On Being Misunderstood
The coercive control experience is baffling to the target as well as society at large; its opaque nature confounds and obstructs healing
This week I’m traveling, and not traveling ‘home’ to visit family. I’ve returned again to this waterside city, a city I spent time in the past, a city I’ve re-visited on how many occasions I’m not sure. I’ve not returned to my parent’s home, to the town where they and my siblings reside.
It’s Thanksgiving and I’m feeling it. I’d rather not.
My aunt sent a group text to my parents, my siblings, and myself; wishing us a happy holiday. Some recipients chirp up, send a reply of thanks-so-much and hope-you’re-doing-well. In years past we’d convene either at her house, out in the boonies, or at my mom’s house, squarely in the suburbs. Year after year, convening, eating together, sharing stories, catching up. Grown ups on the various couches in various rooms. The kids threading through the back yard, then front yard, then back again.
It took a lot of wrangling to come to terms with the idea of an order of protection. It was a confusing time, I was not prepared to recognize I’d been in an abusive ‘relationship’ (a misnomer). Who can be ready for such a paradigm shift, as Ruth calls the event of waking up? For years my thinking was that I had a partner who loved me, but had a temper problem; someone as imperfect as we all are. I wanted to help him grow through it, as he might help me grow through things I struggled with.
But then, one night, very cooly, he informed me he was going to burn down the apartment. I’d known him to be destructive before. Throwing cantaloupe-sized stones through the windows of businesses who’d offended him. Using a hammer to bang up the door of a landlord who refused refund of his deposit. Even now, years out, and even with you— reader, who’s likely had your own brush with abuse— I feel the need to defend myself. Explain that this information was only shared with me years into the marriage. Making it all the harder to have perspective, to extricate your life from this context. For Luke, it was A-OK to smash, break, and destroy things.
I did not have a sense if he’d really do it or not. I did not have the sense if he intended for me to be in the apartment or not, in this proposal to light up the place we lived. Or perhaps he would be indifferent, if I was in the house or not, when he’d set it ablaze. That ambiguity was a yawning breach. It was a crack formidable enough to start to shake me from my slumber.
Confused about something? Turn to Google.
I posed a series of unsettling queries: “how to tell if you’re in an abusive relationship?” “am I being abused?” “what are the signs of abuse?” “what to do if your partner threatens you?”
I called hotlines, wading through the elevator muzak, vaguely terrified and massively confused. Wading into wonderings that I didn’t know would reshape so much of my life. On one call, I don’t know how it proceeded, but at one juncture the anonymous voice asked me, “Could your partner kill you?”
Walking across the grocery store parking lot, I stopped mid-tracks. A moment of silence, bolts tightening at the back of my throat, tension raking across the roof of my mouth.
“I don’t know!” I yelped into the phone. My voice uncontrollably loud and tense. I get into the car and am anxious to get off the phone with this woman; I’m not hearing her other questions, references to resources. I try to explain to her, that maybe, maybe he might if he were really, really angry. But it wouldn’t be on purpose. But maybe he could accidentally kill me if he got angry enough.
The words spilling out, and I know they’re coming from my mouth, from my own mind, but I can also hear how insane it all sounds. Trying to highlight that he could commit manslaughter— killing me in fit of rage; but he would not commit homicide— killing me with plans and precision.
Always defending Luke, trying to drum up some empathy for him; he didn’t mean it. If I died, he didn’t mean it. Charge him with the lesser offense.
Two young law school students helped me put together a petition for an order of protection. With two people I never met, I compiled a list of instances where I’d experienced this or that. Scrolling through photos in my phone, remembering where we’d gone, what was the blow up about that time? Or that time? Photos I’d taken of destruction he laid out somewhere. Like keeping a journal, I take photos of regular, daily life, documenting time skipping along. Photos now became evidence, personal photos becoming “exhibit A,” “exhibit B.”
Later Luke would breach the order by contacting my brother, crocodile tears about how he loved me, how I’d hurt him. I made a police report. But they could do little without the evidence. My claim was insufficient. I ask my brother for the screenshots of Luke reaching out to him.
“Send me $5K and they’re all yours,” was the text from my little brother.
Around this same time, I believe it was related to the order of protection, although memory has blurred things now, the police sent a communication to Luke. I was also provided a copy. This is how I learned that the police had revealed my new address to Luke. I flew into a panic. I was afraid to go home. I went to some DV center, crying and not thinking straight; they laid out different shelters I could go to. Muddled, I was having a hard time figuring out the transportation, the logistics, of how to get there. Or if I was even ready to see myself at a shelter.
I booked a flight to my parent’s house for that afternoon. I stopped by the police station to see if they could provide me an escort in case Luke was there. No one was available. I entered my building and knocked on my neighbor’s door, who I’d had a few exchanges of pleasantries with. Now I blurted out that I had an order of protection, but the police revealed this address, and if she could please just stand there in the hallway in case there was anyone in the apartment?
Thank God she was kind about it, and agreed. When I left she gave me her card, a gesture of solidarity. I still carry it in my wallet. Thank God for the kindness of strangers.
I arrived at my parent’s home, frazzled, high strung, and paranoid, with no known departure date.
Usually my mom babysits for my sister. But my sister didn’t want me to be around her kids. I guess because I was too much of a mess, though I’m not sure. It hurt. When I was already one, giant, walking wound.
A few days into my stay, I’m on the phone with my sister, she’s raising her voice with me, frustrated that I’m “bringing my divorce drama here.” She keeps going, more vitriol and accusations. Nothing kind, nothing welcoming. I hang up, stumble into the house, find my way to the bathroom, put my head in the tub and turn on the faucet.
Things will keep falling apart from here. This is the start. The start of fissures with my family, that final frontier of people who might be able to help me get through this. My siblings’ responses when I needed help and support were less than lackluster. Their responses took a hammer and planted a crack into foundational relationships. A breach that let darkness and suspicion in.
This week I’m traveling, and not traveling ‘home’ to visit family.
Dear Wendy,
Thank you for sharing your thoughts. I am so glad that your family could come through for you. The healing process can take a long time (for some, even a lifetime), and I imagine having that family support helped to expedite / facilitate the healing process. Although this is not necessarily something we need to always weigh with time.
This is hard. The reckoning of the abuse was hard. I had to Google whether it was abuse or not too. It was insidious, it was like a thing you couldn't really pin down. I'm sorry your family was unsupportive. Thank goodness my family came through for me and for that I am forever grateful to them.