Across the United States, indeed all over the world, women are imprisoned in abusive, controlling relationships. Many believe there is no escape and still others have no concept of another life, pain-free and filled with love, respect, and safety. Despite the wealth of education on spousal abuse in its various forms, this epidemic cycle is still widespread with no end in sight. Many who have escaped this vicious cycle counsel those still trapped, offering hope and friendship. I am not a counselor nor is this a how to…or signs of… article. My name is Pat and this is my story.

My first marriage, to David, was very short-lived; lasting a mere eight months before he walked out. He showed definite signs of being abusive and controlling yet he was the one who left, not I. Growing up with my father in control of everything, I thought nothing of David’s behavior. In fact, his father was often drunk and abusive to his family and it seemed he would continue that destructive cycle. He hit me once, apologized profusely, and during the remaining five months of our marriage, never did it again, but the controlling side of his nature was very evident.

I rarely left our apartment and never had so much as fifty cents in my pocket. He controlled the money, and me. Since I didn’t have a driver’s license and didn’t know how to drive, he would even go to the grocery store with, hand me the money at the cash register, and then demand all the change, no matter how small the amount, for himself. We had a joint bank account, but he carried the check book, took out whatever he wanted, and refused to let me access the money. That account was opened with the five hundred dollars my father sent as a wedding present yet I was not allowed to touch it.

In time, I learned not to take so much as a short walk in case he called from work. If he called and I didn’t answer the phone, he came home angry and read me the riot act, insisting I account for every minute of the day. Rather than be yelled at, screamed at, and accused of acts I never considered, let along committed, I simply stayed home. Thus I had no friends outside of a girlfriend stationed in Korea, where long distance rates prevented phone contact.

On the other hand, with the typical hypocrisy of the control-freak, he frequently went out for drinks after work without so much as a phone call. I would spend hours worrying until he stumbled home drunk. He didn’t care that I worried, agonizing that something had happened to him. He insisted that since he worked, he would do as he pleased and that I do as I was told. He even limited my own alcohol intake to two beers during social gatherings, stating he didn’t want people thinking his wife was a lush. Yet, I could hold my liquor better than he. We proved it one night with two six packs when he challenged me. Now, I am not a saint. I do like to drink on occasion and this is no exception. I accepted the challenge. After four beers straight, he passed out. I finished the rest, including the two remaining of his six pack and my own, and went to bed. Despite the proof, he still insisted I only drink two while he drank as much as he wanted, often too drunk to do anything. I did as I was told: limited my alcohol to two beers or drinks, and let him do whatever he wanted, when he wanted. It was simply easier that way.

The first and only Christmas/New Year’s holidays we spent together, he drove us to Ohio to spend Christmas with his family. His father, a recovering alcoholic at that point and no longer abusive after treatment, welcomed me with open arms, as did his mother and brother. While there, his own family cautioned me about the dangers of abused children continuing the cycle with their families. Certain he would never hurt me, I gave appropriate responses but didn’t think about it again.

Low on funds, we went to his bank for travel cash as we were heading to Texas to spend New Year’s with my family. He’d often told me he had over a thousand dollars in his account but couldn’t access it. He never explained the details of an account he couldn’t touch and I never asked, simply took his word for it. Getting a glimpse of his savings book, I noticed a balance of only 100.00 dollars. Again, I buried my head in the sand to the point I never thought of it again and he obtained a signature loan of 400.00 so we could continue our trip.

Christmas night, his parents out for a few hours, he showed me a few of his old comic books, part of a collection. Feeling playful, I pulled it from his hand, but he tightened his grip and I inadvertently ripped a tiny piece off the corner of one page, hardly noticeable. In an instant, play turned to anger and he smacked me hard enough to leave a deep red handprint on my thigh. I cried out and, tears blurring my vision, went into his parent’s room. As I lay on the bed, crying in silence, I heard his brother scolding him for slapping me. He basically read David the riot act. David came to the bedroom, apologized profusely, and it never happened again. Instead, his abusive tendencies took a more subtle approach.

Though we rarely experimented with sexual things outside the normal activities, he began to show a more marked preference for anal intercourse. I find this act painful and would rather not participate but he liked it on occasion. After the trip to Ohio, he demanded it more often, especially for some perceived slight, something I needed to apologize for, and used it as emotional black mail. Basically, if I was sorry about something, I needed to let him perform this act on me. It became more frequent a he displayed more dominant, controlling behavior. He did nothing to make it easier or less painful, only did what he wanted, and left me to cry myself to sleep—in silence of course. If he heard me cry, he would twist things around until I felt even guiltier.

Still I didn’t think I was being abused. Quite frankly, the idea never entered my head. Even when he came home from work one Friday and told me he wanted to spend a few days alone, in a hotel, to think, I thought nothing of it, nothing unusual. He returned Monday, after work, stated he wanted a divorce, packed some clothes, and left to stay with others. I cried, begged, pleaded with him not to leave me, Over the next few days, I called him at work several times, trying to get him to talk things over and possibly try to work something out. I apologized for anything and everything, promised anything and everything, until he stated that he’d made up his mind and would get the divorce no matter what I said. When I asked him why he married me, he told me flat out, it was out of spite since everyone he worked with warned him not to do it. That marriage lasted eight months and I’ve never regretted the day he walked out on me, except that I wasn’t the one walking out.

In the same apartment complex, I met my second husband, Bill. He helped me with the divorce, and stayed by my side, a true gentleman. Or so I thought for a long time until he showed his true colors, brought to light by alcohol. I escaped bad times, only to find myself in the midst of hell, a fifteen year nightmare, when I finally opened my eyes to what was going on around me. Watch for the next article, INTO THE FIRE, where security and love turn to betrayal, and terror.