Abuse Made Me Confront the Most Primal of Fears

It took over my mind.

I said no.

He was asking me to do something I did not want to do.

We stood on opposite sides in the kitchen. He was in front of the only escape route.

He took a step forward; hands curled up into fists. His breath was shallow, and I could tell he was trying to control himself.

He failed at that.

He screamed some unintelligible words. It seemed like anger took away his ability to speak properly. He went to the kitchen aisle and tossed everything around: fruit, some pots, a cooking book, a few spoons…all of it on the floor.

Then, he insisted I should do what was being required of me.

I guess I should have said yes at this point. Maybe I should have said yes from the very beginning, since I already knew this was the reaction I was going to get if I refused. But I was trying to be brave…I wanted to make a point, you know?

Then, he lurched toward me. In a heartbeat, he was grabbing me by the arms.

He shook me once.

If I told you I did nothing to release myself from his grip, would you call me weak? If I confessed that this discussion ended with me doing the thing he wanted me to do, would you say I was immature?

Well, Dear Reader, on that particular afternoon, and for many years after that, yes, I was very weak and extremely immature.

I didn’t leave.

I lacked the courage to leave. I soon lost the will to fight. I quickly realized there was no point to it.

He knew all about me. Where I lived, where I worked, and my whole schedule. He would always know where and how to find me.

This might be the part when some say, “you idiot, you should have gone to the police.” There are always people who say that…

Okay, let’s assume I did that. What would I say then, living in Mexico, one of the most sexist countries on Earth? “No, officer, there are no bruises on my body. No, no broken bones. Hmm…no, I don’t have any videos either. Witnesses? Well, he only does it when we are alone at home…he is quite charming the rest of the time.”

How would that conversation go?

I didn’t fight.

Our conversations followed a pattern. He asked something of me. It could be work-related, about household maintenance, or about sex. I would typically say yes to avoid any issues. If what he asked of me was particularly difficult, offensive, or humiliating, I would try to say no.

Sometimes he would immediately snap. Others, he would pretend to accept my negative response…those were the worst ones.

What followed, for several days, was a stream of passive-aggressive behavior…it’s intensity increasing as time went by. It would start with a seemingly inoffensive comment. Maybe the food was slightly burnt today — it wasn’t — or perhaps, lately, I smelled bad…

Soon, the silent treatment would follow. After that, “accidents” would become commonplace: he would accidentally drop a mug, or crash against me on the hallway, or place his beer bottle back on the table a little bit too hard.

It all would always end up the same way: a violent confrontation, a clash in which he would tell me all the things he knew were wrong about me, the repetition of the story of how he just wanted the best for me…he just wanted us to be happy.

Why couldn’t I help him with that? What kind of bitch was I? Why was I making everything so difficult for him?

I made him so angry. I made it so hard for him to resist the burning fury inside. Why was I playing the victim? “I have never hit you! Don’t you even dare suggest I have ever hit you! Don’t lie.”

Dear Reader, he was not lying about that. He never beat me…he didn’t need to do that to break me.

I didn’t tell anyone.

No one could know. Not a soul.

The idea of someone finding out just how weak and immature I was, filled me up with shame.

I was alone, and I knew it. Most important of all, he knew it.

It was our little secret to keep. The bond that secured our union.

No one could know. Not a soul.

Why?

That was the question that plagued my mind. Why couldn’t I just leave? Why not try to speak up and fight back?

What was at the root of my hesitation?

After a particularly violent outburst in which he had, once again, gripped my arms and shook me, I realized my mind had gone to anything in the room I could use to fight back.

Maybe I could hit him in the head with this pot…or with that lamp.

Then, whenever he came into the room, I would assess the best escape routes, just in case shit hit the fan.

I started to look up videos on how to break a chokehold.

I slept with my phone close to me, the emergency number ready just to hit “dial”, my car keys under my pillow.

That’s when I realized what was going on. It was so obvious I was surprised I couldn’t see it before. That was what my fear was all about.

I was afraid he was going to murder me.

Just one time, baby.

As he so much enjoyed pointing out, he never hit me. He only got within inches of it.

The threat of what would happen if I finally made him lose all control hovered above us. I was to tread lightly, make sure not to push him too far. It was my responsibility not to make him so furious he would have no choice but to do something he didn’t want to do.

The message he kept repeating to me was to be a good, nice woman, that followed his leadership, no questions asked, no challenges raised. If I failed at this, then I deserved the consequences…the punishment.

In a way, it all made sense now — my lack of agency, all of the poor decisions I made when it came to this relationship. My brain couldn’t process it properly because it was too busy tending to the most primal of fears: the fear of losing my life, all of my mental energy focused on the problem of staying alive.

No, he never engaged in physical violence against me. But I knew that he would only need to do it once.

Unfair?

“You are being unfair. You are judging a person for something he never did,” it’s what some say.

I’m sorry…was I supposed to wait for him to finally beat me? Was I to ignore all of the evidence his behavior provided? Was I to stay in that kitchen forever, no exit plan, nowhere to run, no air to breathe, no escape route?

No…no one deserves to live under the spell of this kind of fear.

Physical violence is not the only thing that can make us feel like we are about to die. Not only that: this terror sucks up all of the joy and pleasure in someone’s life. There’ no room for anything except constant panic and a permanent struggle to keep the peace.

That’s no life.

I wish it hadn’t taken me so long to discover that I did not deserve this pain. That this fear was poisoning me. That I had to cut it off my life.

But some learnings take their time to come and, even when they do, we struggle to let them in.

Dear Reader, I hope this never happens to you and, if it does, I wish you get to see the truth way faster than I did.

I hope you decide to leave.

If you or anyone you know is dealing with domestic violence or abuse please reach out and call 1–800–799–7233 or visit www.thehotline.org