Remove the Veil

      He sat all the way on the left side of the couch, me on the right. I felt more distant from him than ever. In front of us sat a tall, caucasian, middle aged man with glasses and long silver streaked ponytail. What a hippie! Exactly the type of person my husband would pick for a therapist. Our last therapist also preached peace, love, kindness, and flower power. Look what good that got us. Here we are separated and on the verge of a total marriage meltdown. Well, maybe this therapist would be able to help. At least he was male, maybe my husband would take him more seriously. Each of us were allowed to speak our piece without interruption. My husband went first with a very succinct version of how our marriage got to this point. I then had my turn. And I didn’t hold anything back. I proceeded to go into great detail about our last blow out that occurred two weeks previously, which led to us living in separate apartments. I waited for the therapist’s input. Maybe he would be able to see what was really happening and fix our marriage.

      “I’m sorry, but we are not going to be able to continue couple's therapy. This is a case of domestic violence.” The therapists then asked me a series of questions about if I felt safe and if my husband knew where I was living. He explained that it would be best to proceed with individual therapy. We could then proceed with joint therapy sessions once both of our separate therapist thought it was safe to do so.

     I sat there in shock. Domestic violence? This was the first time that term was ever associated with our relationship. Me a “victim” of domestic violence? My husband who I loved more than anyone in the whole world would never really try to hurt me. Nope, that was not my life. I decided to go to individual therapy as soon as possible so I could fix myself and be a better wife. And if my husband learned to control his anger then we could get back to doing what needed to be done, couple's counseling.

      My personal therapist was a young, thin blonde lady who wasn’t playing any games. She was very direct with me about my situation and explained to me that many of the marital problems I had been experiencing were due to my husband’s abusive behavior. Apparently, my husband was dangerous and if I did not leave him, would one day kill me. She asked me what I wanted to get out of therapy. Well, what I wanted was for both my husband and me to heal individually so we could get back together. Her suggestion to me was to file a restraining order, a police report, and then for divorce. “Not what I wanted to hear lady.” As I was about to leave the room she stopped me. “By the way does your husband own any guns?” Before I closed the door behind me, I answered, “Yes, six.”

      Let me just say this therapist managed to scare the crap out of me. This only fueled my existing fear and anxiety. Are therapist even allowed to say those things? I still don’t know. I do know that I made up my mind that she was cold, heartless, and I didn’t like her. On top of all that she told me that I suffered from depression and that I needed to start exercising to increase my endorphins or else she would place me on medication. Needless to say, I did not like the majority of things that came out of her mouth and my first impression was not a happy one, but neither was my situation.

     I mean, in the matter of three weeks I was completely separated from husband. I had moved to a new apartment, and had became severely sick for the first time in years. I was now sharing a living space with my mom for the first time in four years. And I barely functioned at work, spending most of my lunch breaks hiding away to cry. Basically, my life was falling apart. Too exhausted to find another therapist, I kept seeing her.

     My journey to find out more about my predicament began. I watched every Youtube video I could on the topic of abuse. Read countless online articles. I even called a hotline and they listened and directed me to a local non-for-profit that could help me navigate my situation. Desperately, I searched for salvation. Surely, my search engine contained some hidden gem that would rescue my marriage. Instead, it offered up horrifying domestic violence statistics. Countless stories of men who controlled, manipulated, lied, threatened, stalked, and even killed to keep their spouse from leaving them. Let’s just say the yearly body count was greater than the amount of people who died in the September 11 attacks. This couldn’t be right? There had to be at least one success story. One story were the husband saw the error of his ways, got help, and everyone was happily reunited. Finally, I found it. The one story were a husband after brutally beating his wife finally decided he needed help. But the caveat was that he finally wanted to get help and it had to come from within himself. Yes, the one story that maybe, just maybe might be my story. Despite the long list of facts and testimonies to the contrary, I clung to this flicker of hope.

     In a effort to stay sane, I decided to attend a Christian support group for women experiencing and recovering from domestic violence. We sat at the table and every woman went around sharing her story for the day. Then a crazy thing happened. Every women sounded like they were also married to my husband. How could we all be married to the same man? Then came my turn and then came the tears. For the first time I felt I could share my story without being judged. All the fear and shame came spilling forth. Afterwards an older woman in the group turned to me and said, “Your husband is a predator, he saw you, he wanted you, and he knew exactly how to catch you.” That seemed a bit harsh to me, but in my heart I felt a tinge of truth.  

      After many futile phone conversations of me crying and begging my husband to get help I started to feel hopeless. Not only was he refusing to admit his behavior was detrimental to our relationship, he wasn’t going to counseling and refused to go to batterer’s intervention. My sister and my brother-in-law told me they supported me, but they could not support him. My family and friends were done with him. No one was on his side except me and the Christian counselor from church, who continued to encourage me to pray for my husband. I held on because he was the love of my life. And surely love conquers all.

     After several therapy and support group sessions I finally began to accept that my husband was abusive. Yet, I still made excuses for his behavior and believed there would be some miracle for us. The local non-for-profit agency offered to help me file a police report and divorce paperwork. I still couldn’t bring myself to do it. I felt conflicted. How could a Christian just give up on her marriage? Maybe if I just prayed harder and was more compassionate and didn’t get angry so easily things would change for the better. Maybe I just needed to be a better wife. The writing was on the wall, but I kept my blindfold tied tight.

     One night I spoke on the phone with my father about my conflict. I wanted to go back to my husband, but everyone was telling me to get divorced. Even my father, a pastor, told me to file a police report and divorce. I finally said to my father, “You don’t understand, he would never hurt me.” “But mija, he has already hurt you.” The thing was, he was right. My husband had hurt me and every time he hurt me it got a little worse. Every major “incident” was just an escalation of the violence. It started with a shove a week after we said our marriage vows. It ended with bruises all over my body. I finally understood he would never stop. He would never stop because he didn’t want to stop. The benefits he received from abusing me far outweighed the effort it would take to change. And he had made it very clear that he didn’t want to change. He had told me countless times, “I have to do things my way.” I finally accepted that I needed to leave.

     I filed the police report. When my husband found out he was furious. He called me and ripped me a new one. I blocked his number and decided to leave California. Four weeks later I filed for divorce. He later emailed me he wanted to talk. Over the phone he let me know he had received the paperwork and he did not want to get divorced. But he didn’t know if he still loved me. He needed to see me because he could hardly remember my face. We needed to talk in person to resolve this issue. I let him know I moved out of the state and that wouldn’t be possible. He then told me he still wanted to work things out, but he needed to be honest with me. He had slept with one of our coworkers multiple times in the last month. I was furious. I may have filed for divorce, but I still loved him. I felt the rage well up inside me. She was someone we knew from work, someone he had trained, someone he had actually tried to make my friend earlier that year. I felt sick. I then proceeded to say some of the most vile things that ever spewed from my mouth. How could he do this to me? Only after one month of not seeing me he couldn’t remember my face?! I hung up the phone. I sat in disbelief. Even after all this, I continued to talk to him in the following weeks, continued to believe that we would figure it out and that we wouldn’t need to go through with the divorce.

     I called him on our wedding anniversary. He told me he would call me back in five minutes. He never did. Even after all that I held onto hope, until the finalization of the divorce. Even two years after my separation I still catch myself hoping it’s not true.

     Thankfully, God removed the veil from my eyes and allowed me to see the truth.  The truth that my ex-husband did not know how to love and was actually incapable of giving real love. His love was conditional and had to be on his terms. And if I failed to meet the terms I paid the price. I finally, accepted the truth that abusive behavior is unacceptable. It seems crazy to say it, but I spent a large portion of my marriage justifying the abuse to myself and others. Thank God, I saw the light.

     Most of all, I thank God for all the loving people he placed in my life. The people who protected me, the people who told me the truth even when I didn’t want to hear it, the people who shared their stories and gave me the courage to leave. I thank God for protecting me when I left, which is the most dangerous time for a women in an abusive relationship and when many of them are killed. Now, I see that it was by the grace of God my ex-husband never called me back. Because at that time I still lacked the strength to stay away and was in danger of crawling back.

     Is coming out of denial easy? God no! Is it necessary to live your healthiest, best life? Absolutely! In my abusive marriage I suffered from undiagnosed depression, I lived in fear, I attempted to take my life, I thought I was going crazy, I even believed that I deserved the abuse. I spent countless nights crying and confused. The mind is not meant to live in a constant state of denial. I lived in a lie. Denial led to depression and bondage. I felt like I was losing my mind because I constantly lived in a state of two minds. The mind that didn’t want to acknowledge the truth and the subconscious mind that knew something was wrong. Now I know the truth. The truth of real love, freedom, and peace of mind.

     God brought me to the other side safely. Has the journey been easy? No! That’s why I share my story. I hope my story helps you loosen up that blindfold. Maybe even helps you rip it completely off your head. Will it be the most painful, difficult, scariest thing you ever experienced? Most likely. But it will be worth it because you are worth it and your life is worth saving.