On My Way Out
I started writing this in February, during one of my winter seminars, before I made the decision to get my protection order from my husband and go on my own.
My counselor called what I have now Complex-PTSD and what I was going through narcissistic abuse syndrome. It is real, and sneaky, and scary. I write this for those of you who are questioning their feelings, wonder about their realities, and consider if they are capable of being independent. I am sharing this for those of you in a similar situation, to say to you: yes it is real, yes it is dangerous, and yes you can do it. I didn’t share it before because I feared that he would read my blog and I would have repercussions at home. Now that I am safe, I can share this experience.
Sometimes walking away takes more strength and courage than staying and fighting back.
Our relationship started out as a fairy tale. It seemed that he was magically everything that I wanted. Until we moved in together. Then there were little things that bothered me. I had lived in the same house for 10 years, so naturally I would feel depressed from the move, and I gave myself time to get over it. But after several years, these “little things” still bothered me.
Hindsight, sometimes, is 20/20. When we were moving my things from my house, it was mostly just furniture. We had a roll-off come before, and he delightedly dumped many of my things into it, sometimes without asking. I lost a handmade blanket by my great aunt and some hand embroidered pillowcases that way. His friend helped us move the furniture. In front of his friend, he took all of the things that were in the drawers of my furniture, dumped them in a pile, and told me to “take care of them”. His friend looked at me and said, “You don’t have to do this”, meaning move in with him. But we already had the other place — the house I was currently in was way too big and in a town that was too far away from doctors. I didn’t see a way out.
One time, we went to a new place to eat with my sister, and he had nothing but negative things to say. He wasn’t forced to go with us, I paid the bill, he didn’t have to drive, he chose his own entrée — I didn’t understand what else he wanted.
It reminded me of the time I had a chance for a free trip to Punta Cana. Twice, I asked him to go. All he had to do was get his passport and pack. Everything was paid for — even the airplane tickets and all the food. Both times he had something negative to say about the trip; he wouldn’t go. I ended up going with my daughter and having such a relaxing time. He said later he regretted saying no, and he thought that if he said no, he could have prevented me from going, too.
My sense of what was real and what was imagined changed. I repeated things to my sister on our lunches out. She had to reaffirm that it’s not okay for a person to call me awful names and call my kids names, even when angry — no matter how many times there is an apology. And if it keeps happening, the apology isn’t genuine.
He told me to be positive but each night he was defensive and angry at reality and change that wasn’t initiated by him. He said I needed to be aware of what he wanted but wasn’t aware of any of my interests, hobbies, or desires. He never read any of my blogs or poetry. He refused to go to concerts with me — “I won’t sit through THAT stuff” — but demanded I sit through movies he wanted to watch, even when they were violent ones I didn’t like or had seen before, or if I had something else I needed to do. He used to be proud of things he knew about me, but later he didn’t pay attention to anything on my schedule. He would use the excuse, “You know me, I don’t remember anything” — even if it was on the calendar.
The one time he shopped for me for Christmas, it was because my daughter went along and chose things for me. When he did give me gifts, he would tell me the price he paid and that I had “better be worth it” and demand certain demeaning “favors” to work the worth of the gifts off. This past year for Christmas, he gave me a check, said shopping for me was a waste of time. Then, when utilities came due and I asked for his half, he said, “I already gave you money”. So my Christmas money went to the electric bill. He refused to budget or save, so I paid most of the household needs — toilet paper, soap, laundry soap — those things add up.
I didn’t leave because he said no one else would want me but him — that I was lucky to have him. I was so messed up — it was me that was broken. When I asked about couples counseling, he refused, saying, “YOU’RE the one who needs counseling”.
Throughout this whole thing, I thought to myself, “You’re just complaining. When he doesn’t tell you you’re dressing like an old lady, he tells you you are beautiful. He doesn’t drink, doesn’t cheat on you. He goes to work most days. He helps with mortgage most months. He takes you out and comes home after work. There are good days.” But does that outweigh the pain?
If I shut my mouth he doesn’t yell and I get called less names, I get accused less. He doesn’t threaten to kill me.
At what point is self-preservation the cowardly way out and not humility and tolerance?
At what point does a person become the queen of her own destiny and risk being called the cold-hearted bitch and being alone and on her own and break out and walk out and not care?
What we’re used to and comfortable with isn’t always what’s best for us.
On April 6, 2020, I got a protection order and filed for divorce. We had signed prenuptial agreements, and kept our finances separate because he had past bills he wasn’t paying — I was giving him a chance to pay them off — one he never took advantage of. On April 27, 2020, the district judge upheld my protection order — with a statement from my sister attesting to the fact that he had threatened to kill me. My kids and my work are included in the protection order. His things are gone from the house.
The house I’m living in is mine alone. I mowed my lawn for the first time — something I was once afraid of, but I can do it. My college-aged daughter is now safe to move home for the first time. My son can come visit and not be called names. I can actually call it a home. And I can make it feel like home — my brother-in-law is helping fix it up, things I was afraid to do before.
I am making it to work every day. I am writing every day. I am exercising and taking care of my body.
I am safe. I am myself. I am home.
May 19 & 27, 2020
Tansy Julie Soaring Eagle Paschold
