How I Undid the Conditioning of My Silence
And Speak Up about My Abuse
Abusers often hold a position of power over their victims and punish them for being vocal about what they experienced. Add to that, there is a general lack of awareness of what emotional abuse actually is. We don’t have the right support systems in place, and many victims are unaware of how to access the available help.
The first time I spoke up about what I had been enduring, I contacted his mother. By then, I had been asking for help from various family members for months. My efforts to convince them that something was very wrong were mostly ignored or explained away until the day when his lies and excuses finally caught up with him.
At the time, we were living separately, but every couple of weeks, he would disappear for a night or two, and the following morning, I’d wake up to find hundreds of dollars had gone missing from our accounts. Thousands of dollars were lost before this time period ended. He would alternate between denial, annoyance, and anger at me when I asked where the money was going. Any attempt to hold him accountable for his actions or get the truth out of him was met with hostility.
I knew his excuses were lies, but I didn’t know what to do. I hit my wit's end, begging his family to step in. His behavior escalated until something finally cracked, and he told me the money had been going toward lap dances and champagne. I don’t know if I can adequately describe my devastation at finally knowing what was behind the lies or the hit to my self-confidence. Yet he seemed to expect absolution and forgiveness at coming clean, like once he finally admitted what I believe to be a fraction of the truth… I should be all forgiving. Instead, I screenshot his text to me and sent it to his mother and sister, telling them again that he needed help.
Instead of recognizing the pain his actions were causing, he became upset that I had shared his dirty laundry. The conversation effectively switched from what he had done to his disappointment in how I had alerted others to what had happened. I learned very quickly that to speak up or attempt to set ground rules on his behavior after that point only led to harsher treatment of me.
It’s been years now, and I still have nightmares about some of the things that were said to me. Every single time I go to make an Instagram post or write an article talking about abuse or acknowledging that I was abused, my stomach clenches. My body tenses up, and my mind races as I anticipate angry text messages berating me for talking about what happened.
I can perfectly imagine texts along the lines of, “I can’t believe you’re saying I abused you.”
Or
“I know I hurt you, but how could you call me abusive?!”
The above texts are a product of my imagination, but it’s easy to think they could be real because, for a long time, my reality was being blamed for his behavior. I grew increasingly terrified of communicating with him in any form because I didn't know which version of him I would get by the end. Was he going to be agreeable and agree that steps needed to be taken to prevent these behaviors from repeating, or was I going to be told that he was tired of being treated like a child? Or worse, that I had given up as a mother. That I was the one who needed to seek help.
I was caught between trying to see through lie after lie and what I knew was my reality. Making it add up was like being stuck in a whirlpool. I knew there was no way anything he was saying was true, but I also lacked pieces of the puzzle to make it all make sense.
Worse still were the cruel words spoken that still cut me to my core. Some of those harsh words will forever haunt me said to me as he lashed out against any possibility of accepting responsibility for his actions. The fact of the matter is that I was groomed to stay quiet. The blame for that may not be entirely on his shoulders, but his anger played a huge factor in keeping me quiet. It took hours of therapy and months of study before I fully understood what happened to me.
I was caught in the crosshairs of an emotionally abusive situation.
As soon as I understood what was happening right in front of my face, I felt this deep urge to scream about the injustice of it all. I tried a few times to write about what I had experienced, determined to stand up and say: this is bullshit. I set up the framework to tell my story from beginning to end, but waves of panic hit. I worried that my speaking up would, in turn, be used as proof that I was somehow cruel.
Until I came across a quote on the internet that said:
“I was taught that keeping quiet kept the peace until I realised whose peace is it keeping? The offender was at peace, and I in that little body was holding all of the war, and I didn’t want to hold it anymore.” -Dr. Thema Bryant
The idea of whose peace I was keeping really struck me.
Staying silent hadn’t done me any good. I began to wonder if I was still, in some way, making excuses or protecting him with my silence. Fear motivated me to stay quiet, but the more I put names to things I experienced, the more I realized that I NEEDED to talk about what I went through. Not to seek pity or out him to the world, but out of the hope that anyone who can relate even a fraction to my story will get out before they got as bad as they did for me. That’s what let me break past the ice wall of my fear.
I am afraid of my abusers’ anger every single day. I don’t know if I’ll ever stop feeling scared of speaking out. I remember the things that were said to me, and I actively feel the pangs of panic every time I write about it, but it’s too important to stay quiet. Maybe more than that, I don’t want him to have that level of control over me anymore. My story is mine to tell. I am creating my happily ever after from the ashes, and I’ll do it as loudly as I please.
He may have played a role in my life story, but he doesn’t get to define it. My story didn't end with his abuse. I put in the work to grow and heal from it. I put the pieces of my life together and realized it was my story to tell, but that doesn’t make it any less scary.
If sharing my story can help even one person recognize they’re in an unsafe situation, it’s worth pushing through the fear. That’s what helps me feel the fear and do it anyway. Speaking out isn’t about revenge. It’s about awareness, and that's enough to help me find my courage.
**Please note: I am not a mental health professional. I am writing based on my own experiences with emotional abuse. If you are experiencing abuse and need professional help, please seek out a trauma-informed therapist**
