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[haleighfitzsimmons-blog]

The Truth...

Emotional abuse. What is it? According to the dictionary, emotional abuse is defined as “psychological abuse characterized by a person subjecting, or exposing, another person to behavior that may result in physiological trauma, including anxiety, chronic depression, or post traumatic stress disorder.” Low self esteem, isolation, humiliation, and intimidation are common words associated with the term. The real question is, how do you spot emotional abuse? What are the signs?

In my experience, emotional abuse is fairly hidden behind closed doors. It’s hard to spot right away without knowing “warning signs” in advance. I’ll get to those later. However, like all other forms of abuse, emotional works in a cycle patters. Typically beginning when one parter emotionally abuses the other party member; commonly to show dominance within the relationship. After this occurs, the abuser will typically feel guilty - not for their action - but rather for the consequences. The abuser will commonly make up excuses for their behavior, avoiding responsibility. Once this has happened, the abuser will report back to their “normal” behavior. As if the event never occurred. The individual may in fact be more charming, apologetic, and giving. Doing their very best to make sure their partner knows they are “extra sorry”. When in fact, the abuser may “fantasize” of using their partner in that regard again, setting them up for more emotional abuse to take place.

Sounds pretty terrifying. Doesn’t it?

It is difficult to present emotional abuse even to the abuser. It takes caution and a sturdy mind. The abuser also holds a manipulative personality. Able to trick you into thinking you are in the wrong. It’s all your fault. You’re too sensitive. Maybe it’s that time of the month, or it’s coming up. You need to be more appreciative. You’re too dumb to realize they actually love you. This is how things are supposed to be.

Wrong.

All wrong.

Lying. Its one of the examples of emotional abuse. Socially isolating the individual. Not allowing them to be with others. Disrespect. Bringing them down through condescending words, actions, and remarks. The only marks emotional abuse leaves behind are within. No physical evidence.

Lying.

Did you hear me? Lying.

Here’s the tricky part. People aren’t going to believe you. The emotional abuser is going to be liked by many. A good person. In my case: a good student, proud brother, wonderful athlete, funny, charming, good looking, well put together, and a Christian man. Who would’ve thought that he would hurt me? Certainly not myself.

I missed the signs from the beginning. Love really is blind. I missed the power hungry dominance over me, the obsessiveness to keep me from my friends, family, and close ones. I thought him always insisting we stay inside was endearing. When all along, it was isolation.

Isolated.

Did you hear me? Isolated.

My friends told me over and over again how much they missed me. How I was never around anymore. At the time, I contemplated the assumption they were simply jealous I had someone and they did not. Now, looking back, I really did vanish before their very eyes. I never saw them. Truth is, I missed them too. Terribly. I only ever saw him. However, my naive mind thought it was simply because we were in love. Whatever that was, it certainly was not love.

I thought I was crazy. Possibly overly emotional or sensitive. In the beginning I felt an emptiness in my gut, but I shoved it off. Thinking I had ate something that day…week…month…

And while I do struggle with digestive problems, that feeling grew more into something else. Something bigger. Something dangerous.

I researched for months. Collecting data. I remember being so angry with my parents when they told me in the beginning he held an abusive personality. I told myself, “they don’t know him like I do”, or “he’ll never do that to me. He loves me”.

He loves me.

or at least I thought.

There’s a part of him I sure that loved me dearly. Sadly, lust took over that wonderful God-given plan for humans into a sick desire for my body, and my body alone. I gave in. I allowed him to take control over me and my body after hearing the abused version of Ephesians 5. “Wives submit to your husbands”. We were going to get married…I was sure of it. Our love for one another were two very differently things. Mine was controlled by intimidation and fear. His was led by an overpowering drive for me, physically. Rather than emotionally or intellectually.

We were perfect together.

Perfect.

Social media portrayed two young kids in love, ready to take on the world. It was happy faces. Smiles all around. Happy moments. But what happened when the flash turned off? When the camera was put away? What happened behind closed doors and off screen was a mystery even to my closest companions. I told no one. No one. I couldn’t. Not when he promised to get better. Not after he promised to never hurt me again.

He promised.

Just like all our future plans together, those promises were impossible to see through. After every so called, “promise” came another cycle. Another “incident” is what I liked to call them. They came out of no where. Crushing my heart more, and more. Oh, but wait. His actions were out of “good intentions”.

Good intentions.

Just like every deception was meant to help me. Every let down was supposed to keep me protected. All the times he broke promises meant it was a chance to re-evaluate what I was doing wrong. It was always my fault. Somehow everything was turned against me. Even when I finally mustered up the courage to tell him.but it was always my fault in the end. Always.

It has been eight months since the break up - April 24th 11:08 pm (our seven month anniversary almost to the exact hour and minute, September 24th, 11:24 pm). A year and three months since junior year homecoming. “The best night of my life” where he professed his love and we became “the music couple”. A select tuba/trumpet player and a stellar choir performer found love in a car parked outside a friends house in the down powering rain. A well-known “theatre power couple” just like those who came before us. Seven months later. Junior prom. April 22nd, 2017. I found myself lost in a pit of darkness on the dance floor. My heart shattered into a million pieces. The perfection was gone. The stellar achievers were now uncovered as failures of love. I saw my life crumble before my eyes, as I stared into the eyes of a man I realized I feared greatly.

On the drive to post-prom, I remember the tension building in the car. The way he pounded the steering wheel as a stop light made my body tense in a million uncomfortable ways. The walk towards post prom, my perfect hair a mess, and my dress feeling ten pounds heavier, feeling as though I would never be the same again. And I’m not. I never will be. How I threw my bag on the bathroom floor, yelled in frustration at the top of my lungs. With only my friend there to catch me, knowing exactly what had taken place. All the images were coming back to me. His violence towards a friend next to the bar, his sulking to make me feel guilty at the table, by himself. The tense attitude towards everyone who got too close, and the way he looked at me. His eyes. Those eyes. A look I never wanted to see again made me shrink into myself once more.

When you think about it, it’s quite poetic isn’t it. Creating feelings on a dance floor, and breathing catastrophe on yet another dance floor. A night that was supposed to be just as magical as the previous dance.

Supposed to be magical.

Did you hear me?

Supposed to be…

But it wasn’t.

I remember sitting in the nail salon, a week prior to the fateful night, sitting next to my best friend telling her something bad was bound to happen. The cycle would prevail. It always did. It always would.

He says I walked away. Claims I didn't truly love him. Told others I was the problem. I made him a monster. It was all…my…fault. Never his. Why would it be? Who were they going to believe? Not me.

Things are still very much tense. I walk into a same room, and I can feel the bitterness swallow me whole. Why won’t he give it up? Why can’t he let it go? I don’t understand, and I never will. I plaster a smile on my face, make sure I have a good laugh or too, say hello to friends and acquaintances, and carry on with my life. That’s what I’m supposed to do.

Isn’t it?

The truth is, I still protect him. Often times I do my best to ensure the public he is still a good guy. Even if the real goodness is hidden underneath layers of pain, bitterness, control issues, and anger. I still see the good I once saw all the time. Except now, it comes in flashes. Dreams. Even the beginnings of my nightmares. A flicker in the hallway, or a small presence in the room of someone I used to know. I do not boldly tell everyone of what happened between us. There are certain aspects I have not been able to tell even the closest people to in my life. Why? Because a part of me still cares for him. And not in the “I still love you” sort of way, but in the “I promised to always care for you, even if you won’t”. I feel a sort of obligation to remain silent for his sake. To choke down the hurt of the lies I hear from day to day. Brush off the mean looks he gives me. I push them aside. Sealing my lips shut to prevent his life caving in on himself. Obviously, only one of us is being the bigger person.

But that’s okay.

Did you hear me?

It’s okay.

Because not everyone is always going to believe you. Chase Jenkins, and Logan E., are just two examples, proving people are going to side with the abuser. They’re never going to believe your story. No matter how many times it comes back to haunt you every night. The truth always prevails. I believe - well, I suppose it’s more of a hope - that one day everyone will know and understand that my silent claims prevailed with honesty and integrity. Until that day comes, I am stuck writing this journal. Hurting, and uncertain.

I think of that relationship every day. The pain. The recovery. The “incidents”. Not a day goes by I don’t still pray for him. Part of my heart still believes the man I initially fell for is still there. Hidden beneath all the layers of bitterness. It has caused me to see the world differently. Be afraid of certain words, events, places, even foods. I still cannot drink Hazelnut coffee. It’s been eight months and I cannot muster the courage to drink a stupid cup of hazelnut coffee. I’m extra paranoid. All the time. With people, mostly. The physiological effects are still there. They’ll never leave me. They say emotional abuse changes you. I call it “re-wiring of the brain”. It’s all I can do now to “program” myself back to the way I was in September of 2016. Young. In love. Happy. Care free. Excited. Confident. But that girl is gone. Sure, I am in love with an incredible man and happy as ever. But not truly happy with who I am. I never will be. The dirt I feel from the deeds in the relationship, the way he treated me makes me feel weak and used to this very day. I did not wait for my true love. I gave myself to the wrong man.

But I’m forgiven.

Did you hear me?

I said I’m forgiven.

But I cannot forgive myself.