MEN EXPERIENCING ABUSE - A LONELY JOURNEY

Last week, CNN ran an article entitled, “25% of US men experience abuse, but it’s hard to get help.” The title—and the topic—gave me chills. I’ve been there, on the receiving end.

 

Regrettably, the article focuses solely on physical and sexual violence. Emotional abuse as a separate rather than a subset form of harm is not addressed. It’s what I experienced two decades ago in a seven-year relationship that started out seemingly perfect. I’ve blogged about it before, but it’s worth recounting in case someone else identifies with it.

 

In the beginning, it seemed I’d discovered the perfect mate. My partner was sweet. Perhaps too sweet. Six months in, a conversation arose—I don’t recall the circumstances; it was something minor, as always—where his Mr. Hyde side came out in full force. I was berated and belittled in a nonstop diatribe that was totally out of character and was highly disturbing.

 

He went off to work and I sat on the sofa, stunned, trying to make sense of what was not at all sensible. I got in my car and drove to a beach an hour away, spending much of the day wandering and wondering what I’d done wrong. How had I set him off? 

 

I knew innately it wasn’t my fault and yet it seemed easier to blame myself than to find flaws in him. Still, I kept teetering in trying to process the incident. Was this a one-off I should forget about? Was this the beginning of a new dynamic in our relationship? I’d already fallen in love with this guy. Was I supposed to leave? As outrageous as his temper had been, didn’t it reflect poorly on me if I ended things after the first rough patch? 

 

I stayed. This was my man. This was my partner for life. We hadn’t exchanged vows—couldn’t back then—but I was invested…“for better or for worse.” That was an expression we’d all grown up with. It was something I believed in. I was supposed to stick around. Stand by my man. I was supposed to work things out. 

 

Everyone who met my partner saw him as handsome and oh so charming. I’d found one of the good ones. A great one! He never ever showed his darker side to my friends, family or colleagues. 

 

The tirades became more frequent. There was no way to predict when they would happen. Out of the blue, something would trigger him and suddenly he was spewing a rapid-fire, mostly irrational monologue about how f#*king “useless” and “worthless” I was. I learned quickly that trying to refute his claims only escalated and extended the fits. I learned to just sit there and take it. 

 

Whenever it was over, I would be quiet. I would try to avoid him. He couldn’t understand why I was so subdued. He’d returned to Dr. Jekyll, Mr. Charming. What was up with me?

 

What I came to realize was that he had no recollection of these tirades. These moments were episodes of blackout rage. This made the incidents more challenging to process. I couldn’t talk with him about what he said after the fact because he didn’t believe he’d said such things. (I tape recorded one episode but never dared play it back, fearful it might trigger something worse.) 

 

For six and a half years, I lived in fear of what might come in the present day, maybe the next hour or even five minutes after a totally normal exchange. I told no one until a decade AFTER I’d managed to get out of the relationship when my best friend ran into him at a party and started saying how great it would be if we got back together. 

 

I felt so much shame. I felt I should have been stronger in somehow helping my partner who denied ever berating me. (His mother and sister both exhibited the same behaviors.) 

 

I should have left. 

 

I internalized all the comments about being worthless. I blamed myself. I sometimes told myself I deserved the abuse. 

 

The CNN article mentions that children or pets are used as wedges to keep the abused person in the relationship. In our case, we had one dog, then another. My bond with both dogs was far stronger than his and I feared that, in a breakup, he’d insist we split them.

 

I spent two years actively looking for a place I could afford on my own, far enough from him but still close enough to work. After what I knew was far too long, I finally found my strength and broke up with him. Custody of the dogs was not negotiable. They. Were. Mine. After all my fretting, it startled me how he didn’t put up the slightest resistance.

 

I found a house with a yard for the dogs. It was a ferry ride away from where we had lived. That gave me a clearer sense of separation. It offered a false sense of safety. (His mother told me he’d staked out my new place.) It also meant five hours of commuting to work each day. It further isolated me from friends. Still, I was as free as I could be. 

 

It would be another eight years before he stopped emailing me, begging to get back together. Each email startled and scared me. Would my continuing to reject or ignore him escalate his behaviors. Would physical harm come next? My freedom came with my own dark thoughts about what might happen next, about how maybe things weren’t really over…certainly not in his mind.

 

Physical, sexual and emotional abuse does happen to men. The CNN article mentions that 1 in 4 men experience physical or sexual abuse and, as with so many harms to men, the figure could be low because men underreport and often fail to get help. Men are still raised to believe they have to “tough it out.” They should be “strong enough” to handle things on their own. Seeking help is seen as a sign of weakness.

 

I know I should have walked away not long after that first rage episode. It truly was outrageous. If not after the first incident, then maybe the second or definitely the third. I turned to no one. I didn’t know who to contact. To this day, when I’ve mentioned the abuse to psychiatrists, they have not probed as soon as I’ve made clear the abuse was neither physical nor sexual. What I experienced has never been acknowledged. 

 

I hope professionals are better equipped with responding to all kinds of abuse men experience. If men still find it difficult to confide in a friend or family member, I hope that psychologists, psychiatrists and helplines know how to listen, support and advise better two decades after I struggled alone. Still, no one knows the harm unless the man reaches out and continues to try and try again if the first professionals fail to provide significant acknowledgment and support.

 

Just seeing the CNN article offers some validation. Abuse happens regardless of gender. Let anyone experiencing abuse get the help they need and deserve.

 

  

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.