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Paid to Be Abused

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This story contains graphic or mature content.

My mother killed herself shortly before I turned five months old. My father quickly remarried my stepmother, who is a physical and an emotional abuser. I grew up with a spiked heal embedded in my skull for calling my mother a liar at the age of eleven or twelve. She promised me that if I did not tell my father, her husband, about the incident she would not make me go to the hospital to get stitches. I agreed, but her behavior continued with increasing anger over nothing. Eventually she quit physically attacking me because I had grown older, but her new source of torture was lots and lots of verbal abuse. The blame game was played frequently. I was her outlet for whatever made her angry.

I married early at the age of twenty, hoping to escape this abuse. I quickly learned that my new husband, who I had known all through high school, was also an abuser. He developed a drinking problem and would take out his anger on me; he called me a bitch in front of my family once at a coming-out ball. He then tried to hit me, but was so drunk that I was able to dodge his slug. He hit the door molding so hard that it left knuckle imprints in the wood, and he tore open all of his knuckles. At that moment, I told him to leave. I wanted a divorce. I later found out he was bisexual and was drinking to cover up his indecision of what he wanted. It took me twelve years of therapy to learn how to trust another man again. This marriage lasted twelve years.

During the entire marriage, I suffered from emotional and physical abuse. I told no one. I knew if I were to tell someone, my marriage would surely be over, and my fear of living alone outweighed in my mind any abuse he could dish out. He finally decided to leave me the day after my birthday, for which he got me nothing. I let him go because I knew I was not strong enough to throw him out myself. I filed for divorce immediately.

About a year later, I get a phone call from him. He had been arrested for stalking and harassing another girl. Big surprise, since I had told him when he left that no other person on this planet would take what he dishes out on a frequent basis. I felt sorry for him, because he had no one to bail him out of jail. So, I decided to bail him out of jail, so that he would not lose his chiropractic business (which, by the way, I had financially put him through school for). Another two years go by, and at my twenty-fifth reunion I met up with a old classmate that I had had a crush on in high school. I will call him Charlie so that he remains anonymous. Charlie had a part-time job, making about $200 a week, and had $725 a month in child support and life insurance, etc. We eventually got together. He moved into my house and I agreed to help him with his bill until he was able to find employment. One year passed and he only looked for employment twice and never followed up on any application he turned in. My debt was growing larger and larger. He left me too, when I told him I had no more money. He flew into a rage, throwing my vacuum and breaking it. He called me a cunt. I have never been called this. Then he called me an idiot, a rich bitch, and he told me “I hope you kill yourself” when I pleaded with him to stop yelling at me because I was already depressed enough.

I did not celebrate Christmas or New Year’s this year. I spent them crying in my bed, replaying every second of that last argument and other transgressions he had done to me. Like the time I made him homemade biscuits. When I got them out of the oven, I burned my thumb. It was a second-degree burn and I was hopping around the kitchen in front of Charlie saying, “Help me, it hurts.” At that moment, he grabbed my thumb and bent it all the back to my wrist. A miracle it was not broken. I went to the floor in my kitchen in agony, then he dumped all of the beautiful biscuits on me and walked away. Another time we were kissing in the kitchen, and, for some reason, he thought I had bit him, which I had not. He bent me over backward onto my kitchen island and started choking me with one hand and hit me in the stomach with his other hand. Another incident was when I was cold in bed and tried to snuggle up with him. He flew into a rage and shouted, “God dammit! Can’t I get some peace and quiet!” He then left the room and slept down the hall in another room. Another time, while we were in bed, Christmas Eve of 2009, I started to tickle him and he put me in a full nelson choke hold. I almost passed out.

The worst part about all of this is that I would take him back today if he were to just call and apologize. I hate living alone. I feel abandoned, broken, empty, and have lost all of the pieces of myself. I am in therapy again and looking for abuse support groups. However, I have found that there are not that many support groups for the women who get abused. Why is that? I came to the conclusion that most of us don’t want to admit what we are allowing ourselves to live with. Also, most of us take the abuser back for reasons such as financial, loneliness, etc. I hope my story can help other women in my situation. We must all rise above this pain. Real love should not and does not hurt.


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