Supplemental Post: Going Back

Warning: I am posting about my experiences of domestic abuse in the hope that it will help others to a greater understanding of what goes through a victim's mind when these things happen. And in the hopes that, by describing my experiences, I can help shift the stigma and provide support to those still in abusive situations to know that others have been through this and survived, that they are not alone, and that it is not about them - it is about an abusive situation that hopefully they can move away from when they are ready to do so. 
***

It’s the silence that strikes me as I walk in through the front door. And yet I sense that he’s in the house. Somewhere.

I’m tense but not scared. I think I know how it’s going to go down. I am expecting him to tell me how sorry he is, to plead for forgiveness, to promise to make it up to me, and never to do it again. But as soon as I see him I know I’ve got it wrong.

He appears behind me in the kitchen, suddenly.

“Where have you been?” he snaps.  

“Cathy’s,” I reply, quietly, apologetic already.

I suggest that we sit down and talk about it and so we find ourselves on opposite sides of the round glass table in the kitchen. I’m waiting for him to relent, to follow my script. But it’s not happening.

“I don’t believe you,” he starts. “Playing the victim.”

“I was scared,” I say.

“And so was I,” he has a straight face but I don’t believe it for a minute.

“You just don’t get it, do you,” he tells me. “There’s a difference between acting proactively and reacting.”

I stay silent. I don’t believe what I’m hearing.

“You can’t just behave like that and not expect a reaction,” he carries on, fixing me with his eyes. Cold, defiant.

“OK, I tipped a drink over your head,” I say. “I’m sorry, it was wrong… but your reaction,” I squeak, “it was way out of proportion.”

“Proportion,” he raises his voice, but not too much. “Proportion?” he laughs. “You f*cking lawyer… you f*cking b*tch. F*ck you, you b*tch. The fact you don’t get it just shows what a sad self-absorbed b*tch you are.”

He’s spitting the words out now and that look is taking over his face like he’s ready to snap again.

“You don’t get to choose,” he shoots, like he’s firing his words at me from the barrel of a gun. “Not when you start it. When you start it, you take what’s coming. It’s not up to you anymore.”

I’m numb. I want to cry, but I know it’s just going to make him more angry. I want to reason with him, for him to see that he’s so wrong that it doesn’t make any sense. For him to accept some blame. Somehow I can’t just let it go.

“So are you saying it’s my fault?” I try, hesitantly, determined to understand, reach some common ground.

“You’re f*cking right I am,” he nods slowly and deliberately as if it’s so clear even a two-year old could get it. “And you know it,” he adds for good measure.

And I realise now that it’s my fault because I provoked him. I made him do it just to shut me up, because I was hysterical, out of control. And when I ran out of the house afterwards, I abandoned him, and the relationship. Because that’s what I always do. I’m in denial, a quitter. I run because I’ve run from everything in my life. I don’t have the backbone to stay and face the truth and try to work it out.

But worst of all, now I’ve told someone else, played the victim like the lying scheming, manipulative bitch I’ve always been. When am I going to wake up and take responsibility for my actions, rather than looking at him with my big vacant eyes and pretending that I didn’t mean it, that I can’t help it, and that it’s just who I am? When am I going to realise that those people whom I call my friends don’t really care for me, or they wouldn’t have allowed me to become the spineless loser that I am.

“I’ve had it with you,” he sighs finally. He leans in towards me and I flinch as he takes my hands from the table and clasps them in his. I feel the roughness of his man skin. There’s something honest about it, hard-working, stoic. My eyes are drawn upwards, into his.

“I know you’ve got problems,” he tells me, squeezing my hands just a little tighter. “I know it isn’t easy, but I try to help you, unlike these so-called friends of yours who just pretend that everything’s OK, when you know that it’s not. I’ll carry on, if you want me to. But you’ve got to accept responsibility for your actions, or you won’t be able to move on.”

Something softens inside me and I think that he understands me better than anyone has in my whole life. It makes sense that I drove him to do what he did and that now he’s giving me a second chance.  I’m feeling ashamed of my behaviour, squirming about how awful it must be for him sitting here, being the strong one, trying to move forward, all because of how much he loves me.

“I’m sorry,” I splutter as I start to speak. I can’t hold the tears back anymore, but somehow now I know they’re allowed.  “I’m sorry,” I repeat, “so sorry.”

And he puts him arms around me.

“It’s OK,” he says. “I’m here.”