Sunday, May 10, 2015

Mother's Day Thoughts and Wishes

My thoughts on Mother's Day are of course memories of my mom and a little sadness that I only got to have her for the first 28 years of my life.

Losing your mom prematurely is staggering and agonizingly painful at the outset. Over time I've learned to live with being motherless and gradually I began to savor sweet memories rather than sinking so deeply into my loss. But there are some losses I feel today that I could not comprehend at 28.

I'll never know the mother/daughter relationship we might have had through the growth of the last 28 years.

I finally do believe in my heart that she would be proud of the woman I am today. But I don't get to experience it.

I don't get to see my mom hold my grandchildren or tell her about them. I don't get to tell her how much I admire her as a grandma and that my goal is to be as good a grandma as she was.

I'd love to do things for my mom at this stage of life. I'd love to take her for a pedicure and massage. I'd love to take her on a trip ~ just the two of us. I'd love to take her to fancy restaurants (my treat).

I'd love to laugh with her about some of the ways I am exactly like her (because the ways we were different were so big in those first 28 years that they eclipsed the ways we were alike).

I know how much she would love John and wish she could have met him. I wish she could have been at our wedding.

I wish she could have watched me become strong enough to overcome the foolish choices of my youth ... and make better choices.

I wish she could have met all of her grandchildren and watched them grow into adulthood.

I wish I could still go to her house for holiday meals. Nobody did holidays better than my mom.

My list of wishes for what might have been could go on for hours and pages. But more than anything, I really wish I could laugh with my mom as a mature woman. I wish I could reminisce with her about the past and share the wisdom time has brought. I wish I could tell her that I am able to recognize her many strengths so much more than I did as a younger woman. I would love to tell her that I'm honored when someone tells me I'm like her.

I would love to know her more intimately than I was able to know her in my twenties. I would have loved for our relationship to have had time to blossom and mature. I wish we could have been better friends. And I wish I could have had more time to show her how much she meant to me and how much I appreciate her.

If you have your mom and are blessed to enjoy the many possibilities that are losses for me (and others like me), I am not jealous of you. I'm so very happy for you. I wish no one ever had to lose their mom prematurely and go through life without the love (and occasional frustration) of a mother.

What I hope is that you will make the most of the time you've been given. And ...

Today's a great day to start!

Saturday, April 18, 2015

Meeting Cody Wickline ~ From Fan to Friend

Meeting Cody at Women's Expo

As Season 8 of The Voice was about to air on NBC, a buzz started in our little town of Beckley, West Virginia. Everywhere I went, it seemed like I was being asked, "Do you know Cody Wickline?" I didn't know Cody or his family yet. We've only lived here for three years. And when I shared that, friend after friend would start to tell me about this "great kid" from a "wonderful family" who was going to be on the show.

John and I were already fans of The Voice. So we were excited about watching his performance. If you don't watch the show, you can see his blind audition (and four chair turn) in this video...

 And in the battle round that followed, Cody showed another side...

Just prior to Cody's last appearance on the show (Blake chose Corey Kent White in the knock out round), we sat down with Cody and his parents to discuss the possibility of Cody representing our automobile dealership (John Howerton Honda). We thought we'd spend a couple of hours talking, but we wound up spending most of the day together. And toward the end of our "meeting," we assured them that it didn't matter to us how far Cody went on The Voice. We may have initially reached out because of his celebrity and how great his involvement in our advertising would be, but after spending time with Cody and his parents, we wanted to help promote Cody as much or more than we wanted him to promote us...

We believe in his talent. His singing and performing abilities are undeniable. But we are even bigger fans of the person. Cody has continued to impress us as we've had the pleasure of getting to know him better. He's genuine, kind, respectful and humble. And he's eagerly devoted lots of time and attention to charity work already, performing for as many fundraisers as he can possibly squeeze into his schedule. I know he'll continue to help others because it's obvious his heart is in it.

*From George Jones Museum Facebook Page
Next week Cody will be an invited guest at The George Jones Museum's Grand Opening, personally invited by Nancy Jones, George's widow, after his performance of "He Stopped Loving Her Today" on The Voice. I've heard Cody talk about what an honor it is for him simply to have received a phone call from Nancy because she loved his performance that much.

I believe Cody Wickline is on the brink of seeing a few more dreams come true. It's exciting to have the privilege of knowing and spending time with him and his family at this exciting time in his life. We couldn't be more thrilled for Cody's recent national attention. But beyond that, it's just an honor and a treat for us to be considered friends of the Wickline family. They are precious and real and devoted to each other. One of my very favorite things about Cody is his love and respect for his mom and dad. You can just tell they mean the world to him, as well as his little brother Caleb. He values their opinions and looks to them for guidance. It's a refreshing thing to see in a 21-year-old guy who is suddenly a big celebrity in our community. Cody Wickline knows at a young age what really matters in life. And I don't believe any amount of success will ever change that about him. His voice may make him a star in the eyes of many, but his heart is what shines brightest in my eyes.

We are sponsors of Cody's first arena concert here in Beckley. We're a humble little town and our arena sure isn't anything comparable to Bridgestone in Nashville or any other big city. But Cody's gonna rock the house on May 2. And John and I will be in the front row. Well, John will be in the front row apart from whatever amount of time Cody manages to get him up on stage with the band. (John has a music history of his own from the seventies, you know.)

This video doesn't showcase Cody's vocals the way the old country ballads do, but this is the Cody I'm looking forward to seeing perform on stage:

An extra treat for fans at the concert will be hearing fellow Voice contestant, Sarah Potenza, perform live with Cody in Beckley!








Follow Cody Wickline on Twitter

Follow Cody Wickline on Facebook

Follow Sarah Potenza on Twitter

Follow Sarah Potenza on Facebook

Wednesday, March 25, 2015

"I NEVER want a marriage like you have."

This morning I started to make a statement about the invisible wounds of abuse in a Facebook status update. As the words began to flow from mind to the keyboard, I realized it was a blog post and not a status update. When I feel this kind of inspiration, I don't know who I'm writing to. It may be one certain someone who is supposed to read this. It may be many someones. But here goes...

If you're in an abusive relationship and waiting for some big sign that it's time to break free, look at your kids and think about the damage that is being done to their hearts as they watch and experience the continual tension and strain abuse creates in a home. The damage is fairly invisible to you right now, but it will reveal itself down the road.

I will never forget the time my son told me (as a high school student), "I NEVER want a marriage like you have." I saw so much emotion on his face as he spoke those words.

Being an emotionally battered woman, I took the "judgment" upon myself and felt the need to defend our toxic relationship. Needing to feel like keeping the marriage together had some value in my son's life, I presented the defense that even though the marriage was flawed and turbulent, I believed we had at least provided an example of not giving up because things weren't perfect. He looked at me with pity. I'll never forget that day, those words.

I still stayed longer. Years longer. My son graduated from college in 2000. He got married in 2002. And the same month he got married, I filed for divorce. Finally. I had been trying to make this marriage succeed my entire adult life (starting at age 16) and it STILL ended in divorce.

In the years that followed, I learned so much about my child I hadn't known. I always believed he was passive when it came to being picked on by other kids -- even younger, smaller kids. Over time he shared with me that he always had to underreact because he feared his dad's overreactions. He feared friendships ending between adults over some skirmish between kids. He had to control situations to avoid anger and rage, to protect everyone in his dad's emotional path. This was a big weight for a little kid to carry around. All the time I thought my child was just passive, he was suppressing and suppressing and suppressing emotion. Internalizing to this degree can result in physical health repercussions as well as emotional health repercussions.

I learned that my son often felt emotionally neglected...BY ME. That was shocking. I knew he didn't have the pampered life some of his friends thought he had (because his dad enjoyed lavishing a lot of "things" on him). My son had expensive basketball shoes and the latest video games. We took great vacations to wonderful destinations like Hawaii. One summer we even took him on a major league baseball stadium tour that included Camden Yards, Yankee Stadium and The Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown. Neglected? I never would have guessed. And then he explained the ways he felt his needs were not even on the radar because his mom was consumed with the full time job of keeping a narcissist's emotional tank full and catering constantly to his whims and demands, buffering him and others, etc.

I won't try to tell you my son came through all those years of abuse unscathed or without wounds. He wouldn't tell you that either. I've written a whole book about our life and his response after reading it was that I could never make people understand what our life was like behind closed doors by writing about it in a book -- and then he added, "Especially the way you write." He was alluding to the way I write with intentional kindness and grace. My goal was never to make his father into a monster or dehumanize him in my writing. But you know what? Sometimes that man WAS a monster to live with. And not just for me. For my son.

In spite of the wounds, my son is also a survivor. He's successfully and happily married to a wonderful woman. He's an excellent father to his four kids. He's a pastor. He's a coach. Thank God, I did not ruin his life by staying so long. But did I make his childhood better because I stayed like I always believed? I seriously doubt it.

As a couple, as his parents, the best example we were for him was what he didn't want for his own life. And we gave him a fear of commitment (which he overcame). These are not accomplishments I am proud of.

As a mother, I now know my son felt like he had to be my emotional protector -- for more years than I realized. This is a responsibility I never would have intentionally imposed, but one he carried into adulthood nonetheless. We've been enmeshed. We've been codependent. And our individual wounds impact our relationship to this day. I communicate pretty effectively with most people in my life. But I don't feel like I communicate all that well or effectively with my son. I attribute this mostly to my inability to "risk" hurting his feelings or saying something in a moment of emotion that I would ever regret. I like my record of having never inflicted a lifelong wound or painful verbal memory. And I think sometimes I put that record above real and honest communication. I hold back. I have a self-imposed expectation of myself -- to rise above and take everything in stride.

The scary thing is that I am fully aware this is the same way I interacted with his dad for all those years. It's that same type of fear; fear of my words creating a mess I can't clean up. My ex-husband did try to hurt me and I know that my son does not. But I project these feelings onto other close relationships, including my own son, to this day.

I realize that the choices I made early in my life had a tremendous impact on my son, his memories, his formative years. But every additional year of enduring and enabling abuse added damage not only to each of us as individuals, but to our relationship for years to come. It's all so clear to me now, in hindsight. Even subjecting myself to continual condescension and belittling in the presence of my son all through his formative years has a bearing today on how we interact. I see it. Sometimes I don't feel respected or appreciated. How much of it is real and how much of it is because of my own wounds, the fact that I struggle to feel that I have worth and value, I don't fully know. I do know my son did not witness his mother being valued, respected or appreciated until after I married John in 2004. All the years he lived at home, I was allowing myself to be continually disrespected, belittled, demeaned and objectified in his presence. There is no way to turn that into a positive memory for either of us. I wish I had developed some self-respect much earlier in my life.

Thank God, my son has not had to worry about me or my welfare in recent years. I still try to make sure I'm never a burden, never a bother, never in the way. And that's not ALL bad. I don't think moms should impose themselves or their emotions on their grown kids. But I recognize that I take it to a whole new level. I'm still interacting as a battered woman who mistakenly believes her value is rooted in not getting on anyone's nerves. I constantly look for evidence that I'm valued for who I am, apart from performance or pleasing people. But inside I never feel good enough. I apparently project confidence because I'm expressive and outspoken. But if you could see inside my heart, you would see something very different. You would see fear of disapproval still taking up way too much space. You would see that even though I express my opinions, I also worry obsessively over almost every word that ever comes out of my mouth.

My life today is so good. God has taken my oppressive past and turned it not only into a story of personal deliverance and liberation but also into a ministry of healing and empowerment for other victims and survivors. However, because my long history of abuse still has a pervasive presence (at times) in my thoughts and fears; because it rears its head in the most important relationships of my life to this day, I can never encourage another victim to "hang in there and keep trying" with an abusive spouse. And if you have children being raised in an abusive home, you NEED to think about them and what the stress of living this way is doing to them and their impressionable hearts and souls.

Kids don't want abuse -- even emotional abuse -- for their mothers. I cannot help but think about the words my son has said to me many times, "I didn't want you to stay for me." I remember him telling me after I finally left for good that his biggest fear was of his parents getting back together. I remember him telling me he had nightmares (I think he still does) that we are getting back together. And I remember him saying emphatically, "He will never treat you any differently. Please don't let him talk you into coming back this time." I also remember times when he hadn't given up hope that his dad might change. One desperate time in particular I felt my son's hopes and did what I thought he wanted (stayed). But even in doing that, I was putting a responsibility on him and a weight that wasn't his to carry.

It's not that God can't or won't redeem whatever length of time you give to someone who only wants to harm and oppress you. He can and He will. I am evidence of that. But that doesn't mean He wants you to continue in abuse. It doesn't mean that's His will for you and your children.

While you may think you are waiting on GOD, please consider that HE may be waiting on YOU.

Sunday, March 22, 2015

New Book Release

I am happy to announce the release of this compilation book.
I feel honored to be one of the contributing authors.

Contributing Authors:
Katha Blackwell 
Regina Butler-Streets
Natasha R. W. Eldridge
Lynn Fairweather, MSW
Shari L. Howerton
Catherine Mossman
Susan Peabody
Amanda Pearson
Rachel Russo, MS, MFT
Stephanie Snowe


I have recently reduced the regular Kindle price of my first two books to $2.99 on amazon.


Tuesday, March 10, 2015


THROUGH MY EYES: Overcoming the Emotional Injury of an Abusive Relationship

The above link will take you to the free Kindle download.
The free promotion will end Friday night, March 13, 2015.

Normal price: $4.99  Newly discounted Kindle price: $2.99
Paperback: $10.49


Thursday, March 5, 2015

May my heart be kind...and my spirit brave!

I've been more actively and aggressively engaging the subject of domestic abuse online in recent weeks. The Fifty Shades of Grey conversation ignited a passionate response from me (as well as other advocates). I was asked to weigh in on local newscasts with my opinion because I'm becoming increasingly known for my advocacy within my own community. I am thankful for the opportunity to increase awareness, but speaking out also creates internal stress for me that I have to overcome. Mostly, self-absorbed thinking like, How do I come across? How am I being perceived? Will people dislike me for challenging them this way? Am I annoying anyone?

I sometimes wonder if my Facebook friends are growing weary of the articles I contribute to their news feeds.

I ask myself, When do I cross over from making a point to "Enough already?"

My cause is a real downer, you know.  I'm aware of that.

And I know I have at least a few friends who would appreciate never seeing this
as my profile picture ...
ever ...

I hear from friends that they hate the image (or I hear about friends who tell someone else they hate it). I've heard comments about it every time I've used it. Some are even critical of me for it. But the image is intended to provoke emotion, thought, conversation...
And I cannot deny its effectiveness.

These photographs were taken as part of an awareness campaign called Her Black Eye is Our Black Eye. My husband and I eagerly participated when asked.

Okay, so I had to convince him. I was more eager than he was. But once we did it and he saw the video, he understood the impact it had and why I urged him to be involved in the campaign.

I can't imagine saying no to anything I'm asked to do by our local Women's Resource Center. I know how important their work is and how much they need loud voices to join their efforts.

I saw this meme on Pinterest recently and it resonated with me. These are the questions I want to ask myself about my choices:
Am I being kind, fierce and brave?
(As opposed to: How is everyone 
feeling about me?)

If the answer is yes to kind, fierce and brave,
but the answer to "Am I getting on people's nerves?" is also yes,
I think I can live with that.
No ...  actually ...
I know I can live with that.

#NoMoreWeek begins March 8

Everyone can play an active role in stopping domestic violence and sexual assault before it occurs by becoming an engaged bystander and helping to establish an environment where healthy and positive relationships are based on respect, safety, and equality.

WHAT DOES AN ENGAGED BYSTANDER LOOK LIKE? Click here for ways you can learn how to be an engaged bystander.

To help raise awareness and understanding,
From March 9 - 13
I will offer free Kindle downloads of my book...

I recently contributed a chapter to a compilation book on surviving abusive relationships...


I will continue to use my voice to say #NoMore

Thursday, February 26, 2015


The following is a guest post written by a survivor of domestic violence and emotional abuse. I offered my blog as a safe place where she could tell her story in graphic detail without identifying herself or her family publicly. For those readers who have no personal experience with abusive behavior, we hope to raise awareness, as well as heighten understanding and sensitivity for other victims and survivors.

You may not be aware of this but, statistically, we can almost assure you that you know someone who carries hidden wounds they may never feel comfortable enough to reveal to you. After reading this, we hope you'll be better able to understand why sharing is so hard and takes such courage.

For those of you who have experienced the anguish of abuse personally or have been devastated by the victimization of a loved one, our goal is to offer hope, encouragement and empathy. We want you to know that you not only can survive and make a fresh start, you can triumph over the wounds of abuse and use your experiences to help others. We want you to know you're not alone. We stand with you against domestic violence. And we care deeply about you and your pain.

And now you will hear from the heart of a true survivor... 


I stand at the kitchen sink, washing dishes for what seems like the thousandth time today.  I have just gotten the kids to bed and am trying to relax my thoughts. I am desperately trying not to focus on an earlier conversation; trying not to worry about what is going to happen tonight, attempting to block the memory of his earlier promise. 

I think back over the day, starting with his list of ever growing “expectations.” Each day he assigns tasks for me to finish before he gets home.  Today, I have completed most of them.  But, alas, most is never enough or acceptable.  I reflect on the last time I didn’t get it all done.  It was bad.  Will he understand that one child was running a high fever, resulting in a doctor appointment and my waiting forever for the pharmacy to fill the prescription?  Will he make any allowance for the valuable hours I can’t get back?  Cranky, sick babies meant shorter than usual naptimes.  I was never able to catch back up.  Will he even give me a chance to explain? 

My stomach is in knots.  He should be home by now. 

When he finally arrives, dinner is not quite ready.  Abandoned toys are scattered on the floor.  The TV is on, maybe a little loud, as a last ditch effort to occupy little minds while I get dinner on the table.  It was meatloaf night, his favorite.  At least that would buy me a few points.  The door opens.  My heart pounds with anxiety, then sinks heavy in my chest.  He walks up behind me while I'm at the stove cooking, sneaks his hand up my shirt and whispers, “You’re late.  You will make it up to me."

I quickly apologize. “It’ll only be another 5 minutes or so.  I am really sorry.  The baby was sick today, and…”

“You aren’t sorry.  But I promise you will be," he says with anticipation in his eyes.

Dinner is cooked to perfection.  The kids eat well; there is even some cheerful conversation at the table.  But I see that expression.  I know it too well.  It isn’t one of happiness. He’s displeased, simmering in his anger.  It is all my fault.  And he doesn’t even know yet what tasks I didn’t finish. 

Dinner is over.  I realize I have hardly eaten.  The kids are done, though. So I get them ready for bed and tuck them in.  They go down easily. I feel a twinge of hope that I may be able to complete those unfinished tasks. 

I finish washing dishes.  The floor is clean, toys are put away.  The house looks really good considering my eventful, rushed day.  I feel relieved that the only thing I have left to accomplish is the shower I skipped this morning.  Showering used to be such a peaceful experience.  But now, even my hygiene habits are scrutinized.  I better get on it, though. 

Has he even noticed? 

Walking through the bedroom to the bathroom, he doesn’t seem to notice my presence.  Trying to rush, I quickly get in the shower, being careful not to miss anything as I cleanse my body.  My mind races. Thoughts and fears run through my mind. I made him mad.  I know he will be making sure my body is just how he wants it, and he is utterly precise with how he wants it.  I hate that I can’t even control this part of who I am.  When I shave, what I shave, what gets plucked, what gets left....  Why is this so important? 

Halfway through my shower, the door opens.  His anger is palpable, even though I can’t see his face.  “This should have been done first.  My needs come first. Your body is my body.  You know I want you to take care of it.  Why did you think it could wait?  What was more important than making me happy?” 

By now, the curtain is pulled wide open.  He is glaring at me.  The smell of alcohol is repulsive on his breath; it makes me sick to my stomach.  The implication of impending trouble makes me tremble.  As usual, I stand there naked, vulnerable, and trying to think carefully about what to say next, knowing anything I say might be twisted and used against me as a weapon. I think hard before actually forming any words.  And once again, my brief hesitation is too long.  An icy stream of water suddenly sprays my body as he commands,  “Answer me next time I speak to you. “

I smile at him, a slow cautious smile, trying to conceal my despair.  I slowly reach down, hoping he will allow me to turn up the temperature of the water.  He grabs my arm, stopping me.  “If you had wanted a hot shower, you should have taken one first, like I asked you to.  You must’ve wanted to give me a show, deciding to wait for me.  I love the way it looks when it’s cold.  Especially because I get to warm it up later.” 

While I finish my shower, I pray my heart isn’t visibly pounding.  I try to conceal emotion.  I try not to imagine and worry over what might be awaiting me when I get out.  I hate nights like this.  This is not where I want to be or what I want to be doing. I wonder: How in the world do I make it all stop?  All my attempts to stand up to him have failed me.  I feel powerless, weak, and defenseless against his tactics and mind games.  The worst part?  It's as if he knows me better than I know myself and can predict my next move, stopping me before I can even think it through. Being constantly toyed with mentally and emotionally is exhausting and leaves me feeling like I'm being driven insane. 

The water stops.  My shower is over.  Not because I am finished, but because his enjoyment of watching and tormenting me is over. Mounting frustration becomes evident on his face.  As if suddenly deciding to be a gentleman, he hands me a towel.  As I start to take it, he changes his mind and unfolds it.  “Let me do this for you, as you obviously have other things on your mind than taking care of the things I need.”  I know better than to tell him that I can do it myself, or even that I am sorry. 

The last time I told him no is still vivid in my mind.  I had to cover up rope burn on my wrists and ankles for weeks, in addition to what he did to me while I couldn’t fight.  I don’t have the energy to do that again. 

He takes the towel, rubbing it across my back.  Surprisingly gentle, he continues across my stomach.  I’m watching him, his expressions, thinking that maybe I’ve misunderstood.  Maybe he isn’t mad like he was last time.  I start to breathe deeply, willing myself to calm down.  Relax, I tell myself.  Maybe this is his peace offering; a romantic gesture, a decision to show love and affection.  

As my body relaxes, he gently moves my hair off of my neck and whispers, “You aren’t getting off that easily.  You didn’t do what I asked.  You need to be punished.” At this moment, his tender touch becomes savagely harsh.  He takes the towel and starts vigorously rubbing the tender folds between my legs.  The friction on bare skin quickly becomes uncomfortable.  As the discomfort increases, I attempt to move away.  But he grabs me firmly by my arm and commands, “Don’t move.“ The towel continues to intensify the painful friction. That moment of tenderness that provided momentary hope is long gone.  This hurts.  I’m weary.  I’m tired.  I don’t want to do this.  I start to step out of the shower, but he stops me with a firm yank of my hair and his orders:  “I said no.  Do not move.”

You see, I’ve pushed past this point before.  I’ve said no.  I’ve begged and pleaded.  I've tried to bribe him by offering to perform "tasks" less emotionally draining.  And I genuinely meant what I said when I said "No."  The consequences for my actions only seem to get worse over time.  So I carefully choose my words in this moment, knowing what he wants to hear: “I want to make you happy, I know you are upset with my disrespect.  My feet are slippery though, and I’m going to slip if I can’t put my feet on dry floor.” That is the truth, partially.  I do want to make him happy.  I desperately want to make him happy, fix him, save him from whatever hell he is living in.  Above all other desires in life, I simply want a happy husband, a happy marriage, a happy family. 

He helps me out of the shower, and resituates himself.  He moves me closer to him, and starts up with the towel again.  “Does this make you happy?” he asks.  I pause.  I can’t lie.  He’ll know.  I sigh, “It hurts, babe.” It was barely audible, and yet just loud enough that I regret it immediately.  While there is no verbal response, his grip on my breast increases to the point of pain. It is not a loving or sensual caress, but the intentional infliction of pain meant to crumble my will. 

The towel-rubbing increases in speed.  I am inflamed and raw.  I feel like skin is being ripped off of those incredibly sensitive areas.  Turns out, skin is being ripped apart.  At some point in all of this, which feels like an eternity of time to me, I make the decision to pretend I am aroused.  I know he doesn’t want me to feel good.  When it feels good for me, he stops because my pleasure provides no sexual benefit or arousal for him.  He smirks. “I told you that you liked it.  Go to the bed.  You’ll really like that.” 

Failure to comply is not an option.  One tender piece of my breast is clasped between his hands in a tight pinch.  His grip is not lessening as we walk toward the bed.  He directs me with his hand to move there.  I sit on the edge.  I try so hard to appear brave.  In control.  Not afraid of what is coming.  Truth is, I’ve never been successful at hiding my emotions. 

“Aww, babe, why do you look afraid of me?” He’s taunting me.  Baiting me.  Seeing whether or not I will say what he wants me to say.  We’ve done all this before.  If I admit I am afraid, he will do something to make me more afraid.  I will not do that this time because I am genuinely afraid of what more he could possibly come up with. 

“I’m not afraid of you," I say dishonestly. "I am just worried about what you have planned for tonight.  I want to make you happy ... make love to you, the way we used to.”  He laughs.  “Oh, don’t worry.  I’ll make love.  I’ll be gentle," as his grip on my breast tightens.  His fingers are then quickly inserted inside of me, feeling for something to grasp; pinching, plunging and probing, as though I am an empty space, just waiting to be occupied. 

“Gentle enough?” he asks mockingly. Pain pierces through my insides. 

He releases his grip on me, pushing me back further on the bed.  “Get up! On your knees!” 

I know fighting is useless.  He doesn’t care what lengths he has to go to, as long as he gets the expected response.  I do as he says, feeling his hands tighten around my wrists, knowing within seconds I will be unable to free myself.  I feel the all too familiar pieces of cloth that will be put over my eyes and in my mouth, reminding me my comfort and safety is of no concern to him, and that I should have tried harder to do what he wanted. 

Feeling ashamed, I believe I deserve what is coming next.  He pushes me down, face first into a pillow.  I can feel tears forming.  I hate myself for not being able to suppress them.  The tears will only make it worse.  I know too well how my tears empower him and remind me of how powerless I am at the same time.  He knows once the tears start, I have given up -- that I have lost the energy and will to fight him. 

The slaps to my backside begin promptly, picking up speed and force.  He rubs my back, chuckling, “That’s what you like, huh?”  The pain becomes intense, insistent, demanding to be felt.  I can feel my skin smarting, throbbing. Then sadness falls over me, because I know this is only his warmup. 

His fingers are suddenly probing every available space, asserting his superiority and control, conveying to me that even these most private areas of my body aren’t really mine, but his.  He knows I hate the thought of him penetrating me like this, that it makes me feel like an animal, instead of his wife.  Exploited doesn’t even begin to describe what I feel.  I know I am no more than an object to him. I don't get to be a person with feelings and preferences. Not tonight. Not ever.

“Will you behave tomorrow?” A long low laugh accompanies his question. “That’s right.  You can’t talk.  You told me you didn’t like me or what I was doing.  No more talking for you tonight.” 

Another pause.  Something different is then inserted into my already aching body.  Pain radiates through me, as something else fills the rest of my insides.  He positions the devices he is using on me.  He loves the feeling of power he experiences in knowing that I can’t stop him, and he adjusts them often to increase discomfort.  I start to cry. 

I don’t know what else I can do to show him that I am sorry.  Over the years, I have learned nothing works.  Begging only seems to build him up and feed the monster in him.  But I am so desperate, I am almost ready to take that chance.  Then, breaking the silence, he says,  “I think this week, I’m gonna find some buddies who would like to have a little fun with you.  Or maybe you’d prefer some women?  I bet they could make you happy, huh?”  I shake my head.  I’m done.  I just want out.  I want him to do whatever he is going to do and be done. I just need to get this night behind me. 

The spanking becomes different.  He is using something now.  My shoulders ache.  My backside throbs.  It continues. No slowing down.  I am angry at myself for messing up again.  I am frustrated because nothing I do is ever good enough.  I am such a screw-up, I think to myself.  I start to feel resentment because I didn’t even get a chance to explain the chaos that was my day! Then, anxiety and fear -- that he will feel my emotion -- overwhelm the resentment as I remind myself I will pay for that too.  Finally, defeat. 

I start to think about how in the world I got here, to this completely out of control moment.  How much longer can I do this?  I start to zone out. This has started to become my survival tactic.  I just go someplace else.  I think about everything except what is going on. My mind detaches from the torture my body is enduring.

And then he abruptly stops, which causes me to jump in panic because I don’t know how long I have wandered off into this mental abyss.  The sweeping pain reconnects my mind with the rest of my body.  My body feels as though it is on fire.  Then, finally, he decides he can’t wait any longer.  One hand reaches for the ties that restrain my hands in a way that almost feels as if he wants to hold hands.  His other hand squeezes my breast so tightly that I gasp. 

I can feel him intensifying his violent thrusts inside of me.  Getting close.  Praying I make it through one more night of this. Thinking I’d rather die than go through this again.  His urgency tells me it’s almost over. Then I feel him pull out, spraying himself all over my body.  Within seconds of finishing, he frees me.  He looks at me, full of disgust, and says “You’re pathetic.  Clean yourself up, and this mess, too.  You disgust me.  Get it right tomorrow.  I’m going to bed.” 

My body aches.  Yet, inside I feel raw. 

Drained.  Emotionless.  I feel completely empty and alone. 

I know I deserved his wrath.  I didn’t do what he wanted. I knew better. I should have tried harder. If only I had just made him happier.  I look at myself with disgust.  Failure.  I see the shell of this person who can’t even speak for herself. 

While cleaning up at least a dozen beer cans, along with the rest of his rage from the night, I think that there has got to be more than this. Can I really do this the rest of my life?  It doesn’t seem like I have any other choice.  By the time I’m done in the shower, he is passed out and snoring.  And I am a mess.  I am reduced to a defeated, pathetic, piece of crap mess.  I crawl into bed, praying tomorrow won’t be a repeat of today. 

Sadly, this night is a vivid memory.  Although not the worst of my nights with him, but the one I remember most often.  It was the lowest moment for me in my marriage.  I had given up. 

This isn’t the work of an author’s imagination, but something I lived -- day in, day out -- for almost 9 years.  When I say I feel like the main character in 50 Shades of Grey, I don’t mean the romanticized version of abuse that E.L. James writes about.  I mean the real life of an abused woman.  A slave.  An object.  Someone who is told they are worthless, then tied up, humiliated, raped and beaten to prove it. 

I have not read the books in their entirety and I do not intend to subject myself to that, even if that's what it takes to have credibility with some.  I have read brief quotes and researched the storyline.  I spent almost a decade with my spouse/abuser, and I know that this na├»ve young woman, Anastasia Steele, walks through confusion, fear, demeaning treatment that isolates and grooms her for the needs of her abuser, who is the same man she loves.  I know intimately the feelings of worthlessness.  And yet, I am also well-acquainted with the belief that there is no alternative but compliance, to "choose" to love him through the pain. After all, you are his only hope.  You are the only one who knows him well enough to know he is worth saving. You stay because you know him and because you love him -- because somewhere deep inside him, you cling to the belief that there is a heart capable of returning your love.  So you want to show him you love him enough to stay, even when the incomprehensible happens.  Even when you start to think you’d rather die than live another day with stay.  But the endurance of abuse will never be the making of a fairytale ending (like the novels).

Of course, it never starts out looking like abuse, which is part of what makes you stay.  It does, in fact, start out like any typical love story.  Kind words, sweet gestures, incredible dates, shared secrets and promises of happiness.  You fall.  And you fall hard.  I was raised in a very strict church.  The woman loves the man, respects him, fears him, submits to him.  No matter what.  So, I thought this was part of the "for worse," and that every marriage would be like this. 

You see, we were young.  He was my first everything.  First love.  First date.  First kiss.  He rocked my world.  I didn’t believe in divorce. I was determined my marriage would not end like my parents’ marriage.  Two years into the marriage, he tried to strangle me.  It was as close to death as I ever want to see again.  I left.  Quite briefly, though, as I was told to return to the marriage or risk my salvation.  There was no room for divorcees in heaven.  I returned, determined it was going to be better. I convinced myself that my love and effort could result in him becoming a loving husband.

That other reason I stayed, you ask?  Fear.  Fear of the unknown.  What if his threats aren’t empty? What if he can and will fulfill them?  Fear that no one will want damaged goods, that I’ll never find someone better.  That I'll end up alone. 

The night I returned after our separation felt like a fairy tale. I forgave him for trying to strangle me.  He cooked dinner for me, rubbed my back and cleaned the kitchen.  I felt safe and secure.  We moved on to our bedroom, as expected.  We were talking about dreams and goals, and one thing led to another. 
When I recall these memories, I am in the moment as if it's happening again. That's why I often write in the present tense...
He is there, on top of me, whispering sweet nothings in my ear.  Then, pushes up just a little, so he can see my face, and says, “If you ever, and I mean ever, try that shit again, you’ll be dead.  You try it.  Take my child from me again and I will kidnap our child and leave the country.  You’ll never be seen again.”  Then, as if he had said nothing, he continued with his kind words.  These threats continue and increase.  They are not forgotten.  They are built upon. 

And then there is the shame.  Early on in our marriage, he decided he was “bored.” Told me in a relaxed conversation he was thinking about bringing home another girl to have some fun with.  Shocked, I asked if he was breaking up with me.  His response was casual, stating that he didn’t intend to leave me out of the fun, but that I was to join it. Thankfully, that never happened.  

That was when the subtle signs of his desire for more sexual dominance had first entered the picture.  When I felt like it was scary, or out of my control, he told me he would always stop if I said no, and that he never wanted to actually hurt me, just make my adrenaline rush a little.  He asked if I would sign a piece of paper (legally binding) confirming that the sex was consensual, just because he didn’t want anyone overhearing and getting arrested.  It was weird.  But I was young, in love, didn’t understand what he was asking.  I signed.  And he never ever let me forget it, threatening often to tell both our families what I like to do in the bedroom. 

At first, his play wasn’t anything more than a little rougher than normal sex, holding my hands above my head, or a few swats on the backside, but nothing I recognized as signs of abuse.  I was able to embrace it as playful.  Maybe it was a little rough, but nothing that scared me.  As years passed, his expectations increased, as did the playing.  When I would object, he would withhold attention, conversation, sex, and money from me.  Each time I tried to resist his demands, he wore me down.  He knew I needed him more than he needed me.  What started out as a way to appease him ended up in brutal rape.  What started out as him telling me I was naughty eventually ended in him swatting me in front of his family, while making comments like, “She likes it rough.  You should see what she’s like in the bedroom!”  It was demeaning.  Humiliating.  And so gradual I didn’t even see it happening. 

The difficult part is, for a healthy couple, exploring “scenarios” in the bedroom might sound like a fun way of igniting passion, breaking up monotony.  And for a healthy couple, it might be fine.  What I want to emphasize is that in a healthy relationship, boundaries are respected, emotional needs (as well as physical) are met, and the “game” ends when the couple opens the door and leaves the bedroom. The domination doesn’t force its way into every aspect of life.  Figuratively speaking, my door never opened and I never escaped the domination.  This game didn’t stop when the door was unlocked and the world could see in.  The more he got away with, the worse it got for me.  There was no respect. 

One night, I flat out told him no.  He laughed, continuing despite my fight, and asked, “Why do you even say that?  You know you’re mine, and I’m going to do this anyway.  And if you don’t, just give it a few days, you’ll change your mind.  You’re really just making it harder than it needs to be.”  I gradually stopped fighting.  He was right. 

The last night in our marriage was the most intense hurt I have ever, and hopefully will ever, experience.  After an argument that only increased frustration for both of us, we called a truce, of sorts.  He retreated to the bedroom with a case of beer. I stayed in another room with our kids.  After they were in bed, he apologized for his earlier behavior. 

His behavior, for the record: Not only had he literally ripped clothes off of me, he had tossed my phone into a fish tank when he realized I was calling 911.  The situation was bad, and I was absolutely terrified.  He said he knew I was scared, but that it was probably just stress and beer talking.  I tried to shrug it off.  But inside, I knew I was done.  I knew this was my last night with him.  He had no idea of my newly found resolve. And to stay safe, I didn’t tell him. 

That night, he came to me calmly, sanely, and started to imply he wanted to make love.  I said that I was not feeling well, and would lie next to him, but just couldn’t do more.  For this, I question myself.  What made me believe he’d respect me? 

After a little while, I went in and crawled into bed.  It felt odd, as I hadn’t even been sleeping in the room with him for a long time.  Too many memories.  I just couldn’t do it anymore.  As I lie there, wide awake, he rolls over, and starts laughing.  He pins me down, forces himself inside of me, and does it anyway.  He was so forceful that I had bruises on my thighs.  There was no punishment issued.  This was no game.  I cried out, told him no.  I cried out, praying out loud for God to please help me.  I fought him physically.  I scratched him, did everything I could to get him off of me.  It was pointless.  The harder I fought, the worse it hurt.  When he was finished, he rolled over and fell right back asleep. 

There was no miraculous intervention.  What happened instead was a miraculous journey of God’s protection, as well as renewed hope, strength and courage.  At first, it was one minute at a time.  Now, I look back and am stunned at the mercy God has shown to my kids and to me. 

A little more than four years have passed.  They have not been easy.  But I have survived.  I was diagnosed with PTSD shortly after our separation.  Panic attacks, anxiety and nightmares plagued my every moment for almost a year. A difficult divorce process, where I lost mostly everything, ensued.  He would show up in random places, smirking at me from a distance, knowing well how much his presence scared me.  Some days, I would receive over 100 calls in a two hour period from him.  Those early days were the most difficult. 

There were many days that first year that I considered going back to him, just because I was so weary of fighting him.  I still felt pretty weak and powerless.  But I started standing up, saying no, and enforcing rules.  I told parts of my story.  Realized I wasn’t alone.  Allowed God to heal and restore parts of me so far hidden. 

I look forward today to a life of amazing promise.  While I am still a work in progress, I am so thankful to have a second chance at life and a better future for the lives of my children.  I don’t know how much longer I could have stayed.  Deep down, I just wanted him to be okay.  To know he was safe with me.  That I wanted so much more for him, for us, and for our kids.  Even now, there are moments when I grieve the possibility of what could have been. 

Today, I share the rest of my story with you.  Writing this post has been painful.  I imagine the nightmares of the last few weeks won’t stop.  This post has made me feel dirty, violated, humiliated and shamed all over again.   While it would have been easier to keep it locked inside, safe and sound (because very few knew of the sexual abuse, and no one knew details), triggers are everywhere. 

I see women racing to see a movie I’ve lived, thinking it is an amazing love story.  I see men exerting dominance and force on innocent women because Christian Grey has done it and millions of women seem to be turned on by this type of relationship! 

Lastly, and most troubling to me, is that I see so many people (mostly women) completely unwilling to even consider the possibility that this relationship could be abusive.  That money means power, and innocence can be stolen without repercussion -- these are messages being ignored and dismissed because we're entertained.  This book desensitizes us to the experiences of others. It blurs the lines of consent and will confuse many young women about what they should be willing to tolerate in the name of love. All the hype and women gushing over Christian Grey makes those living in these situations terrified to speak up, fearful their friends won’t understand what the big deal is. 

This book makes abusive men look appealing.  Those we should be running from, we are running to. 

There are 100 million Grey fans out there.  Maybe more, by the time this post is published.  These readers are enjoying the story, getting all worked up, looking forward to the next movie, trying this stuff in their bedrooms at home.  You may be calling your friends, talking about this thing your husband tried, that forbidden place he touched, and the rush of excitement you felt.  What about that friend who you don’t even know is experiencing exactly what you are talking about, but in an unsafe environment?  One where she is trapped in something real, full of legitimate fear and facing danger, with little to no hope of escaping.  For her, the door doesn’t ever open.  The "playtime" never ends.  That safe word really means nothing.  Her man is tracking her every movement, criticizing and punishing her every fault. She is sad, alone, and ashamed.  Maybe she has even been coerced, like me (and Ana), into signing a contract so she can never claim she didn't welcome this behavior.

The bottom line is this: Abuse is never a game.  It shouldn't be entertainment for people with nothing better to do.  For those of you fortunate enough to have never experienced the "crazy" that is abuse, please be compassionate.  Understand that some of us gave up everything just to escape.  For me, and others, I am sure, it wasn’t pretend. It wasn’t romantic. 

It was my life. My personal hell.  My reality.  My every breath. 

And thankfully, for me, it is over.