abuse, isolation, and their effects.

I have been married for seven years. It was not a conventional marriage. I had been living alone in New York, was terribly alone, and was not taking care of myself very well. He came to visit while in the vicinity, saw my state, and fairly insisted I marry him. To save my life. We had been friends, in a way, for three years. We were not “dating”. My thought process was not clear. It typically has not been when it comes to relationships; I have a penchant for attracting and enabling abuse. Maybe it’s me. It is me, of course, because I allow it. But, no longer.

The only thing we had — had — in common was business, and I quickly outpaced him. That did not sit well with him, in my estimation. No intimacy, no love, none of that stuff. There was some very real physical violence; coercion; intimidation. I took it all. For years. I used to fight back. Scream. Cry. Until I figured out that was the reaction he wanted. So I started stifling myself. Just holding it in — don’t cry, it’ll be over soon. That worked, until I felt myself — losing myself. It’s called Stockholm Syndrome (in a sense). Strictly, it refers to a captive agent being held almost willingly, subconsciously, forgetting things like how people are meant to be treated, what a real relationship might be.

Last year I broke. Snapped. I went into his office and told him I wanted a divorce, that I had Stockholm Syndrome. I probably shouldn’t have dropped that “psychobabble”. I really should not have, because when he went with me to my next psychiatric appointment, he threw me under the bus, sneering that I had “Stockholm Syndrome”.

It’s not the violence that is so bad; it’s the random, unpredictable outbursts of rage and verbal and emotional abuse that are the real killers. Talk about walking on eggshells. I never know what I am doing right or wrong, I take extra care not to provoke — though that does little good. Just now he screamed at me and threatened to throw me out because I took four ice cubes out of a full tray.

The isolation doesn’t help. So I bottle it up. It comes out randomly, erratically, seemingly without rhyme or reason at socially-inexplicable times.
I grind my teeth a lot, there’s a lot of stress. We’ve slept in separate rooms for a while now, and have very little contact. It has to be that way. I’m pretty resilient, but even I can see that I have GOT to get myself out of this situation.

I’ve been idealistically working on projects — good, worthy projects — but projects that are on spec, nonetheless. So this week I applied for a couple jobs. They don’t sound so bad. Not as bad as staying here. You’d think, why doesn’t she just leave? Well. Money. It would be a cold day in hell before my family helped me out financially. I need health insurance direly. So, as much as I hate to go to work for The Man, I have to. I have to. I will save money, and just get a little studio like I had when I first moved here in 2004, take my meager possessions and cats, and escape. Find some peace.