THE BREAKUP SONG: A THANK YOU TO TINA TURNER

I’m still adjusting to a world without Tina Turner. I know she was eighty-three—the same age as my mother—but I assumed she’d live forever. “A long illness,” reports said. It’s hard for me to even imagine her as ever having more than a pesky cold. Even then, I assumed Tina would make it work, the sore throat and cough making her voice huskier, richer, throatier. For me, Tina Turner symbolized strength and resilience and, until this week, infallibility. Didn’t we all love her story? Through her graciousness and openness, didn’t her story become our story? Humble beginnings, standing up to prejudice, escaping and recovering from abuse.

 

I had my own story of abuse. It remains with me, popping up at times I wish it wouldn’t—really, I wish I could suppress it once and for all. I go on. Like Tina.

 

Yesterday, I went into a YouTube hole—a lovely one, except for all the annoying Grammarly ads and VRBO pitches. I listened to one Tina Turner song (or Ike & Tina song) after another. So many favorites, some I’d forgotten and a few I’d never heard before. I adore “What’s Love Got to Do with It,” “A Fool in Love,” “Let’s Stay Together,” and “Typical Male.” I sang along and wiggled a bit—not quite dancing—but mostly I stared at the screen, listening to and looking at the iconic Tina Turner. That smile, that hair, those legs, that glorious presence. What a legacy she’s bequeathed us.

 

Still, the song that stood out surprised me. I’d always liked “I Don’t Wanna Fight,” but thirty years after its release, I realize it resonates with me the most. It’s a breezy tune, an easy listening pop confection, but it’s always come through my car radio whenever I’ve just gone through a breakup or when I’m contemplating ending a relationship. I hate conflict, I don’t handle it well and it exhausts me. 

 

I don't care who's wrong or right, 
I don't really want to fight no more (too much talking, babe). 
Let's sleep on it tonight. 
I don't really want to fight no more. 

  

Man, I’ve been there so many times. In this early part of the song, there seems to be a possibility of getting back on track. But the next line makes things clear: “This is time for letting go.”

 

I was raised on the belief that you stuck with someone for better or worse. When I found someone who showed any affection for me, I figured the relationship was as good as I could get, even if “better” was long-gone and “worse” had moved in, seemingly permanently. (Yeah, I’ve had self-esteem issues.)

 

Oh, can't you see that I don't care 
Or are you looking right through me? 
It seems to me that lately 
You look at me the wrong way and I start to cry. 
Could it be that maybe 
This crazy situation is the reason why?

 

This song helped me most in inching my way out of the abusive relationship. I’ve written about it before and I’m not going to expand on it here. 

 

Hanging on to the past, 
It only stands in our way. 
We had to grow for our love to last, 
But we just grew apart. 
No, I don't want to hurt no more.

 

Just know that, despite all my intelligence and the fact friends regularly leaned on me for solid relationship advice, it took years for me to untangle all the ropes that kept me tied to my partner. Tina Turner got out; I could, too. I’ve always had so much respect for her.

 

As with most pop songs, “I Don’t Wanna Fight” treads lightly on the subject of a rocky relationship. There have been many times when, while working through a breakup, I relished songs like En Vogue’s “My Lovin’ (You’re Never Gonna Get It)," JoJo’s “Leave (Get Out),” and, of course, “I Will Survive” by Gloria Gaynor. But those songs muster strength while holding onto bitterness. The anger feels good…until it doesn’t. 

 

Breathe out. 

 

Let it go. 

 

That’s where Carole King’s “It’s Too Late” and Tina Turner’s “I Don’t Want to Fight” come in. Catharsis. Time for closure. Forward motion.

 

“I Don’t Wanna Fight” has an interesting pedigree, based on a quick Wikipedia search. It was written by Lulu (who scored a #1 hit with “To Sir With Love” in 1967), along with her brother Billy Lawrie and Steve DuBerry. It was originally offered to Sade, but she passed and sent it to Tina. The song is on the soundtrack of the Tina Turner biopic, “What’s Love Got to Do with It,” starring Angela Bassett.  

 

I’m hoping the days of breakups are behind me. May “I Don’t Wanna Fight” just be a song. Catchy, melancholy, something that got me through messy times. Let “Better Be Good to Me” become my new Tina Turner anthem.

 

 

 

 

 

 

"MAID" FOR ME (Netflix TV series review)

Why wasn’t I strong enough?

 

It’s a question I avoid. It can eat away at me. The shame returns. The fault-finding turns inward. I become the one who was flawed. It’s easy to beat myself up. I suppose he knew that.

 

Last year, I finally wrote about the domestic abuse I went through during a seven-year relationship from 1997 to 2004. (The posts are here and here.) I don’t expect to ever fully discuss or write about what I experienced. Most of it’s locked in a vault within me and I’ve chucked the key to prevent entry. When I’ve mentioned the abuse to psychiatrists, they’ve always asked if it was physical and, when I explain it was all emotional, they probe no further and move on. That’s always left me feeling like what I went through doesn’t count. Was I just a drama queen?  

 

Last night I finished the ten-episode series, “Maid,” on Netflix. It premiered in October and I avoided it after reading the premise. A young woman struggles to restart a life for herself and her young daughter after breaking free from domestic abuse. I was even in denial about why I didn’t want to watch. I told myself the title was lame. (It is. I suppose it’s slightly better than the name of another Netflix series from last fall, “Chair”. I’m anticipating some new show to premiere this spring called “Blank” or, to be artsy, “Untitled”. Netflix is basically saying, “You’ll watch. What else are you going to do?”)

 

Even when I began watching, I told myself it was because I was curious to see the locations. While set in Washington state, the series was mostly filmed in British Columbia, particularly on southern Vancouver Island. It was especially easy to spot B.C. Ferries terminals and vessels subbing in for Washington Ferries. 

 

But the abuse and Alex’s attempt to escape from it plays out in that first episode. We see one intense scene. I was uneasy throughout that first viewing, but telling myself, “Mine was not like that” gave me just enough emotional distance to continue with the series. It helped that I don’t binge-watch anything. Most nights, I don’t watch any TV and, when I would sit down and grab the remote, I often told myself, “Not tonight.” I’d choose twenty minutes of a movie instead. A movie can take me weeks to finish (if, in fact, I do finish) and “Maid” took about two months, with me powering through the final five (out of ten) episodes this past week. 

 

Beyond the subject matter and the familiar locations, the series is extremely well done, with realistic, compelling writing and excellent acting. I have never been an Andie MacDowell fan. I felt she was wooden in her 1980s film roles and it surprises me her career has had legs. As Alex’s bipolar mother, MacDowell has found a breakthrough role. Anika Noni Rose, in a recurring role as a wealthy career woman whose house Alex cleans, is eminently watchable and Raymond Ablack as Nate, an acquaintance who goes above and beyond to help Alex—not entirely for altruistic reasons—is eminently watchable because he’s, well, easy on the eyes. But it’s Margaret Qualley in the lead role who carries the entire series, appearing in every scene, her acting coming off as natural and captivating. (I only learned this morning, while Googling a few things for this post, that Margaret Qualley is Andie MacDowell’s actual daughter. Huh. So the resemblance wasn’t fortuitous casting.)

 

The beauty of “Maid” is that Alex is so strong. She is exemplary as a devoted mother to her young daughter, Maddy. Her own mother is exasperatingly unpredictable, but Alex remains loyal and protective in attempting to parent her too. Alex also has to maintain contact with her abusive ex since he is Maddy’s father. Throughout the ten episodes, she is challenged in understanding abuse, in negotiating relationships and in navigating the hoops and hurdles as a single mother living in poverty, trying to find safe shelter, longer term housing, work and basics like food and childcare. (The show is based on a book I haven’t read, a memoir by Stephanie Land called Maid: Hard Work, Low Pay, and a Mother’s Will to Survive.) Every glimmer of hope is dashed by soul-crushing setbacks and yet Alex continues to push forward with a simmering fierceness, brought on, in part, because she’s got Maddy depending on her.

 

“Maid” is also remarkable for its portrayal of Shawn, the abusive ex. We’ve seen movies in which the abuser is a horrid, despicable loser. When this is what a viewer sees, it’s easy for someone who hasn’t experienced domestic abuse firsthand to judge the character who is abused and assert their own superiority. 

 

I would have left after the first incident. 

I would never…

She’s so stupid. 

She should have…

 

I’ve heard these comments countless times as I’ve sat quietly in the lunchroom at work or during a coffee with friends. It always triggers that familiar refrain in my head: Why wasn’t I strong enough?

 

Yet Shawn is not a one-note villain. He’s even a sympathetic character. Over the course of the series, we can see why Alex would have fallen in love with him. There was something good between them before things went bad. It’s clear he still loves Alex and he’s a good dad to Maddy. He’s got his own demons and a difficult past, but he’s earnestly trying to be a better man. He’s even incredibly supportive of Alex as she tries to deal with her mother. For Alex, walking away and never looking back is an oversimplification of her options. As Maddy’s father, Shawn continues to have legal rights. Neither Alex nor Shawn grew up in stable homes with healthy adult relationships. They both want things to be different for their daughter.

 

I was mesmerized by the scenes involving Alex and Shawn. A few are inherently dramatic due to the plot but, more often, the exchanges are understated, strained by the normal emotions that come from a recent breakup. There’s more, of course. Alex must protect herself. Alex is cordial and even empathetic as she acknowledges his growth. But there’s a coolness and a firmness as well as she strives to maintain distance and boundaries. Shawn believes she’ll come around. They’ll make things work. Alex doesn’t play games. She’s direct and determined they will never be a couple again. 

 

Despite trying to be detached in watching the show, I came to let down my guard and allow myself to connect with Alex. Sometimes watching “Maid” triggered too much. Sometimes it made for a difficult evening, a restless sleep, and foggy morning after. Alex is a character I can identify with much more than depictions of cowering abused women with black eyes and pervasive meekness. (It’s always a woman, which brings up more issues of shame and worthlessness for me.) Yes, those portrayals are grounded in reality, too. If I felt trapped in a relationship in which my partner was a ticking time bomb, beating me with little lead-up, I’d look cowering and meek as well. If I couldn’t get away from that violent episode, I’d crouch and try to protect my body. 

 

Alex deals with emotional abuse as did I. Without smacks and slaps, it’s harder to tell when things have crossed the line. When does an intense argument become something graver? She doesn’t identify it as abuse in the beginning. Neither did I. (My psychiatrists’ unconcerned reactions only added after-the-fact confusion.) While Alex and Shawn share a child, I kept ties with my ex to allow him contact with our two dogs. People may judge me for that, but we were a childless gay couple and we both adored the dogs; they adored him, too. No one has ever been more important to me in my life than those schnauzers. Part of why I stayed so long was fear that he’d insist on having one of the dogs. I would never allow that, but I needed certainty they’d remain with me. 

 

Once I was free, I too had Alex’s strength. A friend who observed a couple of dog drop-offs between my ex and me remarked, “Man, you’re cold to him.” This friend didn’t know of the abuse. Yes, I was cold. Distance was essential. Like Shawn, my ex kept wanting us to get back together. I couldn’t allow a trace of warmth. I needed it to be clear: That will never happen.

 

“Maid” will help many persons who are or were in emotionally abusive relationships. It’s helped me see that the shame is his, not mine. The weakness was his, not mine. I know I will still teeter. I will slip back and blame myself. That nagging question, Why wasn’t I strong enough?, will creep back in at times. Now, at least, I have Alex and “Maid” as a reminder of how the best of people can fall into the worst of circumstances…and find a way out.

WHEN MR. RIGHT BECAME MR. WRONG…AND LESSONS LEARNED

It’s been a few months since running into him. My ex. The one I’d thought would become the great love of my life. I started writing this after all the dreams that followed, but I set it aside. I wanted more distance. He’s popped up in my dreams a couple more times. Same tone, an almost nostalgic sense of our better times; same sense of horror when I awaken. I haven’t allowed myself to savor anything that made me fall in love with him in the first place. In our last years together, my entire focus had been building a wall to create distance and protection. For too long, I’d allowed his good side to slip through cracks, misleading me into trusting and hoping again. 

 

My family and my friends who knew me during that seven-year relationship still know nothing about the abuse I endured. I don’t see any purpose in that. How would they feel to find out they never knew? What might they think of the fact I didn’t reach out while it was happening?

 

I’ve shared some bits with a couple people I’ve met since that time but mostly in general terms. I don’t want to open things up. I don’t want to be judged, probably not so much by them but by myself. I don’t want to feel the shame again. I knew what was wrong with him, but I stayed. What was wrong with me?

 

Something positive came from recently running into my ex. One morning, after yet another unwanted dream with him popping up, all sweet and caring, I got on my bike and pedalled out of the city, through suburb after suburb. I was disturbed that the entire tone of the dream had been loving, that my subconscious was intent on showcasing his kinder side and that it had taken so long for me to bolt upright in bed, calling an end to this glossy, fairy-tale version of us.

 

The ride offered a chance to try to work things through without reaching for the distraction of something on the internet or retreating to the numbing comfort of a bag of microwave popcorn or a stack of blueberry pancakes.

 

I’ve often reflected on my relationships, trying to pinpoint the things I’d done wrong or could have done better. When reflecting, I focus on my actions and inactions since that’s what is within my control. That’s where I can learn and grow. I’m a big believer in the notion that “history repeats itself.” I feel that, being acutely aware of past lessons, I have a better chance in a future relationship, nixing any repeating cycle. 

 

As I pedalled, I began with safer subject matter. I went through the lessons from the other three relationships when I fell in love. Yes, I knew my mistakes. I was relieved that these mistakes were different in each case. I’m (fairly) confident I have grown and can continue to grow from lessons learned.

 

Then I allowed myself to consider the relationship that turned out to be abusive. Never an easy reflection. It began, as always, as a destructive rather than constructive exercise. Friendly fire. As I rode farther, I grew tired of beating myself up once more. Blaming myself for staying in that relationship was an old tune I knew by heart. That’s part of the relationship’s legacy, the nagging sense that I’d been weak, pathetic, a doormat. Why had I allowed the abuse? 

 

When you’re repeatedly called useless, the defenses break down. It sinks in. It becomes who you are.

 

Then my thinking shifted. Fuck blame. Fuck shame.

 

Somewhere on my ride between Port Moody and Belcarra, I had an epiphany. The demise wasn’t my doing at all. I had loved as much as I possibly could. I’d fully committed. I’d been loyal and supportive. Adhering to “for better or for worse” had been my downfall. I’d perhaps had too much faith, thinking that “worst” would change course, that we could ride it out.

 

Still, I tried to pinpoint my faults. What were all the things I had done wrong? This is normally a simple exercise. I’m a master at finding fault in myself. One psychiatrist I saw weekly for many months declared on several occasions that I was at a genius level in terms of putting myself down. (Um…thanks?) 

 

No fault this time. I felt elated. Maybe I’d finally discovered that elusive euphoria people always talk about when endorphins kick in during exercise. Maybe I’d just never pedalled hard enough. But no. That was just my reflex response, dismissing the epiphany. My endorphins will always be dormant. What was suddenly clear to me was that the undoing of my longest relationship had not been my doing in any way. In fact, I allowed myself to think of all the things I’d done right. (I won’t go through them here. It’s one thing for me to take a break from putting myself down; it’s quite another to openly praise myself.) 

 

For the first nine months of our relationship, absolutely everything was pure bliss. I’d fallen in love as I should have. We were fully in sync. I didn’t change; he did. I remember the morning he finally let the cracks show. When the tirade ended and he left, I drove to a beach and walked back and forth along the shore, feeling scared and shocked, trying to figure out what I had done wrong because this man I loved could not have snapped for no reason. I had no answers, but I decided to stick with him because that’s what you do in a committed relationship.

 

“What’s wrong with me?” has been a familiar refrain over the decades. My parents have been married for sixty-one years, my sister for thirty-six, my brother for thirty-two. My best friend has been married for thirty-two years as well, my next closest friends for twenty-six and twenty-seven years. Facebook shows me anniversary pics of others along with Valentine’s celebrations and declarations of devotion and appreciation whenever it’s a spouse’s birthday. I am happy for them, but there’s always a sting. They succeeded in a loving relationship. Obviously, I didn’t.  

 

I know I did all the right things. I was just as loving, just as loyal, just as committed as these people. It was just with the wrong guy. I stuck with him because that’s the way I’ve always heard it should be, that’s what I saw all around me. 

 

You stick with it. You work things out.

 

It cost me dearly. I was thirty-two when I fell in love with him. For gay men, I feel the thirties are when the time is ripe to settle down. My generation often came out later and the twenties were about messy exploration. Indeed, the first time I fell in love, I was twenty-six and I made plenty of cringe-worthy mistakes, things I can shake my head over or laugh about. It was the equivalent to a much-belated high school or college romance, destined to be a steppingstone to something more mature and secure. The love that followed, still in my twenties, was another that helped ready me for something more. These relationships, along with my own personal growth, prepped me for the relationship I walked into at thirty-two.

 

It was you; not me.

 

My epiphany is bittersweet. I’m a single man, but I have a clearer, even fairer, understanding of how I got here. It’s late in coming and it’s accompanied by a sense of regret. I was as committed and loving as any of my friends and family members who are still in relationships. I gave up my thirties to this man and then, due to the abuse, I retreated to a rural setting for ten years, effectively taking myself out of consideration for a viable partnership. Taken together, the wrong guy and then the wrong place sucked up almost two decades of my life, notably “prime time” for romance. 

 

Sometimes you put all you’ve got into a relationship. You love as largely as you possibly can. You keep reminding yourself of that damn vow, “for better or worse” and, because you don’t want to fail, you add on “or worse than worse.” You believe and then you believe again. And again. 

 

Yes, sometimes it’s an evil prince that pops up in the fairy tale. Sometimes hope and belief are misplaced. Sometimes you can’t wring a happily ever after out of the relationship in which you invested the most and gave your all. Sometimes being out of a relationship is the best thing that can possibly happen. Sometimes being safe is the best way to end the story.

WE MEET AGAIN (Part Two)

Getting out of an abusive relationship brought an obvious sense of relief but the freedom I’d gained sometimes felt tentative. So many times during our final year living under the same roof—no longer technically together, yet still living side by side in separate bedrooms as renovations sloooowly got done—he’d pleaded for me to give us another shot. Those moments felt as out-of-left-field and (almost) as unpleasant as his abusive tirades. I’d finally broken things off; I didn’t want to think or talk about “us” anymore. I didn’t like having to sound like a cold, callous cad, as if I were responsible for everything falling apart. 

 

I moved to a rural area a ferry ride away. I could afford a house there, but my daily commute to work took five hours (two and a half each way). Most of the year, I only saw my home in daylight on weekends. The water between my ex and me wasn’t exactly a moat filled with crocodiles, but it created distance. 

 

His mother once told me he’d come over on the ferry and “staked out” my house. (Her words, not mine.) For six years, he would periodically send me emails—more apologies, more begging to get back together. This correspondence concerned me greatly. What might happen if and when he accepted the fact there was were no more chances?

 

I never deleted the emails, thinking that if he murdered me, the police would go through my laptop and find a trail that would lead them to him. (How’s that for dark?) I know that people who’ve never been in an abusive relationship would say I should have gotten a restraining order. Sometimes that does work. Sometimes it only enflames matters. I’ve read too many times about people being killed by an ex for whom they’d taken out a restraining order. In a variation of the Rock, Paper, Scissors game, rage beats paper.

 

I have no doubt he’s Googled me many times. I started this blog anonymously and created a Twitter account using a pseudonym, in part, so I could express myself more freely without him getting any personal updates. For all I know, he could read this post. (He works in the tech industry. There are always ways to track someone’s virtual footprint.) He would take offense to me portraying things as abusive. It’s easy for someone to do when their rages occur as blackouts. I once recorded one of his rages so I could play it back to him as proof of his Mr. Hyde side. I needed him to know how bad it was. I thought it would lead him to seek help. I cannot recall if he refused to hear it or if I decided not to share it. (I suspect the latter since my gut told me that the fact I had recorded him would only enrage him more.) 

 

Deep down, I believe he knows how bad things were.

 

When I moved back to Vancouver six years ago—I managed to sell my three-bedroom house to afford a teensy condo—I ran into him (almost literally) after just one month. I was jogging the sea wall on a sunny evening and there he was, standing, smiling and waving. I held up my hand—Was it a wave or a stop sign gesture?—and kept right on running. I’d escaped the moment, but he knew I was back. It felt like a bad omen. It was a big city, I reminded myself. There was enough space so that the two of us could coexist, our paths never crossing again. And so it went. 

 

Until last week. I’d gone to the gym and then ordered takeout pizza (lose some, gain some) to sit and eat at a waterside while reading a book. It was a gorgeous, sunny Friday evening. I hadn’t treated myself to pizza at my favorite joint in more than a year. As I walked home along the water, I was calm, even happy (a mood that is hard for me to reach). To head to my condo, I didn’t take my regular route, instead cutting through a courtyard I’d never passed through before. A man stood at the end of the walkway, looking directly at me, smiling way too broadly. At first, I didn’t recognize him. His face and body were a bit fuller—part of aging—and the sun was in my eyes. As we walked toward one another, his smile got bigger, if that was possible. It became clear it was him. My face remained stoic, a sense of dread surged. 

 

He wrapped me in a big, extended hug as my arms remained at my sides. I never let down my guard as he filled me in on his family and the latest job he’d lost. He’d called his female boss the c-word. “It’s not like I said it to her face. I texted it.” Somehow he thought that made it less offensive. It would never have occurred to him to pause before pressing the send button. 

 

He never stopped grinning. “I live here now,” he said. He pointed to a building within view. “Where are you living?” Answer: only a five-minute walk away. Oh, god. I didn’t tell him and he knew not to repeat the question. My pizza served as my exit pass. The box was empty—let’s just say it was an individual pizza—but I was carrying it home so I could recycle it. “I’ll let you go since your pizza’s getting cold. Yes, so cold. Just like my demeanor. 

 

Saved by a cardboard box. 

 

I’ll never walk down that walkway again, but I pass by the area, walking, jogging and biking multiple times a week. Now it feels highly likely our paths will cross again.

 

I don’t feel unsafe anymore. I’ve blocked so much of what happened. No amount of therapy can dig it up. Honestly, I’ve expunged so many specifics from my memory. It sounds improbable, but it’s true. It’s how I’ve recovered.

 

Still, in the next eight days after seeing him, he popped up in my dreams five nights. Nothing scary. Everything happy, with the two of us together, in love. Each time, I’d abruptly sit up in bed, horrified. Sometimes happy dreams are nightmares. 

WE MEET AGAIN (Part One)

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.