The Final Text
The price I paid to finally put an end to decades of domestic abuse
Somewhere on Facebook is a group of people who worship my ex-husband. For the most part, they are new additions to his life since we finally separated 4 ½ years ago.
They see what I once saw: A man, who despite struggling with illiteracy, and having a decent sized chip on his shoulder about how the world is geared in favor of people who are able to fill in forms — seems to those around him to be but a gentle giant.
He is the first to volunteer if you need to move house, a jack of all trades ‘Mr Fixit’, a friend when you are in need. Life had dealt him just the perfect number of hard knocks to attract those with rescuer tendencies like a moth to the flame.
They see a man who resiliently soldiers on as a single Dad of a severely disabled young adult son — who is a stunningly handsome 18 year old, with sparkling eyes and a big smile. He is a boy who can say less than 50 words, few of which are communicative, still needs his bottom wiped, and functions as a toddler. They see a boy who weighs 85 kg and is stronger than most grown men.
Then, they see a woman — whom most of them have never met, yet have fallen for the picture that he has painted. She is a partner in a local law firm, successful and articulate. A woman who had a sudden ‘religious’ conversion and deserted their hero because of her own selfishness, delusion, or perhaps both.
She is a “selfish bitch” if ever there was one.
What they don’t see is how she desperately tried to cope as a single mother to a fully grown man…who is still a child, who towered over her, and despite his love for her, physically hurt her constantly. He was a child who would, within a couple of years, jump on his mother whilst she was driving, causing her to narrowly avoid a head-on collision. This was an incident which pushed her over the edge mentally, and left her with no choice but to hand her beloved son over to his father’s full time care.
I am this woman, and I was with this man for 24 years. I was 18 when we met. The 18 year old young man is my only child. My heart is broken.
The warning signs that something was wrong in our marriage surfaced within the first two years of our relationship, but didn’t become regular enough to cause concern until after we were married. I have spent the last 15 years in what felt like perpetual confusion. I wanted to die, I secretly hoped he would, such is the darkness of emotional abuse.
He was this fragile man who couldn’t spell words if they had more than 4 letters, who had convinced the world at large, including every professional that we had sought for help during our marriage, that he was the doormat in this relationship.
He was the one who had extracted pity from almost everyone we knew and managed to isolate me from every possible source of support in the process.
This man was a person who sucked the life from me. A woman who loved diversity and difference, conversation and coffee, knitting and music. A woman with a thirst for knowledge, a hunger for new experiences, and an insatiable zest for life. A woman who had dropped out of school early due to intense bullying and still managed to earn a law degree. She was a woman who achieved partner in her 3rd year of practice and to whom people listened when she spoke.
She was a mother who relentlessly tried to help her son as she watched him disappear before her eyes. Trapped with a man who alleged that she wanted the attention that comes when you have a child with a disability. A man who accused her of ‘opening a can of worms’ when she pushed for answers as to why her son had stopped talking, and “why did his eyelids flutter like that?”
He gradually but relentlessly succeeded in turning her into a terrified empty shell with a fake exterior.
He viewed her love of reading with great suspicion, he seemed threatened by words on the pages that he could not understand.
He rebuked her for jumping when he came up behind her, as if lovingly, and for shaking like a leaf as she laid beside him in bed — on the rare occasion that he did.
He had her examined, diagnosed and medicated. He kept her family well-informed of the severity of her mental illness.
This man who, in her rare moments of bravery, she accused of controlling her, WAS controlling her.
But it was more sinister than that, he was dependent on controlling her for his very survival.
In May 2015, I finally physically escaped from the prison that was my first marriage. It took four more years for the shocking reality — that I was not in fact free — to finally hit me.
Thanks to the advice of one of the few people I trusted in those early days, I walked out of my marriage and into counseling. That is where the shocking truth was initially revealed: I had been living in an emotionally and sexually abusive relationship for most of two decades.
But even more shocking than that, I was married to a narcissist. It was not until after I finally escaped that I learned what narcissistic abuse was…and that in his eyes I was not actually a human being entitled to feelings, aspirations and ideas of my own.
I was more akin to an oxygen tank. An inanimate object whose sole purpose it is to sustain the life of another.
I learned the shocking truth of narcissistic supply and how my involuntary involvement in this role robbed me of my 20’s, 30’s and most of my 40’s. I learned that the role as “a narcissistic supply tank” does not end, at physical separation, or at divorce. It just starts to look different.
Over 4 years later, I was still in the same old honeymoon, tension building and explosion cycle. He just wasn’t in my house, but to quote Julia Roberts, “that’s just geography.” If Mr. Right had his way, he would peddle this cycle indefinitely. It seems to only ever ends at the instigation of the abused.
It finally ended on September 30, 2019, more than 4 years after I physically left him. The day before was a Sunday. I had recently informed Mr. Right (why I call him Mr Right) that my now husband and I could no longer manage my son on our own.
My son is beautiful, but not at all passive. He is strong as an ox and regularly hurts me physically. He is very, very hard work. I love him dearly. He receives significant government funding, and it is perfectly reasonable that a small amount of that money be utilized to pay for a support worker to help us spend time with him.
Said support worker — let’s call him John — and I took my son, Jack, to a local seaside area that has a carnival set up in the school holidays. We spent a lovely hour there. I almost got sick on the “Sizzler,” enjoyed the spectacular views from the Ferris Wheel, ate ice cream, and rode the carousel.
For a short time, I felt like a ‘normal’ mother.
Jack wanted to go on a huge inflatable slide that was strictly for children 12 and under. Try explaining that to an 85 kg man with the mind of a toddler. It was the worst autistic meltdown I have ever experienced. After John, who is about 6 foot and 115 kg, and I wrestling him for about 10 minutes, I finally crash tackled Jack face down and laid on top of him for 20 minutes or so to calm him down. Pressure and weight help when you have sensory processing issues. It was really out of control.
I wanted to ring the Police for help. I should have. Instead, I rang Mr. Right, who told me not to “f***ing dare” ring the police. That he was on his way, coming from 40 minutes way. We eventually got Jack away from the slide and onto the grass, where John and I restrained him while we waited for his Dad.
When he got there, he was angrier than I had ever seen him, and that is really saying something. He rang while he was looking for us, and I could hear him on the phone and in the distance “Where the f*** are you, stand the f*** up so I can f***ing see you.” There were families with young children everywhere, this behavior was appalling.
Minutes later, he dragged Jack off to his car. We met up around the corner to hand over his bag — and the abuse was relentless. It was directed at me, and then John, who did his best to defend me. I’m amazed no passers-by called the Police. I’m more astounded that Mr. Right thinks it’s okay to behave that way in public.
Such is the self-focused insanity of the narcissist. Such is the terror of narcissistic rage.
After giving me the tongue-lashing of all tongue lashings, he drove off with my son. I realized, right there and then, on the side of road in a busy tourist spot on a balmy Sunday afternoon — that it was never going to end.
I knew I had two choices: I could continue to be this man’s source of sustenance, of narcissistic supply, until one of us is dead — or I could put a stop to it.
I had read about methods of dealing with narcissists. I read about the grey rock method and other such suggestions. I tried being bland with him. The problem is he has my son, and I can’t be bland about my precious child.
I have come to understand that I have been dealt a unique combination of factors, that, while possibly rare, make it almost impossible for a victim of narcissistic abuse to take back their power.
The only thing that really works to bring an end to narcissistic abuse is to 100% cut contact.
I have read countless stories where the victim remains the abuser’s source of narcissistic supply long after separation and divorce, because of the necessity of maintaining contact…because of the children. As bad as that is, there is light at the end of the tunnel. Even if the children are very young at the time of separation, you are looking at 15 years or so, maximum, before the victim’s contact with the abuser can be cut off.
But, how do you do that when you share a child who will never grow up?
When the child is disabled, it gets extremely complicated. When that child lives full time with the abuser — the situation is seemingly impossible to cut all ties.
Because an abuser has no aversion to using a vulnerable human being to control another, the need for a reliable source of narcissistic supply is just too great.
There was only one way to stop this, and it carried a big price tag. I had to cut contact permanently with my ex, and trust that I will find a way to continue my relationship with my precious son.
Last Monday I did that, I sent the final text. Now the work begins, the work in navigating a road back to my son, one that does not involve his father. I don’t know how that will look but I have come this far, and love will find a way. There is a famous quote by an unknown author that says:
“When you can’t control what’s happening, challenge yourself to control the way you respond to what’s happening. That’s where the power is.”
That’s all I can do, one day at a time.