are going to hate me for exposing it. And this isn't even everything. 17 years worth.
Did our marriage have good moments? Sure.
Did we laugh our asses off together? Sure...
Does that excuse the abuse? Should I keep quiet so he can live his life in a comfortable lie, convincing people that he isn't manipulative and abusive, while I suffer daily with extreme PTSD? No.
I'm not saying that people can't change. I am saying that it's NOT okay to be forced into silence when I have every right to tell my story... If for no other reasons than to heal, and to potentially give someone else hope of healing as well.
If you made it through this entire post, thank you for sticking with me; I know it was excruciatingly long.
I needed this. I finally feel like I can breathe.
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