Dear Husband,

It's taken me quite a long time to be able to put these thoughts into words. For so long I have felt as if I were underwater; unable to think or even feel clearly. I believed that the way you treated me was my fault. That I somehow, in some way, deserved to be treated this way.

But my head is above water now. And I know now that the way you treat me is not my fault.

It’s yours.

I can still remember with vivid clarity the exact moment when I knew my relationship with you was heading down a dangerous path. I had said something that you didn’t quite agree with over dinner, and your voice lowered and hardened and you told me to keep my mouth shut if I didn’t know what I was talking about. That was the turning point. The fork in the road. For a split second, I was furious, hot with shame. How dare anyone speak to me that way? If you were going to treat me in such a way now, what was going to happen down the road? Run girl. Run now. But that fragile moment of clarity popped softly like a soap bubble, and the years of conditioning and low self-confidence kicked in like a knee jerk reaction. So I smiled and apologized and remained quiet.

As T.S. Elliot said in ‘The Hollow Men’; “This is the way the world ends, not with a bang but a whimper".

And no, you have never hit me. But what you do is still abuse.

You throw things. You criticize everything I do. You scream at me. You call me names.

Just this past week alone I have been called; a moron, a retard, an idiot, a bitch, an entitled bitch, an arrogant bitch…

So many people wonder why women stay in abusive relationships. The answer is sometimes, sadly, very simple. It’s because we feel as if we deserve it.

Let me paint you a picture:

It’s four am, on a Sunday, and you are getting up extra early to go on a fishing trip. You can’t find the shirt you are looking for. What I remember quite clearly is being violently wrenched out of my sleep by your yelling. The light coming on, a bright flash that pierces my eyes even before they’re opened. The clothes from the drawer being dumped unceremoniously on the bed, the endless invasive questions, the accusations that I’ve hidden your things, and the groggy confusion that quickly turns to fear. There are few things more jarring than being pulled emotionally from one end of the spectrum to the other in a mere matter of seconds.

And the anger, of course. Always the anger. Even when you are not particularly angry at something, even when you’re in a good mood, I can feel the anger that’s inside you, almost always directed at me like a magnifying glass, like a hot lens. It skitters across my skin like a loathsome insect.

On this particular morning, I dodge the name calling and, heart pounding, looking through the clothes until I found the item you were looking for, which was of course there all along. You leave shortly after, still angry, and the slam of the door fills me with a shaking sense of relief. And shame. You’ll be gone for hours and hours and now, at least, I can have some peace. I allow the tears to finally make their way to my eyes and spill down my face. To cry around you is to show weakness. I feel weak for even crying at all. How many times have you called me names for crying in front of you?I take two Nyquil and wash them down with a large glass of water. After I put all the clothes back where they belong in the drawer and wash my face with a cold washcloth I can feel the soft numbing fingers of the medicine begin to work their blessed magic along with my nerves. I pull back the covers and get back into bed, bringing with me a favorite novel. But I don’t plan on reading, I’ve brought it with me for comfort. I lay it in the empty space beside me and rest my hand blissfully on the cover; my solid and steadfast companion.

Do you remember that day? As much as I’d like to, I’m sure I’ll never forget it.

I used to be ashamed of the way you treated me. I never told anyone, I kept it hidden behind a façade of fake smiles and false assurances. “Yes, of course, I’m all right, why do you ask?”

But I understand now I have nothing to be ashamed of. You are the one who should be ashamed. Because I don't deserve to be treated like this.

And of course, you chose me, out of all those other women out there. I’ve always been the shy one, the one with low self-esteem. You chose me not because I am funny, or smart, or beautiful. You chose me because I am the girl who never stands up for herself. I’m the girl who takes the abuse.

But not anymore.

Because you see, I am taking back control of my life. I’ve woken up. I am learning to breathe again. I am gaining the ability to trust myself, my feelings, and my own instincts.

I am starting to stand up for myself, to demand respect.

Just recently you have accused me of becoming an entitled arrogant feminist bitch, and while I know you meant it in the most negative way possible, I’m rather proud of it. I'd rather be that than a doormat. I've made some mistakes in my past, sure. (Who hasn't?) But I am not a victim. At least, not anymore. I'm a survivor. Every day I get a little bit stronger. Every day I believe in myself and my own abilities just a little bit more. And someday soon I'm going to have enough strength to walk away from you altogether, and finally, have a safe space that is mine alone.

My life is not yours. Not anymore. Actually, it never was.

It's mine.

And I'm going to start living it.

Sincerely,

Your (not for much longer) Wife

The important thing to remember this October, during Domestic Violence Awareness month, is that no matter what you are going through...you are not alone. There are people and organizations out there that can help you get your life back. No one deserves to be abused, whether it be emotionally, mentally, or physically. What you DO deserve, however, is to be happy, safe and fulfilled. Stay strong. Never give up.