Everything I did was for my husband.  Any ideas or suggestions on my part would end in Bill physically or emotionally abusing me.  I always felt my life depended on making a perfect meal.  When he didn’t like it, he would knock me out of my chair and force me to eat “that crap” off the floor. There was never a choice in how I wanted to style my hair. My choice gave him the excuse to take the scissors to my hair and cut it the way he wanted. Choosing my own eye shadow was disastrous. Bill rubbed it all over my face and forced me to wear it out in public.

I was never allowed to go to the doctor by myself (he had to be able to give false reasons for my bruises and scars) and especially when I was pregnant. While the doctor was giving me a pelvic exam, Bill would watch my face and make sure I wasn’t enjoying it.

When I finally got the nerve to leave my abusive ex-husband, one of the many questions I kept asking myself was, “Why did I submit to so much abuse?”  I couldn’t help but wonder why I didn’t walk away from it the first time he slapped me across the face, dragged me by my hair to the bedroom and raped me.  Why didn’t I call the police and why didn’t I run away?  Why did I take it, day after day, year after year?

Dr. Heyward Ewart author of “Am I Bad?” explained it so well for me:

“All people cross the line from childhood to adulthood with a secondhand opinion of who they are. Without any questioning, we take as truth whatever our parents and other influentials have said about us during our childhood, whether these messages are communicated verbally, physically, or silently.”

As I started to re-visit my childhood and my past, I was able to take a long, hard look at the child I used to be—the little girl who still lives inside of me.  I began to know what she thought, what she saw, what she heard. By seeing those things, I was able to understand her decisions to submit to abuse rather than stand against it.

When I was a child, I learned the rule, “Speak when spoken to.”  In other words, shut up unless you have broken a bone or are bleeding to death. My parents entertained friends and relatives all the time. There were always adults in our house. When the adults were gathered around the kitchen table, I was sent outside to play.  They were always talking about adult stuff so I was not allowed to hear such things. The rule was,  “Stay outside until we call for you. Don’t talk to us unless we talk to you.”

Interrupting the adults with, “So-and-so called me a bad name” was not allowed and I was told, “Stop acting like a baby”. “I fell off my bicycle and scratched my knee” would only receive a glance at the scrape and told, “Stop crying over such a small cut and tough it out.” I got a harsh stare from my dad and warned I’d better have a good reason for coming into the house. I never really knew what a “good reason” was and what would “allow” me the right to speak, so I submitted to the rule and remained the good little girl.

When my uncle started to molest me, when I went inside the house to use the restroom, I didn’t speak. The fear of being told that I wasn’t important enough to break the rule and the fear of rejection and not being believed, spoke louder than the abuse. I found a secluded spot outside, crawled into a ball and cried while I waited to be told I could come back into the house.

Another rule I learned was “Obey your mother and father.”  I knew that meant, “Do what I say or else”.  The “or else” meant beatings with a belt, a slap against the head or the most horrid of all, finding your own stick off the tree to be hit with.  I didn’t endure much physical punishment, but my brothers did. I saw the whippings because they were done in front of all of us, and I heard their stifled cries of pain because they were told, “You’d better not cry or I will give you something to cry about.”  Looking up at an adult with a weapon in his hand was a scary sight. I chose to be the good child and to obey my parents.

When I saw my dad molesting my sister, I obeyed him. He told me not to tell my mother so I did what he said. This was so traumatic for me that I dissociated it for twenty years. I always thought I hid within myself because I saw what he did, but it was being told to “obey” and the fear of not obeying that caused me to protect myself with dissociation.

I was also taught, “Respect your elders.”  But what happens when an adult doesn’t respect a child? My first day of kindergarten, the teacher was calling out our names and we were told to raise our hand and say, “Here!” The teacher called out the name Patricia.  I didn’t know my name was Patricia because I was always called Patty Jane.  She moved closer to my desk and kept calling out “Patricia” and I could tell she was getting louder and more irritated.  She stopped at my desk, grabbed my ear and pulled me out of my seat, demanding to know why I didn’t respond.  I was terrified, in shock and crying, explaining that my name is Patty Jane.  She slapped me in the face and told me to respect my elders and warned me that the next time she said my name, I’d better answer or else.

I was sent home with a note pinned on my dress.  I don’t know what the note said, but I remember trying to explain myself to my dad. I told him how my teacher pulled my ear, yanked me out of the chair and smacked me. He looked at my face, told me there were no marks, and that I needed to respect my elders and stop embarrassing my family. I got a smack to my butt and told to go outside and play.

As I grew older, there were many adults in my life who harmed me and molested me.  I was afraid to tell my parents. I was afraid to tell anyone.  I didn’t want to embarrass them. Would I be told again that I deserved the abuse and there was no excuse for not obeying my elders? I felt my pain would not be validated and I would be sent “outside” again.

By the time I was physically abused by my first husband, I’d already spent my entire childhood being a “good girl” following the rules of not resisting and not complaining.  I never knew how much pain I was suppose to endure because none of my pain was important enough for anyone to pay attention to.  What was the limit?

Bill’s rejection was just as painful as the fear of being rejected by my parents. The fear of embarrassing him in front of others, like family, friends or even the police, was a rule I had to obey.  Making him look bad in front of others meant I would be spanked, invalidated and abandoned.

Children learn from birth to cry and scream when they are hungry or in pain or fear. Healthy parents stop the crying by taking care of their child’s needs. I learned how to stop crying through fear and submission. My pain didn’t matter and I didn’t have a voice.

Teaching a child rules to live by should be for the child’s good, not just to make the child less of a hassle. The rules I learned taught me to be a submissive person—an adult with no personal boundaries, no limits to what people could do to me.  I was in fear of being rejected and not able to protect myself because I was an adult still thinking like the child I was.

I am not a piece of property.  I am a human being with feelings, emotions and thoughts. I feel pain and rejection and abandonment.  But, I didn’t believe this until after I started to see the reason I believed these lies.  I am no longer the submissive child/adult I used to be. Now I know I’m a valuable person, worthy of a life free of abuse. I’m able to recognize the false beliefs and lies from my childhood, live in the truth of who I was meant to be.

Will you help us? We’re having a particularly difficult time meeting our expenses and we need your help. Would you consider making a donation today? We’re a 501c3 non-profit so all gifts are tax deductible in the U.S.  To make a donation, look for the donate button on the top right side of the page. Thank you for making it easier for us to continue to speak out about abuse and spreading the hope for healing!

Now that you’ve heard my experience and thoughts about this, I’d love to hear yours. Please comment below and don’t forget to subscribe to the comments so you can continue to participate in the discussion. If you would like to protect your privacy, you don’t have to use your real name. Email addresses are never made public.

Related Posts:
Domestic Violence: The Signs I Missed
Power Trip: How To Journey From Overpowered to Empowered
Standing Up For Myself: Re-claiming My Self-Worth
Perpetuating the Abusive Cycle

Patty Hite is a facilitator of Overcoming Sexual Abuse. A survivor of emotional, physical and sexual abuse, Patty has been tenaciously pursuing her healing for over thirty years. She’s a passionate advocate for all survivors and dedicates her life to inspiring emotional wholeness in others. As a former victim of spousal abuse, she’s delighted to have found the meaning of true love, a respectful relationship, and support with her late husband, Lonnie. She’s blessed with four children and six grandchildren.

[read Patty's story here]

The day we got married, Bill greeted me in our kitchen with a slap across the face that was so hard it knocked me to the floor. He grabbed my hair and dragged me into the bedroom where he raped me. Afterward, he told me that now I belonged to him and I would do what he said, when he said it, and how he said it.

When he finished, he told me to get a washcloth and wipe the blood off of him. My blood. He then told me to clean myself up, cover up my bruise and to stop crying. Like a robot, I did what he said. It wasn’t until I looked in the bathroom mirror that I could actually believe what he just did. The man I married, the man I loved, just raped me and beat the crap out of me.

I wish I could tell you that I fought him while he was raping me. But I didn’t. I often had fantasies of fighting back and he was the one on the floor with me standing over him and kicking the hell out of him. But that was only a fantasy. The truth is, I became totally helpless, submissive in fear. Instead of trying to figure out how to escape this torment, I convinced myself I needed to be a better wife.

I’ve often asked myself why I submitted to that abuse? Why didn’t I fight back? Why didn’t I walk away or go to the police? Physical and emotional abuse was the norm in my childhood home. My dad ruled the roost. Although I never saw him physically abuse my mother, he verbally and emotionally abused her. And she submitted. He would go to the bar, mess around with other women, and then come home and accuse my mom of having affairs. I heard him yelling at her in the middle of the night. The next morning, she would make him breakfast and he would treat her like a queen. My parents groomed me to submit.

I believed that a woman stands by her man, no matter what. My dad repeatedly raped my sister and I witnessed it. My mom stood by my dad and sent my sister away. I believed that family business—adultery, incest, and abuse—remain in the home. Cover up the bruises and put on a happy face and pretend that life is good and wonderful. I believed that asking for help was a sign of weakness and that crying, complaining and getting angry was not allowed. I knew that if I did any of those things, more punishment would follow.

By the time I became an adult, I knew my place in the world. I was to be the submissive wife and I would do anything and everything in order to please my husband.

This became the norm with Bill. At night, when the kids were asleep, he abused me in the most sadistic ways. He always found a reason to hurt me—if the mailman said “Hi” to me, if a button was missing on his shirt, if my mascara was smeared—any reason to let me know that I was a failure and I needed to be punished. I would make him breakfast the next morning wearing a smiling face for my kids. Bill would greet me with a morning kiss and tell the kids what a wonderful mother and woman I was—a copycat of my childhood. It was so familiar and I knew what to do and how to act.

I used to believe that there were no warnings that Bill was Satan in disguise. During the six months we dated, he seemed to be everything I could possibly want in a man. But the truth is, there were warning signs from the very beginning. The signs were everywhere, but at the time, I didn’t see them for what they were since they were familiar and normal.

I mistook attention, jealousy and possessiveness as signs of love. I had a distorted belief of what a husband, marriage and love should be. I was so caught up in the abusive world and the false beliefs that come from that world, that when abuse was going on around me, I ignored the signals that were as loud as a fog horn or as bright as a neon sign.

Before we ever started to date, Bill was grooming me. We worked together, (that is where we met) and in the lunchroom he would point out the failures of my friends—people I had grown up with and now worked with. As soon as they were out of earshot, he would tell me about their weaknesses. In front of them, he was charming. They were users or they were bad parents or they would always take advantage of me. I never saw these bad points in my friends, but after a while I was convinced. Bill was the only good, honest person in that whole company and I shouldn’t waste my time on such riff raff. He separated me from my friends.

It was the same with my family. They were too good for me. My brother had too much and flaunted it. My sister had too little and was trash. My mother was too close and wouldn’t let me grow up.

In truth, I became his property. It didn’t take long before I realized that I was not capable of making decisions about people and I couldn’t trust anyone but him. Not only did my body belong to him, but my mind and my soul had his name imprinted on them and I was nobody. I became no one. I no longer existed.

As I look back on those times, I could honestly say that his jealousy made me feel all warm inside. To me it meant that he loved me so much and was afraid to lose me. Separating me from my friends and family meant that he was watching out for me and wanted to spend every waking moment with me. I was his girl. I was special.

The rest of my marriage to him was abusive in every way. There were no more hidden signs. They were out in the open now. I knew I was going to be beaten before it even happened.

I started to have flashbacks of my childhood. I started to see the familiar patterns. The false beliefs that I learned so well started to reveal themselves. I knew inside that these lies were the beginning of finding the truth of what a normal, healthy life should be. The more I healed, the stronger I became. I started to realize that I did have a choice. I was able to decide what was right and what was wrong.

Hopelessness and helplessness was being replaced with hope and strength. I needed to get out of this hell. I was strong enough to make plans and I was strong enough to leave. It took me three years to plan my escape and it was my friends and family who helped me do it—the same ones I walked away from. They saw the signs from the beginning and were waiting for me to give them the sign. The sign that said, “It is time.” The sign that said, “Help Me!”

Now thirty years later, with healing from my abuse, I am able to discern the signs. The more I heal, the more signs I see:

1. Abusers are extremely possessive and jealous. Those are not emotions of love. They are efforts to control. An abuser will not share you with anyone. They have to own you.

2. Abusers separate you from family and friends. If they can keep you away from supportive people, then you won’t tell others. (Deep down I knew this was wrong. Walking away and hurting my family and friends, kept me in shame. This shame kept me from asking for help.)

3. Abusers have rigid expectations of relationships. There is no compromise. You will behave accordingly and agree to agree with him/her. (I dressed the way he wanted me to. I cooked the way he wanted me to. I spoke the way he wanted me to. I pretended my marriage was wonderful—the way HE wanted me to.)

4. Abusers blame the victim. “He wouldn’t get angry if only I would do what he wanted me to.” (I was convinced early on that I was to blame for his behavior. I would get him so angry, that he couldn’t control himself).

5. Abusers act like they have a double personality. They can be overly charming or exceptionally cruel, generous or selfish. (I never knew what personality he would be. I spend most of my time trying to see what “mood” he was in and then trying to change it. I knew before the abuse happened. It was like a fog was surrounding me. I would prepare myself emotionally for what would happen that night).

6. Abusers are con men or con women. In front of others, they are charming and convincing. Cool and collected. (This was so confusing for me, because he would be so happy while entertaining others, but the moment they left, I got blamed for their faults. If someone said something wrong, I heard about it all night. I wouldn’t dare make excuses for them or their behavior. I soon learned to try and not entertain. Stay away from other people all together.)

7. Abusers stop calling you by your name. By separating you from your name, you are no longer a person. You are a piece of property. (The last time he used my name was the day we were married. From that day on, I was addressed differently: “Get” (Get me something to drink.) “You” (You did this and You did that) “F*&^*ing” (F*&^*ing Whore, Bitch, Good for Nothing, Piece of Shit, Worthless Piece of Crap, etc)

When I separated myself from abuse, I had every right to not trust any man. But, throughout the years, I’ve learned that life isn’t about living in fear. My life started when I began to learn to trust myself. Now I trust myself to see the signs and to listen to their warning. I’m not afraid of being around people because I’m not afraid of being hurt. Now, I know I can walk away before the danger starts. Abuse isn’t love; love allows me to make choices and decide what is best for me and who is best for me. The more I heal, the more signs I see now and especially the ones that were there all along.

Does this resonate with you? Please join in by leaving your thoughts and feelings about this topic and don’t forget to subscribe to the comments.

Related Posts:
Power Play: How To Recognize an Abuser
The Fear of Being Re-victimized
Life-Saving Anger
The Myth of Unconditional Love
Dating After Sexual Abuse: Is This Love?

Patty Hite is a facilitator of Overcoming Sexual Abuse. A survivor of emotional, physical and sexual abuse, Patty has been tenaciously pursuing her healing for over thirty years. She’s a passionate advocate for all survivors and dedicates her life to inspiring emotional wholeness in others. As a former victim of spousal abuse, she’s delighted to have found the meaning of true love, a respectful relationship, and support with her late husband, Lonnie. She’s blessed with four children and six grandchildren.

[read Patty's story here]