22 years later: THRIVING!
If you just met me today, or watched our Honda commercials, and knew nothing of my history -- I don’t think you would see me as someone who was ever a victim of abuse.
But that is who I am. And though I have healed, I still carry some scars.
I will always strongly identify with those who have suffered abuse. And more importantly, I identify as not only a survivor but as someone who has bloomed and thrived in spite of years of emotional, mental, verbal and physical abuse. Because I know what it’s like on both sides of an abusive life, I realize I have a unique opportunity and ability to inspire others who need to see the choices they actually do have.
I say “actually do have” because I know from my own experience that while you’re stuck in the cycle of abuse, you often cannot see your choices. You feel stuck, trapped, even hopeless at times. And there’s no door or window out of any room if you can’t see it. Four years of counseling helped me to see the door. But I still had to find the courage to make that decision and act on it. Once I saw the choice I had always had, I did find the courage to leave and never go back. Had I not been able to do the scary thing of leaving, I would not have the life and husband I have today.
I made a poor decision at the age of 16 to marry someone seven years older than me and more than twice my size. In today’s world and with our current understanding of power dynamics and abuse, it’s hard to understand how my parents could have reached the decision to give their consent. But I did have loving parents. I think that decision can be boiled down to their fears. Living within a strict religious environment, I know they feared I would do something crazy like run off with him if they denied their permission. They didn’t know me beyond a surface level because I never would have done that. But that’s how they saw me because my expressive, strong personality hid – even from my own parents – how deeply insecure I actually was.
When I speak about my story, I like to mention the role parents can play in the choices we make at a young age. I know my parents had no idea that some of their parenting actually conditioned me to be a victim of narcissistic abuse. Because I was opinionated and assertive, they didn’t see my insecurity. When they consistently blamed me or asked “what did you do to cause…?” fill in the blank with someone else’s behavior in conflict -- they thought they were being balanced and trying not to be the kind of parent that blamed everyone else’s kid – which is admirable – but they were also unknowingly planting seeds in my psyche that my abuser would cultivate to manipulate me. I believed most of what happened to me had to be my fault and there was something I could do differently to have a different outcome – if only I could be better.
I still struggle with blaming myself for things that are not my fault. These wounds we carry around from our childhoods have deep roots. They influence every relationship we will ever have for the rest of our lives. Even after lots of healing and growth.
My parents were also critical and I feared their “We told you you were too young to get married” lecture if I went to them for support when things started to go off the rails in the first week of my marriage.
Because I feared their judgment, I didn’t tell them when violent abuse happened the first time. If only they would have said, “We are giving our consent. But if you are ever mistreated and feel like you’ve made a mistake, you can come to us. We will support you and help you. We won’t judge you for making a mistake.” I often wonder how different things might have been if I had viewed them as my allies instead of my judges.
My parents were also critical and I feared their “We told you you were too young to get married” lecture if I went to them for support when things started to go off the rails in the first week of my marriage.
Because I feared their judgment, I didn’t tell them when violent abuse happened the first time. If only they would have said, “We are giving our consent. But if you are ever mistreated and feel like you’ve made a mistake, you can come to us. We will support you and help you. We won’t judge you for making a mistake.” I often wonder how different things might have been if I had viewed them as my allies instead of my judges.
Though I never blame them for my choices, I know they would have made different choices if they'd had more knowledge. But they did their best with what they knew. I believe that most parents do not set out to intentionally harm their kids.
So let me tell you about the first incident of violence in my young marriage. One week in, we had our first disagreement that escalated into violent conflict. I don’t remember what we were arguing over. But I remember my abuser’s reaction to my not looking at him while he was talking. I was eating an ice cream bar at the kitchen table. And he felt ignored and disrespected because I was focused on my ice cream while he was talking instead of looking him in the eye. I don’t remember if I was doing it intentionally. I might have been. I was a kid who thought she was an adult. I do remember I didn’t like the way he was speaking to me. What I remember most vividly is his grabbing my hand along with the stick and pushing the ice cream into my face, wiping it on my cheek and down my neck condescendingly, as he said, “Oh, so you LIKE that ice cream, huh? Well, how do you like it now?”
He was enraged simply because I was not looking at him while he berated me. I must have sensed something scary in him because I jumped up and ran toward the bathroom of our one bedroom apartment. He chased me and pinned me against the wall of the bathroom. He was 6’ 4” and more than twice my weight. He was yelling and he drew his right fist back as he held me against the wall with his left arm. I thought he was about to hit me. And I was terrified. But he didn’t hit me. And after he calmed down, he began to profusely apologize and insist that he would NEVER hurt me. The reality I understand today is that he was never out of control. He was calculated. He wanted me to feel powerless and at his mercy, unsure of whether or not he would hurt me the next time. And he was successful at making me afraid.
You would think I would have gone running back to my parents after that. It was traumatizing. And I had only been married for one week. But I was too embarrassed to admit this had happened to anyone. And I blamed myself. At 16 years old, I believed God expected me to live with the choices I had made for the rest of my life. This belief was also fostered in my upbringing. It had a lot to do with my strict religious home, and being taught cultish beliefs that haunted me well into adulthood. But that’s another story.
I was determined to make it work and I didn’t want people to dislike my husband. So I began covering for him and propping up his ego; taking on the role of buffer between him and other people he had conflict with. And my role continued until the age of 43, when I finally left and didn’t go back to trust his good intentions and “try harder.”
I wasn’t regularly abused physically. It was sporadic and intended to keep me feeling powerless, not to seriously injure me. Years later, my therapist would help me to understand that my abuser never really lost control (like he wanted me to believe). He always stopped short of drawing blood or leaving a bruise. An open handed strike to my face. A push to the ground. A fist held up as a threat. Yelling. Slamming doors. Making pictures fall off the walls. Glass being thrown and shattered across a room. Food or a drink being intentionally dumped on me.
It was all physical intimidation. I didn’t fear for my life. But there was one incident which could have killed me. One night I was making a turkey dinner with all the sides. It wasn’t even Thanksgiving. I was just going above and beyond to cook a fabulous meal for him. Melted butter was simmering on the stove. I was getting ready to chop celery and onion for the homemade dressing. And I was standing at the kitchen sink rinsing the celery. He walked up behind me and put his hands around my neck.
We were not even fighting. It was a good day. But our marriage was on life support at that time and people knew. We had separated several times. And this happened in between separations. I’m sure that’s why I was making every effort to make him happy with me. I felt like our problems were my fault because what I had done had become known by others. And other than one incident when my mom had unexpectedly come by after a violent argument resulting in shattered glass everywhere, nobody knew I was enduring continual abuse. I’m not sure I even realized how abused I was at that point. I was in my early twenties. I believed I was married to a difficult person. But I wasn’t sure it was abuse because I wasn’t being beaten. People knew he had a temper. But I made excuses for him because I didn’t want people I loved to hate my husband. I covered. I blamed myself all the time. My family – his family even – really didn’t know that I lived the way I lived. Anyway…
As I was standing at the sink, he put his hands around my neck and cut off my oxygen completely. I couldn’t speak. I was waving my arms to try and communicate that I couldn’t breathe. I was so scared I was going to die. It was a frightening feeling. And he was laughing. He thought it was funny… until my body went limp and I lost consciousness while he was holding me upright by my neck.
He laid me down and started screaming my name, trying to revive me. My next memory is waking up on the kitchen floor, looking up at him – visibly upset and yelling at me – panicked that I would think he had tried to kill me intentionally. At the same time, I was convulsing, feeling the burns on my leg from the hot butter that had somehow been knocked off the stove and onto me. And I remember what was going through my head: “What did I do? Why is he mad at me?” My first waking thought was to blame myself.
He couldn’t stop apologizing. But it became clear that his biggest fear had been that no one would have believed him that he didn’t do it on purpose if I had died. And they would not have believed him. That’s true. But still…His panic wasn’t about me or my welfare at all. As always, it was about him. He kept assuring me that he didn’t mean to hurt me and asking if I believed him. He was “just joking around.” He thought it was funny. And, of course, I believed him. The rest of the night, he was so nice to me. And I remember thinking the silver lining to this was that it resulted in my receiving compassion and kindness. I focused on that and I remember feeling grateful. In a sense, I was even glad it happened because it resulted in something positive. Only years later did I focus on how sick and sadistic it was for him to think squeezing my neck from behind while I was waving my arms in distress to be amusing. Abusive people are cruel at their core.
If I were to start listing all the stories that come to my mind when I revisit this part of my life, it would turn into a book. And there is a book. So I don’t need to do that. I just wanted to revisit a couple of incidents to give a glimpse of insight into the heart and mind of someone who endures abuse.
To the outsider, it looks like we are willing victims. After all, we are choosing to stay. And the question that is always asked is, “Why? Why does she stay?” It’s the wrong question. Because it puts the blame on the victim instead of the abuser. And part of the problem is we are already caught up in a cycle of self-blame. Victims are mentally and emotionally beaten down to a point where we are filled with self-doubt and question every decision we make, every word we speak, every mistake we think we have made. It can be paralyzing. And I was afraid.
Fear of the unknown keeps many people in the prison of the familiar pain they already know.
I remember when I finally did make the hard decision to leave and end the marriage at the age of 43, looking in the mirror, seeing the stress in my face and features, and thinking, “Who will ever want ME? Guys my age want 30-year-olds.”
I was so beaten down that I couldn’t see myself the way others saw me. That took a long time. I never felt like I was easy to love until I met John. And meeting him was the biggest turning point of my life. But I never would have had the life I have today if I hadn’t finally found the courage to leave my old life and face the uncertainty of an unknown future. So I guess THAT was the biggest turning point. Because it opened the door to a future I couldn’t see.
I could not have imagined my future being wonderful. I just knew I couldn’t live the way I was living for another day. I had reached my limit – after 27 years. What can I say? I don’t give up easily. And I have never been one to give up on a relationship. Most of the time this is a good trait. But in some cases, it’s toxic.
A funny story is when I went to see my therapist two days after leaving and one day after filing for divorce, telling him that I hoped I wasn’t making the decision too quickly. I’ll never forget him saying something to the effect of, “Shari, you’ve hung in for 27 years. No one would ever call that a quick decision.” And I realized he was right. I hadn’t given up too easily. Quite the opposite. But that, I think, shows the depth of self-doubt in someone who has been conditioned to never trust their own judgment in any situation.
Another funny story that illustrates the deep wounds of all those years involves a holiday gathering at my brother’s. This was years ago, before Covid. My sisters-in-law were laughing about how high maintenance my brothers and some of their kids were, calling it a trait of our family. I said, “I don’t think I’m high maintenance,” just as John walked up and sat down. And I was looking for him to verify to my family that I was not. So I followed that sentence with, “Do you think I’m high maintenance?” And he, being John, always the joker, raised his eyebrows and smiled as if to say he was taking the fifth. Because he was just being silly, he could have had no idea how this would send me into a spiral internally, agonizing over whether or not he truly thought I was high maintenance.
I could not stop thinking about it. And so, a few days later, I brought it up. I had probably mentioned it several times already. And I remember pleading with him to not think I was upset and get defensive, but that I just needed to know what I was doing that was high maintenance. My motive was to be more aware, not to interrogate or attack him for the innocent response. I just wanted to "work on myself."
He insisted he didn’t think I was high maintenance at all. It was just him being him. A joke. A set up for laughs he couldn't resist. I think I finally did believe him and settle down emotionally.
But weeks later, we were having dinner with my brothers and their wives and I told them this story of how much that had worried me. And one of my sisters-in-law said, “THAT is the high maintenance part.” We all cracked up. But I felt like someone turned a light on in my brain. I would have never thought of that burning desire to do everything right as high maintenance. But I could see how it might be for poor John, who doesn’t ever expect perfection. And who has occasionally had to remind me that he is not Dennis.
John is nothing like my first husband. But the wounded parts of me can sometimes react to John based on all the years with an abuser. I’m very thankful he understands that this isn’t about him. And he has been a huge part of my growth and healing since the first day we met. I am so aware that I could have gone from one bad situation to another. I was far more vulnerable than I thought I was when I was newly divorced. I still had so much healing ahead of me. But I was invested in doing the self-work and pursuing a healthier version of myself. I had started that work four years before I walked out the door for good.
I want to emphasize the uplifting part of my story. I stayed much longer than I should have in my circumstances. But all that matters is I didn’t stay forever. And the last 22 years of my life have been amazing. It was so hard to make the decision to leave after having invested all those years and walk into a scary unknown future, convinced it was going to be hard for a long time.
I thought I had already given the best years of my life away. But doing the hardest thing in that moment opened the door to a life I have loved for the last two decades. And it turned out that those were not even close to the best years of my life. I am living the best years of my life right now. And I’m so thankful I had the courage to make this life a possibility by walking into the uncertainty.
It also turns out that I am not difficult to love. And my personality is not defective or unlovable. I am not always the problem. I don’t cause abuse to happen to me. I am not “too much” or “not enough.” And I don’t have to be perfect.
So let me tell you about the first incident of violence in my young marriage. One week in, we had our first disagreement that escalated into violent conflict. I don’t remember what we were arguing over. But I remember my abuser’s reaction to my not looking at him while he was talking. I was eating an ice cream bar at the kitchen table. And he felt ignored and disrespected because I was focused on my ice cream while he was talking instead of looking him in the eye. I don’t remember if I was doing it intentionally. I might have been. I was a kid who thought she was an adult. I do remember I didn’t like the way he was speaking to me. What I remember most vividly is his grabbing my hand along with the stick and pushing the ice cream into my face, wiping it on my cheek and down my neck condescendingly, as he said, “Oh, so you LIKE that ice cream, huh? Well, how do you like it now?”
He was enraged simply because I was not looking at him while he berated me. I must have sensed something scary in him because I jumped up and ran toward the bathroom of our one bedroom apartment. He chased me and pinned me against the wall of the bathroom. He was 6’ 4” and more than twice my weight. He was yelling and he drew his right fist back as he held me against the wall with his left arm. I thought he was about to hit me. And I was terrified. But he didn’t hit me. And after he calmed down, he began to profusely apologize and insist that he would NEVER hurt me. The reality I understand today is that he was never out of control. He was calculated. He wanted me to feel powerless and at his mercy, unsure of whether or not he would hurt me the next time. And he was successful at making me afraid.
You would think I would have gone running back to my parents after that. It was traumatizing. And I had only been married for one week. But I was too embarrassed to admit this had happened to anyone. And I blamed myself. At 16 years old, I believed God expected me to live with the choices I had made for the rest of my life. This belief was also fostered in my upbringing. It had a lot to do with my strict religious home, and being taught cultish beliefs that haunted me well into adulthood. But that’s another story.
I was determined to make it work and I didn’t want people to dislike my husband. So I began covering for him and propping up his ego; taking on the role of buffer between him and other people he had conflict with. And my role continued until the age of 43, when I finally left and didn’t go back to trust his good intentions and “try harder.”
I wasn’t regularly abused physically. It was sporadic and intended to keep me feeling powerless, not to seriously injure me. Years later, my therapist would help me to understand that my abuser never really lost control (like he wanted me to believe). He always stopped short of drawing blood or leaving a bruise. An open handed strike to my face. A push to the ground. A fist held up as a threat. Yelling. Slamming doors. Making pictures fall off the walls. Glass being thrown and shattered across a room. Food or a drink being intentionally dumped on me.
It was all physical intimidation. I didn’t fear for my life. But there was one incident which could have killed me. One night I was making a turkey dinner with all the sides. It wasn’t even Thanksgiving. I was just going above and beyond to cook a fabulous meal for him. Melted butter was simmering on the stove. I was getting ready to chop celery and onion for the homemade dressing. And I was standing at the kitchen sink rinsing the celery. He walked up behind me and put his hands around my neck.
We were not even fighting. It was a good day. But our marriage was on life support at that time and people knew. We had separated several times. And this happened in between separations. I’m sure that’s why I was making every effort to make him happy with me. I felt like our problems were my fault because what I had done had become known by others. And other than one incident when my mom had unexpectedly come by after a violent argument resulting in shattered glass everywhere, nobody knew I was enduring continual abuse. I’m not sure I even realized how abused I was at that point. I was in my early twenties. I believed I was married to a difficult person. But I wasn’t sure it was abuse because I wasn’t being beaten. People knew he had a temper. But I made excuses for him because I didn’t want people I loved to hate my husband. I covered. I blamed myself all the time. My family – his family even – really didn’t know that I lived the way I lived. Anyway…
As I was standing at the sink, he put his hands around my neck and cut off my oxygen completely. I couldn’t speak. I was waving my arms to try and communicate that I couldn’t breathe. I was so scared I was going to die. It was a frightening feeling. And he was laughing. He thought it was funny… until my body went limp and I lost consciousness while he was holding me upright by my neck.
He laid me down and started screaming my name, trying to revive me. My next memory is waking up on the kitchen floor, looking up at him – visibly upset and yelling at me – panicked that I would think he had tried to kill me intentionally. At the same time, I was convulsing, feeling the burns on my leg from the hot butter that had somehow been knocked off the stove and onto me. And I remember what was going through my head: “What did I do? Why is he mad at me?” My first waking thought was to blame myself.
He couldn’t stop apologizing. But it became clear that his biggest fear had been that no one would have believed him that he didn’t do it on purpose if I had died. And they would not have believed him. That’s true. But still…His panic wasn’t about me or my welfare at all. As always, it was about him. He kept assuring me that he didn’t mean to hurt me and asking if I believed him. He was “just joking around.” He thought it was funny. And, of course, I believed him. The rest of the night, he was so nice to me. And I remember thinking the silver lining to this was that it resulted in my receiving compassion and kindness. I focused on that and I remember feeling grateful. In a sense, I was even glad it happened because it resulted in something positive. Only years later did I focus on how sick and sadistic it was for him to think squeezing my neck from behind while I was waving my arms in distress to be amusing. Abusive people are cruel at their core.
If I were to start listing all the stories that come to my mind when I revisit this part of my life, it would turn into a book. And there is a book. So I don’t need to do that. I just wanted to revisit a couple of incidents to give a glimpse of insight into the heart and mind of someone who endures abuse.
To the outsider, it looks like we are willing victims. After all, we are choosing to stay. And the question that is always asked is, “Why? Why does she stay?” It’s the wrong question. Because it puts the blame on the victim instead of the abuser. And part of the problem is we are already caught up in a cycle of self-blame. Victims are mentally and emotionally beaten down to a point where we are filled with self-doubt and question every decision we make, every word we speak, every mistake we think we have made. It can be paralyzing. And I was afraid.
Fear of the unknown keeps many people in the prison of the familiar pain they already know.
I remember when I finally did make the hard decision to leave and end the marriage at the age of 43, looking in the mirror, seeing the stress in my face and features, and thinking, “Who will ever want ME? Guys my age want 30-year-olds.”
I was so beaten down that I couldn’t see myself the way others saw me. That took a long time. I never felt like I was easy to love until I met John. And meeting him was the biggest turning point of my life. But I never would have had the life I have today if I hadn’t finally found the courage to leave my old life and face the uncertainty of an unknown future. So I guess THAT was the biggest turning point. Because it opened the door to a future I couldn’t see.
I could not have imagined my future being wonderful. I just knew I couldn’t live the way I was living for another day. I had reached my limit – after 27 years. What can I say? I don’t give up easily. And I have never been one to give up on a relationship. Most of the time this is a good trait. But in some cases, it’s toxic.
A funny story is when I went to see my therapist two days after leaving and one day after filing for divorce, telling him that I hoped I wasn’t making the decision too quickly. I’ll never forget him saying something to the effect of, “Shari, you’ve hung in for 27 years. No one would ever call that a quick decision.” And I realized he was right. I hadn’t given up too easily. Quite the opposite. But that, I think, shows the depth of self-doubt in someone who has been conditioned to never trust their own judgment in any situation.
Another funny story that illustrates the deep wounds of all those years involves a holiday gathering at my brother’s. This was years ago, before Covid. My sisters-in-law were laughing about how high maintenance my brothers and some of their kids were, calling it a trait of our family. I said, “I don’t think I’m high maintenance,” just as John walked up and sat down. And I was looking for him to verify to my family that I was not. So I followed that sentence with, “Do you think I’m high maintenance?” And he, being John, always the joker, raised his eyebrows and smiled as if to say he was taking the fifth. Because he was just being silly, he could have had no idea how this would send me into a spiral internally, agonizing over whether or not he truly thought I was high maintenance.
I could not stop thinking about it. And so, a few days later, I brought it up. I had probably mentioned it several times already. And I remember pleading with him to not think I was upset and get defensive, but that I just needed to know what I was doing that was high maintenance. My motive was to be more aware, not to interrogate or attack him for the innocent response. I just wanted to "work on myself."
He insisted he didn’t think I was high maintenance at all. It was just him being him. A joke. A set up for laughs he couldn't resist. I think I finally did believe him and settle down emotionally.
But weeks later, we were having dinner with my brothers and their wives and I told them this story of how much that had worried me. And one of my sisters-in-law said, “THAT is the high maintenance part.” We all cracked up. But I felt like someone turned a light on in my brain. I would have never thought of that burning desire to do everything right as high maintenance. But I could see how it might be for poor John, who doesn’t ever expect perfection. And who has occasionally had to remind me that he is not Dennis.
John is nothing like my first husband. But the wounded parts of me can sometimes react to John based on all the years with an abuser. I’m very thankful he understands that this isn’t about him. And he has been a huge part of my growth and healing since the first day we met. I am so aware that I could have gone from one bad situation to another. I was far more vulnerable than I thought I was when I was newly divorced. I still had so much healing ahead of me. But I was invested in doing the self-work and pursuing a healthier version of myself. I had started that work four years before I walked out the door for good.
I want to emphasize the uplifting part of my story. I stayed much longer than I should have in my circumstances. But all that matters is I didn’t stay forever. And the last 22 years of my life have been amazing. It was so hard to make the decision to leave after having invested all those years and walk into a scary unknown future, convinced it was going to be hard for a long time.
I thought I had already given the best years of my life away. But doing the hardest thing in that moment opened the door to a life I have loved for the last two decades. And it turned out that those were not even close to the best years of my life. I am living the best years of my life right now. And I’m so thankful I had the courage to make this life a possibility by walking into the uncertainty.
It also turns out that I am not difficult to love. And my personality is not defective or unlovable. I am not always the problem. I don’t cause abuse to happen to me. I am not “too much” or “not enough.” And I don’t have to be perfect.
This is freedom.
There is a line in an Eagles song that so deeply resonates with me every time I hear it. It’s from the song Already Gone. It’s kind of my anthem. And it’s simply this:
Well, I know it wasn’t you who held me down
Heaven knows it wasn’t you who set me free
So oftentimes it happens that we live our life in chains
And we never even know we have the key
But me, I’m already gone
And I’m feelin' strong
I will sing this victory song
Cause I’m already gone
Well, I know it wasn’t you who held me down
Heaven knows it wasn’t you who set me free
So oftentimes it happens that we live our life in chains
And we never even know we have the key
But me, I’m already gone
And I’m feelin' strong
I will sing this victory song
Cause I’m already gone
Woo Hoo...Woo Hoo.
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