Breaking Free
How I used my abuser’s tools to gain the confidence to leave.
His car was parked safely inside the garage, away from the heat and overreaching sprinklers. The giant automatic door was left wide open to display the space built for three vehicles and now blocked by one. Messages like these were his unspoken fuck you's, positioned to be perfectly inconsiderate.
I pulled into the driveway and let the water hit the windshield of my car over and over; I could hear the mechanism of the sprinklers snap back and let go, snap back, and let go. If my marriage were a sound, that would be it—-the eruption of potential energy on repeat.
I steadied myself to go inside and face whatever battle was brewing. I imagined he'd be looming at the top of the stairs, staring down into the foyer with contempt. But, instead, I found only the cool air mixed with an eerie silence, no response to my overly cheerful greeting. I kicked my shoes off and ascended, bracing myself and my strong legs for any potential traps; it wasn't long ago he tried to shove me down this very flight.
I peeked around the wall of the stairwell, standing on the last step, making sure I was safe to cross over into the house.
Most of this floor was a kitchen except for his small office, off to my immediate right. The French doors were shut but see-through, giving away his location.
I quietly set my keys on the counter and refused to look in his direction. I wanted to make a drink before making eye contact; I needed some relief before we dealt with whatever I had done.
The liquor I poured became an ocean, one that I wished I could drown in and somehow resurface into another time—go back and change everything.
The first sip was quick and did the job; it was a good start for the night ahead. When I turned around to face him, I could see his attention was oddly on the walls. He stared at what looked like data sets, maybe line graphs or something similar taped to cover all vertical surfaces.
I took cautious and hopeful steps towards the doors, prematurely relieved. Maybe I didn't do anything; perhaps these materials were work-related and nothing more.
Reaching the doors and using my only free hand, I turned the handle and pushed through, hoping to understand what held his fixed attention.
He never moved, turned, or looked my way; he was taking in what I now could see, my secret life, the conversations, and dialogues---hung up and printed out like art. In the mix were spreadsheets attempting to organize the details, creating an unfinished puzzle that was all mine.
I could only think of how. My phone was in my purse; the laptop was in my bag. I may have been reckless but never stupid; what was on display was an attempt at escaping the violence, not meeting more of it.
The left side of the room contained my texts—the ones sent over the last year to family, friends, and more than friends. From left to right, they created a clear picture of my conversations; repeated columns and rows of the things I wanted and desired, the hatred and the loathing I had for my husband.
In every instance, "Emily" was highlighted in pink. The other parties were assigned an array of colors, making a rainbow out of the crimes.
On the right was the developing matrix, my vertical and horizontal sins trying to make sense. The colors were here too; everything was; my desperation, complaints, the urging and warnings by others.
Laying scattered across the desk were several confessional emails, the lines underlined more than twice over, ripped and torn in some parts.
I didn't know whether to cry or scream; I couldn't believe what he had done with what I had; this was a staggering display.
"I found an impersonating software, wild, right?"
He was always suspicious, this invasion made sense even if it was shocking.
Strikingly, he seemed happy, even at peace—all these treasures found to torture his favorite prisoner.
Instinctually, I backed up, he was unpredictable most days, and this felt more than unstable.
What wrongs could he inflict when the nature of my trespasses gifted him potential immunity?
He sensed my movement and, like a cat, sprung.
Things crashed—-the phone I held, the drink, all to the floor.
He had me in a grip by my upper arms, bringing me to meet his eyes.
We were so close that I could see his pores, the specks of dirt and salts escaping him like I couldn't.
The capillaries in his nose burst before me; the red lines were branching like roots in the ground, reaching and searching for something like soil.
Through his teeth, he spat, covering my face with his bile.
He was now aware that I had no respect, regard, or reverence for our marriage, and neither did anyone else.
"You disgust me." I moved with him to pin me against the wall.
He pushed off of me, pulled out a chair, took my bruising arms, and shoved me into the seat.
"Sit."
A few years and jobs ago, I worked at a sports management company where I traveled to promote private and municipal athletic facilities. These trips usually placed me in the line of every male desire at any given event.
One night while working an event to promote an arena, I circled the room to take pictures for the company website. Three beaming men approached me, inquiring at first about my camera. Then, after some time, they said that I was spotted from the green room and wondered if I'd be interested in joining them at the request of someone important. That, someone, was a well-known college football coach in his eighties. He was in a bad mood, and they wondered if I might cheer him up?
Now, we examined a conversation from that time between me and the mayor of a small southern town—a middle-aged, lonely man who was full of himself and the drinks from the bar in which we sat after an event one evening. He invited me to his room; I declined but connected with him on LinkedIn. The rest was history and now, very much my husband's present focus.
Most of the content was sports-related; we talked about hockey games and bringing "heads and beds" to the city he ran. Sometimes, it veered into flirting; we talked about getting old, parenting, and my relationship.
As much as these conversations betrayed the intimacy of a marriage, they were not the most egregious. He had so much to choose from, so why this?
The confusion broke when his voice did.
"This guy. Do you know that he has a family? Three kids. His wife is gorgeous—I'd love to fuck her. Since you two are friends, why don't you ask him for me—I don't think he would mind."
I was always scared, that's just the way I felt around him on any given day, but at this moment, I was terrified; he was skipping sadness and going right to revenge. The truth was he hated me too, and now he could justifiably show me—carte Blanche abuse disguised as grief.
He shook the mouse on the right and shifted closer to the desk. Then, instead of moving my paper trail from the keyboard, he blew on them like the big-bad-wolf, huffing and puffing to scatter, turning to meet my face and blow me down. I smelled coffee and decay; so much was rotting in that mouth.
The computer was awake and back from where he left off before my arrival.
There was Facebook, open on a woman's profile I didn't recognize but already knew. For effect, he scrolled up and down the page so that I could see the blurred lineup of holidays, anniversaries, nights out, and picket fence after picket fence. He stopped on the last one, which was a campaign mailer photo. The children stood in front of their parents and held a banner that read "PROUD family man and your MAYOR."
He clicked on the messages icon, opening up a potential conversation.
"What are you going to do?" I asked with resignation, this was already happening, and I was just here to watch, an observer of malice.
He opened up File Explorer and went to a folder titled "Betrayal," there were digital catalogs of this too, of course. The walls were just for show; the archive of my deceit had a home on his device.
He selected the thumbnails of what looked like the screenshots from the total of our online treachery, dragging them into the space of the text field. He made no introduction; he was going to destroy her without warning and provide context later.
"This poor woman. Can you imagine?" he shook his head to match the way his arms and fingers moved, vibrating with what seemed like excitement. "This is a kindness; I am helping her. He's a monster—you're a monster. I wish someone had told me about you, warned me of what a joke you are, a liar and cheat." He moved the cursor across the screen in sweeping circles, tapping his toes on the tile below and clearing his throat to the rhythm.
I had to question the process, to plead for some mercy and time.
"Are you waiting for her to respond? None of this will make any sense to her; come on! Stop this, please. Delete the message, and we can handle this between us; this is cruel. She's going to think you're crazy!"
He grabbed my face, squeezing my chin and cheeks into a sandwich; I tasted the blood my teeth drew as they cut into my lip.
"Crazy? Look at what you did! I'm only crazy for marrying you, for imagining having a baby with you—-to think of all the disease you have, the fucking filth in your body, in your mind. You're going to fucking sit here; you're going to watch this if it takes all night."
He let go of my face, and the blood dripped down from my mouth and onto my lap. Then, tears of dread began to flow quietly, moving down my face in a steady stream, cleaning nothing and making a mess.
He pulled away and began to type. He filled the woman in on who he was, what I had done, and the things her husband and I discussed. He extended his kindness by offering to talk to her anytime; he never apologized for the method or the madness. Instead, he gave her his number and his advice, disparaging me and my wellness.
My wellness.
She responded with silence, even though we could see she had viewed the materials and messages.
He continued to write into the void, telling her that her husband was not my only victim, nor was she alone. He made a list of the things I had done right under his nose as if the itemization would provoke her; I knew to stay quiet, my mouth was throbbing:
Seducing the mayor (her husband).
Sexting, texting, and sharing photos with guy A.
Sexting, texting, sharing pictures with guy B.
Plotting with his sister to leave.
Plotting with friends to leave.
Planning with the mayor (her husband) to leave.
Planning with guy A to leave.
Planning with guy B to leave.
Conspiring with anyone who might listen to help me leave.
The message then evolved from a commentary on my wretched morals into speculation on my sanity, naming addictions, psychosis, even my hormones as the culprit.
He was speaking the words as he wrote them, like a reporter dictating into a mic.
He would never write or couldn't say that it was easier to believe I was sick in the head than that I was sick of him. My actions created such a threat to his masculinity that the only possible response was to find some biological incompetence.
I sat there with him, in survival mode as always.
I had no idea how I could leave now; I had to make this better—-I was beginning to believe the words he wrote, the things he said, wondering if there was something deeply wrong with me to cause all this chaos.
It was hours before he finally stopped; it would be days before she ever responded—by blocking him and ignoring the "help."
Overnight, I stayed on the couch, unchanged, un-brushed, and unclean. He went upstairs to sleep and came back down twice during the night. Both times were to punish me in physically violent ways.
The following day, he forbade me from going to work and forced me to see a psychiatrist. He had loads of ideas for what was wrong with me; if he was a betting man, this was something in the sexual addiction spectrum or a personality disorder.
He went back online and threw my behaviors at a search bar, and the Mayo Clinic chimed in:
Borderline personality disorder is a mental health disorder that impacts how you think and feel about yourself and others, causing problems functioning in everyday life. It includes self-image issues, difficulty managing emotions and behavior, and a pattern of unstable relationships.
He was excited again for a different reason. "Look at these symptoms. This is you." He stepped aside, making room for me, creating actual space between us.
I read the lines and recognized myself in places:
An intense fear of abandonment.
A pattern of unstable intense relationships.
Rapid changes in self-identity and self-image that include shifting goals and values, and seeing yourself as bad or as if you don't exist.
Impulsive and risky behavior, such as gambling, reckless driving, unsafe sex, spending sprees, binge eating or drug abuse, or sabotaging success by suddenly quitting a good job or ending a positive relationship.
Wide mood swings.
Ongoing feelings of emptiness.
Losing your temper, being sarcastic or bitter.
"What do you think?" he was asking as if we were sampling chocolates or picking out china.
This coercion is the kind of abuse you rarely hear anyone speak of but a form no less violent than an actual beating. Yet, because everything hurt and I needed relief, I went along with it. I would get whatever treatment he felt absolved me. Perhaps he would show me mercy if something was wrong with my mind and not my judgment.
I nodded in agreement, "Sounds about right."
I walked away from him, not sure what to do with myself. But, just like in any storm, the bathroom is a safe place to be, so I headed there. I found the cold tile welcomed my aching body as I sat to take refuge on the ground. The whirring fan in the light fixture provided the illusion of a barrier from the rest of the house.
I only had a moment, but it was long enough to prepare and convince myself that this wasn’t going to be that bad.
Hey, what are you doing in there?" he pounded on the door; it was time to leave.
I had a chaperoned appointment later that afternoon to see a specialist in Tampa, thirty-minute away. I was pleased to learn it was with a woman, someone who might see through my desperate actions and detect his abusive reactions. Unfortunately, he did most of the speaking, and he/we completed a questionnaire that confirmed my illness. I was permitted to share future visit notes with my husband; I signed off on dialectical behavior therapy (DBT).
DBT uses a skill-based approach to teach the patient how to manage emotions, sit with discomfort, and improve relationships through role-play and writing.
After each visit, he received a report of the work I was doing and the progress that I had made. The better that I did, the worse he got, his actions more retaliative and torturous.
He would contact every person that he discovered in those initial texts and messages. He intended to inflict pain and pick a fight, but he was either ignored or met with questions regarding his sanity.
During this time, he mandated that church was to be part of my recovery and a way for us to spend time together and for me to pray. As we left services on a Sunday, he grabbed my arm and dragged me toward a group of elders and their wives, people we knew but not familiar with recent events. I listened as he filled them in, explaining my trespasses and current diagnosis. I was so used to feeling shame that when I registered their disgust, I assumed it was for me and not for his poor taste or instability.
In the middle of this unraveling, he planned a trip to Italy, something lavish to gloss over the lashing. Since I was a child, I had dreamed of it; tiny me would pour over the National Geographics dedicated to Pompeii; I kept the photographs of the ancient ruins in my mind and heart for decades.
Italy would be a monumental trip for many reasons; my first one overseas, a chance to explore ancient history, and it would turn out to be the final straw in our cycle of abuse.
We left the country, but not the dynamic—the Jekyll and Hyde were never far. The first week was nothing but splendor; we floated down the canals of Venice, saw the art in Florence, and ascended the cliffs along with the seaside villages of Cinque Terre. As we ventured further south, his treatment of me and overall demeanor followed suit. He would be triggered, yell at me for sleeping with someone else, and make me beg for forgiveness. He would abandon me in a Roman train station for hours, watching me from afar to test my fidelity under duress. When he would reveal himself, I wasn't allowed to question.
Staying at a hostel in Sorrento, I could see Vesuvius in the distance, dormant, foreboding just like the man asleep on the bed behind me. The window offered stunning views and made my heart sink. We were supposed to visit Pompeii, but he refused to leave the room. The ruins and the history only miles away were no match for the shell of a person I had become, for the corrosive foundation of this marriage. I weighed the grief; was it heavier to go alone and risk the punishments of independence or forsake the longings of my childhood curiosity? We were at the end of our trip, and my rope—the finale to it all.
On the return home, we didn't speak and wouldn't again.
At the last psychiatric visit before the vacation, I went expecting well wishes and assignments for my two weeks of travel. Instead, I got a referral to a new doctor due to a change in my insurance network.
On the first day back in Florida, I went to work and then my first appointment with the new psych. I hadn't seen or heard from my husband in days. As soon as we got in the door, he grabbed the keys and left.
When the receptionist called me back, it took me a minute to respond. I became worried that by being seen alone, I was doing something wrong. I approached the door and apprehensively went inside. There sat yet another woman, holding my files and my history in her hands. When I explained that I was expecting my husband to join up, she interrupted to tell me that he wouldn't be coming—-he wasn't welcome.
"I reviewed your notes. I think this is a mistake. Let's talk and see what we can do here; if you truly need DBT, that's fine. But I suspect this is some way to control you based on the policing done by your husband with your last doctor."
I added details to the notes that she had on me in her file, I filled her in on the outcome of our vacation. Each time I used the term "husband," she corrected me and said "abuser."
We discussed leaving, and she had me convinced in less than an hour that I could do it, that I had to survive.
I saw her three more times to build networks for my escape, all to lay the groundwork for the rocky path ahead.
I went back to the empty house we shared, grabbed a suitcase full of clothes, and never looked back. Then, with the help of local abuse shelters, family and friends, I filed for divorce and freedom.
If there was any silver lining to find, DBT was it. The therapy and treatment I completed gave me a platform to address my codependency and do some much-needed work. In addition, it would begin to expose the wounds I covered with the wrong types of attention. My behavior, the infidelities, and the lies were by no means immaculate, but they were my coping mechanisms for a terrible marriage.
Mental health and, by extension illness, are widely misunderstood. BPD is an actual diagnosis, something that people receive treatment for and that impacts their lives significantly. For me, it was a scapegoat and an insult to the people it truly affects. In my abusive marriage, it was used as a mechanism for control, the oldest trick in the patriarchy's book——diagnose the divergent, suppress every passive or aggressive request for freedom, and call it an illness.
Aside from quitting alcohol, breaking free from that marriage was the single most rebellious act of my life.
Once the dust had settled, I had to work towards unfamiliar forgiveness because the shame was hard to shake. I thought I understood the difference between right and wrong, bad and good; however, I didn't know that there were varying degrees to them all. I made apologies and amends, growing strength instead of regret.
In the same year, the divorce finalized; I traveled back to Italy to reclaim the trip by and for myself. And to close this final chapter, bring it full circle, I went to see David at the Accademia Gallery in Florence----the most beautiful mistake in history. I needed to see this towering example of perfection with its raw materials deeply flawed. It seemed only fitting that this work of art was fragile and magnificent, yet millions of admiring people looked on year in and year out. There was something to this, ancient, familiar kin.
I was well, and I was free; nothing was going to stop me, and no one ever will again.