Everyone at some point in their life experiences some form of abuse. There are many different versions. Hitting, burning, breaking of the body is the one that horrifies the general public and causes an out cry of “This must be stopped!” However, I am writing today to talk of mental abuse. It takes all forms and there are times you don’t see it until you have been a victim.
The abuser will come all smiles and compliments, they draw you in and make you feel as if they really understand you. Then they attack. It starts small, almost like helpful suggestions. The psychological community have a name for this type of attack, they call it gaslighting. It progresses overtime from small suggestions to blatant attacks. You go from being the most phenomenal person they have ever met, to the attacker criticizing everything that makes you who you are. The nuances they claimed to love are soon your biggest faults.
In my case I wasn’t beautiful enough, I needed to wear makeup, I dressed like a washed up rocker chick, I wasn’t feminine enough, my hair was too long, I needed more education, I didn’t live in reality, and my dreams were piss poor hobbies I needed to let go of. I was expected to live at another person’s whim. If I went out I was cheating. If I came home late I was cheating. If my phone buzzed too often I was a druggie. The list of accusations went on and on.
I was told I was too aggressive and that I had no skills that were not in line with pure competition. I loved my attacker and at one point in time my attacker meant the world to me, but as my attacker pushed me to conform I began to withdraw. Defending myself often ended in verbal attacks full of rage. These rage attacks were followed by the hollow words “I’m sorry, I was angry.”
As foolish as it seems now I took those words to heart and convinced myself that my attacker meant them. If anything I was experiencing a mild form of Stockholm syndrome. It took counseling to see what I had experienced was abuse of the worst kind. I had fallen into a trap that slowly ate away at the person I really was.
I cut my hair, wore the makeup, changed my clothing, and even accepted that even if I had an opinion, I wasn’t allowed to voice it lest it wake the rage beast that lived in my attacker’s skin. I became a nervous wreck. I worked overtime at work just so I didn’t have to go home. I would visit with my mom for eight to ten hours at a time just to avoid the abuse.
I listened to my attacker cry and whine that my attacker’s parents were the cause for the attackers ailments. The fact that my attacker had degrees and did not work, the rage attacks, and all the narcissistic tendencies were all products of my attackers horrible childhood. Yet, my attacker still lived in the situation that had caused the most pain. My attacker had no plans to leave and planned to keep me there as well.
The living conditions were awful. A dirty, rat infested, mold filled home was a place my attacker forced us to live in. My attacker was given $100 a week spending money and spent the days immersed in video games. I worked everyday, had my attacker try to police my spending by accusing me of having a drug problem. The video games my attacker played were his life, if I mentioned the neglect caused by the game I was an awful person. My attacker would kick me out, call me names and turn my cries against me. It left me miserable and my self esteem in tatters.
It wasn’t until I had a huge life change I finally saw what I had endured in painful silence. To not have a voice, to be constantly belittled, and abused everyday was not something I wanted in my life. I no longer wanted to live in my attackers delusions. My attacker took no care of my feelings and disregarded my fears for the living conditions I had been enduring in the attacker’s parental figures home.
When I voiced my fears and concerns I was met with pure rage. I was told I was awful and needed to get out. I fought back and left. The next day the abuse got worse. I was told again that my attacker’s anger was all my fault and that I was to blame. My health being the most important factor in my mind helped me see the light. When I was told to ”Come get my things or they will be left on the curb” I gathered my family and took what I could of my things. I even had a civil stand by come with me one more time in an attempt to get the rest of my things. At this point my attacker told me never to make contact again. I complied elated that I was free of the abuse.
A weight was lifted from my life. Over the next eight to nine months I began to heal. I sought help and learned ways to cope. I will not make the same mistake twice. I will not live at the whims of a mad person. I implore you, if any of the things I endured ring true in your own life get help. No one should ever suffer in silence, verbal abuse is still abuse. Words hurt far worse than any bruise In my opinion. Bruises heal and fade, words do damage that replays itself in memory. Reach out for help do not endure the torture in silence. I got lucky I got away. You can too, fight back and never endure at the expense of your health and well-being. Loves and hugs.