It had been six years. 675,000 people in the city, there’s a decent chance I could go a lifetime without seeing some of them. That’s what I was counting one. He’d be one of “some of them.”
Of course, I had seen him before. For seven years, he’d been my partner. I was thirty-two when we met and I felt ready. We had nine months of pure happiness, followed by patchy flourishes of contentment. Between flourishes, there was fear, desperation, numbness and a lot of darkness.
I’d been pulled in—charmed, wooed, amused, and head over heels in love in the kind of fiction I’d thought made for a decent Go-Go’s song. (Okay, just YouTubed the tune. Super vague lyrics. Still, a song that always makes me smile. Just like love, or something like it.) When the first jolt of deep disturbance hit, I was already all-in. Surely, it was but a blip. Charm returned that evening or perhaps the next day, my perfect world restored.
But that’s the thing with darkness. It can’t be contained. I have this image of a barn door, shut with a big, steel bar secured in a latch to ensure the beast within never gets out. The image works for four-year-olds, lying in bed, worrying about the bogeyman invading in the night. No, son. He’s locked away. You can relax. Sleep well. It works for other fictional demons. Real beasts can’t be contained. And, once they find a way out, they escape more often, regardless of amped up security systems. Just knowing escape is possible emboldens their fortitude.
My perfect partner had rage issues. It’s been seventeen years since I finally freed myself from that relationship, but I cried anew, typing the previous sentence. I had given my all. I had done everything you’re supposed to do to build a relationship. I’d been invested. I’d been honest and faithful. I’d been worthy. I’d done what I thought you were supposed to do, keeping hope alive, sticking together, for better or for worse. (No civil union or marriage. I knew deep down it wasn’t right. Not yet, I kept telling myself; relationships take work.) Every time he berated me in a sudden fury—never once did I see it coming—he’d recover. “I’m sorry. I love you.” For a while, I believed him.
Yes, for the final two or three years, I had lost hope. He’d seen a psychiatrist. He told me it was depression. He took meds for a little while, then stopped. I don’t think he realized how extreme his rages were because he never remembered them. This was blackout anger, not caused by drugs or alcohol, but by some faulty wiring within. His mother and his sister exhibited the same behavior. Kind, loving people…and then…
It was abuse.
I learned to go to a place of numbness as he berated me. To counter or to respond in any way only stoked the already roaring fire. I would do my best to zone out, my inner voice chanting, “This isn’t about me. This is about him.”
I have great empathy for people trapped in abusive relationships. From the outside, it’s easy for people to judge and to find fault with the victim. (How is that helpful, dear self-professed kind soul of the world?)
She should’ve left after the first time. (It’s always assumed to be a “she,” something that made it harder for me to feel even acknowledged. The fact that abusive relations are almost always discussed in terms of a woman being abused only made me feel weaker and more ashamed.)
I would never have stood for it. I’d have left the first time it happened. You’d have to be stupid. (Great. You’re stronger. Again, so helpful. Your compassion overwhelms.) When people make that last comment, they have no idea whether someone who hears it is in the midst of an abusive relationship or has been in the past. The comment does not in any way empower; rather, it is callous and only brings more shame to the listener. As well, that comment in all likelihood means a person experiencing abuse will never confide in that person. Judgment has already been cast. Why would anyone think such a person could be a real support? Please, don’t ever say it.
In all the years I went through it, I never told anyone. It was partly due to shame, but it was more about not wanting to disparage my partner. Even more than that, I didn’t want to put a friend or relative in an awkward position. Many times, I’ve listened to friends in difficult (though not abusive) relationships which made them unhappy. They’d seek my advice. They wanted someone else to direct them through what they were struggling with: “Leave him. You deserve better.” I’d get pulled in. Yes, I’d tell them this. Then they’d stick with it. That always made things uncomfortable. I’d heard about grievances and misery and now I was a guest at their place, sitting down to dinner with the couple, everything coming off as rosy. The cycle would repeat and my advice would become more vague. When they’d ask, “What do you think I should do?” I’d put it back on them. “What do you think?” (Probably what I should have done in the first place. What I think doesn’t matter when I’m not in the relationship. My role was to be a good listener, to show empathy, to support them as they struggled with the process of coming to terms with what to do or not do.)
Confiding in a friend about abuse puts that friend in a tougher spot. When it’s abuse, the friend is unlikely to just listen. The concern for a person’s well-being is apt to elicit urgent appeals. Get out! Leave him! If it were that easy, it would have already happened. If I’d have told a friend (which I didn’t) and continued in the abusive relationship (which I did), I’d have felt even more shame every time I saw them—I’m weak; I’m an idiot—things I already thought about myself, but now exposed whose judgment and/or disappointment would have been too much. (It was enough to know I was letting myself down.) In turn, my friend would continue to socialize with me and my boyfriend, my abuser. Maddening and unfair, it seemed, to my friend.
For a while, my partner worked in Seattle during the week. I came to hate weekends. Sometimes, when things were good, I’d almost forget his darker side. I’d enjoy the moment. It might extend through one weekend, even the next. Then he’d snap. Uncontrolled rage. Vile putdowns to make me feel small (and—what?—build him up?). Much of what he spewed made no sense at all.
“This isn’t about me. This is about him.”
“This isn’t about me. This is about him.”
He kept losing his job. (Guess why.) He joined sports teams and he’d suddenly snap with teammates, shocking and confusing them. Again, this came from a guy who was a charmer. I’d have to sit and hear longwinded rants about these bosses and teammates. His outrage was always thin on logic and I’d do my best to talk him down, pointing out the other side and, as he calmed, even noting the flaws in his perspective. In the end, I didn’t save those relationships, but I kept them going longer. He quit many teams but, being athletic, he’d pour on the charm again and get recruited by another team. Over and over again.
When he lost the Seattle job and was back in Vancouver, I was getting my master’s. It got to the point where I’d cringe every time I’d pull up to the house and see his car out front. I’d often go for a drive to delay seeing him. Sometimes I’d head upstairs to our home office. So busy. Lots of student marking to do. A massive assignment for a course was coming due. Often, he’d give me space. Other times, I’d hide out at the university. One of the libraries was open till midnight and I’d stay until closing. He’d be asleep when I’d get home.
In those last years—we were “together” for seven—I thought about leaving every single day. I feared how he’d react. I didn’t know where I’d live. The Vancouver market is ridiculously expensive and I couldn’t afford anything on my own. I had a wonderful career and moving to an affordable place like Winnipeg seemed like more punishment, leaving behind all the connections, goodwill and credibility I’d built up. We had two dogs and finding a place to rent would be difficult. (I was constantly looking.) My greatest fear was that he’d fight to have one of the dogs. I absolutely could not allow that to happen. I have never loved any being as much as I loved my two schnauzers. When we got the first dog, two years into the relationship, I made sure I paid every single vet bill (and there were so many as he had all sorts of special needs which is why he was surrendered to the SPCA in the first place). The second dog, a pup we got three years later, came at my partner’s insistence. It was his ploy to keep the relationship going, much like when some couples decide on another baby to save their marriage. It was the second dog I feared I’d lose if I ended things. (Again, I paid every single bill.)
When I finally broke up, I was still stuck. Our historic, hundred-year-old home was in the midst of a renovation from hell. Everything was taken down to the studs and, in addition to a barrage of structural issues, we kept losing contractors. (Again, guess why.) The house was unsellable in its stripped-down state. There was no way I could afford to pay my half of the mortgage plus rent on another place. We continued to live under the same roof for fourteen more months. (Thankfully, he got a job in Toronto for part of that time and came home less frequently but, of course, he lost that job, too.) When we finally put the house up for sale, we had multiple offers. I’d put so much care into renovation decisions, particularly regarding the kitchen, creating a dream home that wouldn’t be mine. I was at my family’s cottage in Ontario when the papers had to be signed and my real estate agent called to say my partner refused to sign the documents. When I called him, he was still begging for me to give us another try. Sign the papers! To my relief, he did.
Finally, I was free.
And in a city as big as Vancouver, I hoped I'd never see him again.
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