Freedom from Supression

Silenced and Suppressed

As I sit in Twitter Jail in objection to the GOP’s war on women, it reminds me of my marriage. I am watching the Texas Legislature parade lopsided testimony and ignore the voices of nearly 1,000 citizens in regards to an omnibus abortion bill that would reduce access to women’s health care, among other consequences. The reaction from social media is astounding. But the master of the Twitter universe has decided that I have said too much, and must be silenced.

I rediscovered my voice three months ago. My husband, a member of the U.S. Army Reserves, decided that when I didn't want to listen to him mansplain the theory of relativity at the crack of dawn, he would try to kill me. He was unsuccessful.

He wasn't always abusive. What women in her right mind would marry an abusive man? I have come to understand that he is a sociopath. He was my prince charming, which is a common characteristic of a sociopath. His goal was marriage as a control tactic.  We met at a club when I was dared my friend, and bachelorette, to propose to him. I did, he said “how can I be engaged to you when I don’t have your number?” I smiled and told him I would talk to him later. I ended up giving him my phone number, and in the morning I had a text that said “Why am I waking up without my fiance?” A year after we met, he expectantly came home from the Army and proposed to me.  It only took 10 days for him to show his true colors.

He had a problem with alcohol. He had stopped while he was training with the Army. I married him assured that it was a past issue. That night his promise broke when I had to pull him out of a bar. He was belligerent and didn't want to leave. He slugged me while I was driving him home, and I nearly drove off the road. I turned my camera on video and set it on the bookshelf. I documented him throwing me on the bed, the sounds of him slapping me and telling me that I “was too much of a whore to rape.”  I made him watch it. He promised he would get help psychologically and stop drinking. He followed through, and convinced me to destroy the evidence.

He is a tricky, manipulative man who happens to be extremely pro-life and a conservative. I enjoyed about a year of a beautiful, boring marriage. Or, so I thought. He slowly gained control of my every move. I am educated, well informed and, outside this relationship, independent. He was good.

Trouble sneaked up when he started drinking again. He claimed it was because of his need to socialize, and started spending outrageous amounts of money. That’s when I realized I was being financially abused. All of the debt is in my name because I have good credit, because I am responsible. After being laid off, our money became his money. One night he snuck out when I was sleeping to drink. I confronted him and he called me a whore. That’s when I realized that I was being emotionally abused. Again, I am not stupid. Even under some sort of trance, I knew something was wrong.

I am a Christian, and I don’t believe in divorce. He went to a Baptist university and has a photographic memory. Did I fail to mention that he happens to be a genius?  He twisted scripture to meet his manipulative needs. “For better or worse” – How bad does it have to get to be beyond worse. Would God forgive me for abandoning my vows I made to Him and my husband? My pastor told me to forgive him and “throw sand on it.” Was I somehow delusional and wrong?

Bad turned into worse.  I was extremely isolated from my family and friends, and financially dependent on him. One night, after he went out drinking under the guise of coffee with a friend, he came home in a bad mood. I was upset because, like most, don’t like being deceived. This was supposed to be my prince charming, not a promise-breaking asshole.  I slapped him when he called me a whore. I am far from. He pinned me down and poured a liter of hand sanitizer in my mouth and eyes. As I blindly crawled to the bathroom to wash my eyes out, he told me how he would execute my entire family, threatening to “gut” my three little sisters. He knew my weaknesses. As a 6’ 5”, 275 pound soldier, I believed him. I couldn't allow him to kill my family. I didn't know what to do when my best friend happened to stop by. She did this often when she had an appointment in the area. She saw my bloodshot eyes and knew something was wrong. I wouldn't admit anything. I went to my mother’s home, but pretended I just wanted to spend time with her.

A couple days later he got into a massive car accident and had head and back trauma. He was obviously coming back from the bar after taking a cab home. He wreaked of cigarettes and alcohol. The officer on site told him that he “was lucky that he was a soldier and wouldn't be given a breathalyzer.” I’m a strong woman with a soft heart. Even through the previous abuse, he still held a place in my heart. His mother is his only family. She is a wretched, abusive woman herself. So, I came home to take care of him. He won again.

His nice streak only lasted a couple weeks. I knew it was over when he had no interest in celebrating Valentine’s Day. He cared more about drinking. So I prayed, a lot. I prayed that God would tell me what to do. It didn't take long for him to cross the line. He forced me to leave the marriage without regret and at peace with myself and God.

He snuck out once again. I woke up to the sound of him shutting the door. Fearful and realizing that he was drunk, I had a strangely calm demeanor. I simply told him to get some rest. He asked me to sit down with him. He wanted to have a drunken discussion about science and love. I wanted to go back to bed for a couple hours and follow it up with a productive day. In about a half hour’s time, he drank half a fifth of vodka and a bottle of wine. He threw the dogs out and got my attention. He told me that I needed to leave. I replied that I would, and headed to the bedroom to get my keys. Being 5’ 2” and 135 pounds, he easily blocked my way. He grabbed me by the throat and carried me to the kitchen, set me on the stove and started bashing my head against the wall. As if that wasn’t enough, he body slammed me to the floor and sat on my chest. He repeated that seven times. All I could do was count. Strange, I know. I actually hate math. But he was 15 inches taller than me, more than twice my size and trained in combat. Each time my head was pounding against the wall I would get to eight or nine. There were seven cycles of bashing, body slamming and suffocating. The last time he was kneeling on my chest, he ripped my wedding ring off. I remember that I stopped breathing. I thought “that was my last breath and now I am going to die.”

I somehow squirmed out from under him. My first two attempts at escape were foiled when he grabbed my feet out from under me and I face-planted onto the hardwood floor. The third and final time he grabbed my hair. I was fine with losing a fistful of hair. I ran up the stairs to a neighbor’s house and ferociously pounded on the door and screamed “Help, my husband is trying to kill me.” She let me in and called the police. He was arrested for assault of a family member. I went to the hospital and was thankful that the damage was minimal even with more than 50 abrasions and bruises. I also understood that it was time to get out of dodge. I moved a couple states away where I have an abundance of family.

Here is where it really gets interesting. I was pro-life before and during my marriage. In fact, my marriage only strengthened this belief because his ex-girlfriend aborted his child. This devastated him. What I didn't know is that he beat her right before she found out she was pregnant. Being reproductively challenged and suffering from a long drought in the bedroom, I didn't have to be concerned with him yielding control for the next 18 years. But, I could understand the ex-girlfriend’s fears. The fact is, some people shouldn't procreate. All the sudden the right to control my own body became extraordinarily important. I had already been fighting to keep my uterus against the advice of endometriosis specialists for ten years. I started paying attention.

What extreme republicans are trying to do around the country is despicable. I am not pro-abortion. I would not make that choice. I can’t phantom the amount of thought and emotion that goes into such a choice. But it is that, a choice. I am not so pompous that I think I have the right to tell another human being what to do with their reproductive organs. I also understand what it is like to be a poor, uninsured woman in Texas with endometriosis. I relied on Planned Parenthood to provide well woman exams, birth control and STD screenings. Yes, I have sex. Many of you already know that birth control is a common, yet somewhat ineffective, treatment for endometriosis. See other blog posts for my opposition to pre-existing conditions clauses that insurance companies enforce.

The Texas GOP has already shown its’ true colors and admitted that their goal is to effectively shut down clinics that provide abortions, as well as general reproductive health services, by making it too costly and limiting the ability to practice. This bill doesn’t just affect women who desire the right to have an abortion. It affects any woman who may have a health issue and/or simply find themselves uninsured. What really irked me is when I realized that most of the people making these vital decisions were men with the sex education of a fifth grader. The great exception is Texas state house representative Jodie Laubenerg, sponsor of the house bill, who compared rape kits to abortions.

I have been watching Texas since the Citizen’s Filibuster last month. I will keep watching, writing, tweeting and helping the protesters with media relations assistance until it is over and women of Texas are guaranteed their constitutional right to choose.  When I find a place to call home, I will stand up against any such measures on the local and national stage. Watching the Texas Legislature demean women is like reliving my marriage. But this time, I feel empowered. I am a survivor, not a victim. I will never fall prey to another woman hating asshole again. The men and women standing in protest and sheroes like Wendy Davis give me hope. They fuel my recovery. I encourage you to take stance with women around the country who are being suppressed and silenced.