avatarY.L. Wolfe

Summary

The article recounts a woman's experiences with domestic violence, manipulation, and the gendered consequences of romantic relationships, questioning the value of lessons learned at such a high personal cost.

Abstract

The narrative delves into the author's personal encounters with various forms of abuse and betrayal in romantic relationships, from physical violence to emotional manipulation and infidelity. It highlights the societal expectation for women to derive wisdom from these traumatic experiences, despite the recurring nature of such violence in an oppressive patriarchy. The author reflects on the toll these lessons have taken on her well-being and the lack of adequate preparation they provide for future relationships, given the ever-evolving tactics of misogyny.

Opinions

  • The author suggests that the wisdom gained from traumatic romantic experiences comes at an unacceptably high cost to women, affecting their mental health, physical well-being, and personal growth.
  • There is a critical view of the societal narrative that frames harmful relationship experiences as valuable life lessons, implying that this perspective may normalize abuse.
  • The article implies that the patriarchal system perpetuates a cycle of abuse and manipulation, making it difficult for women to benefit from past relationship experiences in a meaningful way.
  • The author expresses skepticism about the idea that learning from painful relationship experiences prepares one for healthier future relationships, given the unpredictable and often deceitful nature of such interactions.
  • The piece conveys a sense of frustration and exhaustion with the repetitive cycle of abuse and the societal pressure to find a positive takeaway from such experiences.

Love’s Costly Lessons: Are Women Paying Too High a Price?

The gendered consequences of romantic relationships

Image by Marie Dashkova via Scopio

CW: domestic violence, sexual assault

It started about fifteen minutes after we’d moved in together. My friends and family were downstairs, hauling boxes into the empty living room, their voices echoing off the walls.

Mark and I had gone upstairs to discuss where to put the furniture and I realized immediately that our room would be too small for anything but the bed and our dressers.

“I told you, I want my desk in the bedroom,” Mark said, his voice rising.

“I know,” I responded, “but look.” I pulled the tape measure across the room to show him that it wouldn’t fit. “Unless you want to keep all our clothes in the spare room, which seems ridiculous, there’s literally no room for your desk.”

“This isn’t what I planned!” he suddenly growled. He stepped toward me, grabbing both my hands and squeezed them until I yelped in pain.

I knew in that moment that I had just experienced domestic violence — and that domestic violence always, always escalates. But I was too humiliated to go downstairs and tell everyone to move my stuff back into the truck.

Six violent months later, after an unplanned pregnancy ended in miscarriage, he threw his lit cigarette into the glass of water I held in my hand. I’d been too afraid before then, too scared he would physically try to stop me. But that cigarette in my cup broke me. I could no longer endure his contempt and violence.

I packed my suitcase and walked out the door while he screamed profanities at me.

“I’m so sorry this happened,” a friend said to me when I confessed all the things I’d worked so hard to hide from her. “But think of it this way: You’ve learned a lot from this relationship and the next one will be so much better.”

He had his hands on the back of my head by our second date, forcing me down to his lap. I didn’t want to do it, but I didn’t object because I desperately wanted him to like me.

When I asked what our relationship was to him a few days later, he chastised me for being controlling. When I asked him if he would mind “touching me back” (my demure way of asking for an orgasm because I was too ashamed to come out and say it) after another night of him forcing my head into his lap, he said no — he feared it would make me feel “too connected” to him.

We moved on, but when I started dating someone else, he became enraged and confronted me, acting as if I had cheated on him. He demanded a second go at a relationship.

A week later, he was in my bed again, his hands on the back of my head. This time, he pushed so hard, I began gagging and couldn’t stop. I was terrified I would throw up on him.

“You aren’t very good at this, are you?” he asked.

He didn’t touch me after I composed myself and finished my “job.”

He shocked me by taking me out for breakfast the next morning. It was the only real date we’d ever been on. I couldn’t figure out if he liked me…or hated me.

When I called him a few days later, his roommate told me he had moved out of the state.

“He told me a lot of women would call this week — and not to give any of them his new number,” the roommate said.

My friend stroked my hair as I lay curled into a ball on the floor later that night. “It’ll be okay,” she said. “It’s all a learning experience. These are lessons that will help you for next time.”

I took the ever-expanding library of my hard-won wisdom into the next relationship. I chose someone I normally would not have chosen: a younger man, one who wore his heart on his sleeve, and was so emotionally available he practically walked around with his arms flung open.

He was the first man who had ever openly expressed affection for me.

I was so crazy about him, I couldn’t keep my hands off him. No matter where we were, we ended up naked — even in the basement of our Catholic college’s library.

The morning after our library encounter, he approached me, his face stony. His entire posture and demeanor had changed so much, I wasn’t sure I would have recognized him had we passed each other on the sidewalk.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he said. “This is over.”

I was stunned. I could hardly find the words to respond. What had I done to inspire this total change of heart — and personality?

“I already have a girlfriend,” he said. “A serious one. She cheated on me and I wanted to get back at her. But I can’t take the guilt anymore. I love her. I have to end this.”

“It’s just another lesson,” another friend told me that night.

I barely heard her over my hysterical tears.

We’d been together for seven years, living in the same house for five. Things weren’t good and hadn’t been good for a very long time, but I’d been convinced if I just waited patiently for him, he would want to move forward.

I greeted him at the front door with a drink, as I often did. He loved that. He said it made him feel like he lived in a 1950s TV show where the families were always so perfect and happy.

“I have great news,” he said. “Well, great for me. Not so great for you.”

He told me, jubilantly, that he’d met another woman at work and that they’d been together for months. He said things were getting serious and it was time for him to move on.

They were going to get married.

I listened calmly as I washed the dishes that I’d just dirtied making his drink. I wasn’t in my body anymore.

I didn’t cry that night, not even when yet another friend told me that it was going to be okay because the lessons I learned were going to make me smarter for next time.

I had rock bottom expectations. He was significantly older, which made things easier, in a sense. I didn’t want to pursue a long-term relationship with someone who was old enough to be my parent. We could keep things light and easy.

And I trusted him completely because of his age. I’d learned the hard way that men my age and younger seemed to struggle with emotional maturity.

But things got hard very quickly. And there wasn’t a single romantic gesture when we were together — not one. Just the endless promises of those that would come.

And then, a few days after we had an intimate weekend together that left me with an infection that caused crippling pain for a month and necessitated a full lab workup for STIs, he dumped me.

I didn’t cry after that one, either.

A friend said, “Now we’ve learned another lesson. Dating in middle age is no different than dating in college. Who knew?”

What hadn’t I learned by the time Sam came along? What I knew about dating could fill a set of encyclopedias.

And more importantly, I knew myself better than I ever had.

I knew how to communicate my needs. Hell, I knew what those needs were. I knew what I needed to do to protect my peace and my mental health. To protect my work, my life, my ability to provide for myself as a single woman with no safety nets.

It wasn’t that I didn’t trust him — I just knew that the risk involved with relationships was too much for me at that time. I didn’t have enough chips to cover a big loss. So I told him no. Over and over and over again.

What I didn’t know is how much a no will embolden some men. How much a no will whip them into a frenzy. How much a no will inspire them to do just about anything to turn that no into a yes.

And that’s exactly what he did.

He passed through my life like a wrecking ball.

“But now you know,” my friends tell me. “Now you’ll know for next time.”

What does wisdom cost? No, let me ask that differently: What should wisdom cost?

I’ve often wondered that every time people tell me I’ve learned valuable life lessons from my past relationships.

Everyone has hard lessons to learn, to be sure. Plenty of wisdom, sadly, comes to us through experiences of betrayal, dishonesty, or at the very least, a lack of integrity.

But when there is no bottom to misogyny in an oppressive patriarchy, what lessons can women ever learn that will actually help them in the next relationship? When misogyny only strives to outdo itself, how are the lessons a woman learns from her romantic relationships ever going to serve her?

It’s all a sleight of hand trick, isn’t it? You’ll learn plenty, but it never helps the next time around, because the next time around, it’s a whole new trick.

And when it compromises every part of us — our bodies, our minds, our souls — while the man moves on feeling better about himself, at what point do we talk about the cost of these lessons?

Yes, my friends are right. I have learned so much from my experiences. But the cost of that wisdom has been my peace, my health, and even my potential.

I’m grateful to every friend I’ve had who has tried to help me see the silver linings in my painful experiences.

But one day, I pray we recognize that women shouldn’t be subjected to a curriculum this violent in the first place.

© Yael Wolfe 2023

Yael Wolfe is a writer, artist, and photographer. You can find more of her work at yaelwolfe.com. If you love her writing, leave her a tip over at Ko-fi.

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