My Story, in Words
Domestic violence is part of my story. Specifically, I am an emotional abuse survivor. If you or someone close to you has experienced emotional abuse, you will understand and perhaps hear echoes of your story in mine. If domestic violence and emotional abuse are unfamiliar to you, count yourself fortunate. Seriously. I’m glad it’s not something that’s ever touched your life. May it always be so. It might also be difficult for you to understand what I say here. That’s ok. I don’t expect you to understand - and I trust you to respect what I have experienced and the impact it has had on my life.
The numbers: Married 18 years, 2 children, informally separated 7 years, divorced 2 years after that.
Something wasn’t right soon after we got married, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. There was no yelling or physical violence, so naming the dynamics as abuse never even crossed my mind. Besides, I was a strong, smart, capable woman so I thought I should be able to figure out what was going on. Marriage advice said the first year was always rough. Maybe I just had to work harder at being a good wife. The problem did always seem to be me. Spiritual guidance said to pray more and to wait. It was hard to know who to talk to. My family and the community I grew up in were 300 miles away. The Asian American Christian culture we were part of was uncomfortable talking about private matters, and didn’t really have the language to help me name what was happening. And frankly, neither did I. So I navigated the marriage as best I could, prayed, waited, and was quietly confused and increasingly sad about being regularly demeaned, gaslit, and devalued by the man I loved. It felt like I was being subjected to a slow process of being ground into little bits and tossed in the garbage. With a smile.
I wanted to hide. I wanted to hide the kids. To blend us into the walls somehow. I dreaded weekends and the hour when FH (former husband) would return home after work. How could it be that I was afraid of my own husband?
The disconnect between being told I was loved and the degree of contempt I was treated with grew over the years. It was exhausting, mind-bending, and eventually impossible to reconcile in my head and heart.
The attachment therapist my adopted child and I were working with opened my eyes. Once she understood the dynamics of our family life, she told me that it was a waste of money to continue pursuing attachment therapy with our child because our home environment was not conducive to developing attachment. FH responded to the news with disinterest, so the therapist and I began to work together instead. She asked if I’d heard the term “emotional abuse”. I had not.
After one of our sessions, I went to the library, found a book on emotional abuse, and opened it up. Time stopped. My jaw dropped. There was my life, page after page after page. No way. How did the author know? I picked up another book. Same thing. I checked out one book at a time, hiding them at home and reading when it was safe to do so, till I’d worked my way through the whole section. The books helped me feel seen and understood, and shone needed light on what was happening to me.
With the therapist’s guidance, the kids and I left twice, once for a weekend and the second time a few months later, for a week. Both times were preceded by a letter written by me, describing the harm the kids and I were experiencing, asking FH to think about it while we were gone, decide what he was going to do about it, and be ready to talk when we got home. He said he lost the first letter. When we were leaving for the second time, I read that letter out loud instead of just handing it to him. Nothing changed either time. That was his answer, though I didn’t recognize it at the time. I kept waiting.
He and I were both pretty visible people in our church circles, so the pressure to keep up appearances was strong. I didn’t dare say anything. Besides, who would I tell? Who would believe me? Everyone thought he was who he was up in front - as I did when I married him - a sincere man of faith, a gifted musician leading people into the presence of God. Who would believe how cruel things were at home? So I kept smiling and pretending we were just fine, feeding the illusion while living the nightmare. It was somehow easier to cope that way.
In time, because I could no longer pretend we were The Happy Couple and also face myself in the mirror, I stopped leading music publicly with him. As the tension of living in our Jekyl/Hyde home grew, I felt like something in me was splitting apart. I developed odd physical ailments for which there were no medical explanations: Things like my voice becoming so weak I often lost it entirely for days at a time. Or being unable to pick up a sheet of paper between my fingers because it felt too heavy.
I was dying. This is a plain statement of fact, not drama. I knew I was too close to the limits of what a human being could bear, and something was going to snap. I prayed for change, but also felt too beaten down to have any energy to pursue it. My last chance came through a shift in FH’s job that meant he’d live away from home during the week and only come home on weekends. I took it. I told him he needed to stay at the apartment and not come back on the weekends, that our relationship was no longer physically or emotionally sustainable for me, and I wanted time to heal, away from him. It was the scariest thing I ever said to him, and the bravest thing I ever said for myself.
I could give you many examples of the abusive patterns from those decades, but even now, years later, they are too traumatic to write and to remember.
What happened to me and to my children was wrong and gravely destructive in ways that still mark our lives to this day.
Yes, we have survived. Yes, we are in a better place. Yes, healing from trauma is part of our ongoing life’s work.
I have forgiven FH and sincerely wish good for him and for his life going forward. Truly. I bear him no ill will. This is not glossing over what happened or trying to make it a pretty picture. I do not excuse or minimize what he has done, and forgiveness certainly does not mean returning to the relationship as if nothing happened. That would be foolish, as there are no actions in keeping with repentance. It has taken a very long time, a lot of grueling work, and plenty of knock down drag out conversations with God to get to where I am now.
I choose to forgive because it is the only path to freedom. Harboring any desire for revenge would only darken my soul. I don’t want to go that way. Whatever justice is appropriate will come in time and in a way that will benefit and bless FH in a bigger picture that is beyond my sight. When, how, and what are not for me to decide or to design. By forgiving him, I have released him to his choices and to wisdom far greater than mine.
I will never be thankful for how he chose to treat me. However, I am thankful for what I’ve learned because of the suffering:
How very determined I am to live.
How art kept me alive. It was my barometer - if I could still create, I was still alive. Art was also my voice, telling my story and saying visually what I didn’t dare speak out loud.
The value of listening to my gut and to the wisdom of my body.
I get resurrection. I know very personally what it’s like to be dead. And I know what it’s like to be alive. I intend to stay that way.
Healing takes strong community.
God is real. We have been through this fire together and I have no greater and more trusted ally.
My friends and family have my back. I am loved.
I have grown in gratitude, patience, and compassion.
I am grateful to be alive,
for all that the suffering has built in me,
and for those who have walked with me
through the fire
and breathed me back to life.
Unsplash photo credits: Denny Muller (rings), Mathew Schwartz (frog), Guzel Maksutova (library), Ilona Frey (suitcase),Gabrielle Henderson (black and white woman), Denys Nevozhai (woman looking at view), Michael Fallon (rock stack).
Just in case: 24/7 U.S. National Domestic Violence Hotline, voice: 800-799-7233, text: “START” to 88788