Hi,
I'm 45 and a freelance translator. I grew up in a seemingly stable family. Except... but that is something I found out later.
I never had a relationship with friends or men that was truly loving. A few boyfriends who were boys. One long-term relationship (8 years) that ended when he got bored, after never committing. And a few years ago, I started meeting a string of abusive men. Then I met my husband. I was smitten. He was peculiar, wonderful, exciting, very nice and loving. And he had a problem with anger, which revealed itself very gradually. The marriage lasted a year. When I left him, I was a puddle. To this day, and double-checking with a therapist only recently, I believe I suffered from mild PTSD. Exploring this, I remembered moving a certain conversation to the living room because of the knives that were on the kitchen counter and being afraid that he would use them... This trauma was never thoroughly treated until now.
I hobbled along after that, divorced, healed somewhat from the relationship at least, growing stronger and happy again. Finding a peace in myself. Dating a little even.
Then I met the alien. Or met him again... We had dated in college, but it had ended when he moved back to his home town and I continued my studies.
He lived 400 miles away and I met him again on a few years ago on FB, having fun online with him and some of his friends. He organised a party in the summer of 2012, and as I had vacation time coming up, I decided to go. It was great fun.
I was discovering him again. He was perfect for me, a thinking man, an enlightened man, sexy, funny, sensual and down-to-earth. He was a year out of a 10-year marriage to a (erm) crazy, cheating drunk who abused and almost destroyed him. I found in him a sensitive, mild-mannered man who was open to trying to love again. We got together.
His enthusiasm was touching, and mine was enormous. Our circumstances were exactly right. He asked me to stay. Since I have no children and I'm freelance, I was able to do so. I moved to his town two weeks later.
What a beautiful story! How romantic!
But after a few months of dating, he started acting strangely. Being incredibly rude for a few moments, then behaving as though nothing had happened. Showering me with affection one minute, then dropping me and giving me the silent treatment. But these behaviors were so rare, and he seemed to make nothing of them and not be particularly mean when they happened, so I accepted them. I thought to myself that no one was perfect, and the wonderful times we had largely compensated for these. I thought, well, here are some things that we can adjust together in time with good communication.
Except... Whenever I tried to broach the subject, his attention seemed to wander. And it started happening more often. Until one day, I thought, okay, time to be clear as the sun. I insisted that it was important he engage in the discussion. That was the first time he lost it. The screaming. The nonsense. The circling arguments. The accusations. The rage.
Somehow that storm passed and I stayed. We talked about it later. He never apologized, but we talked. He never acknowledged any wrongdoing, but we talked. I thought that as long as we could talk about it, we could resolve it.
The bad weather never left. His abuse was covert, but in retrospect, very clear. Demeaning, mocking, outright rudeness, silent treatment, rage ever boiling under the surface. Then once in a while when I couldn't stand it anymore and reached out, the screaming fits, again. Until he was always on the cusp of rage. The stare. Then that passed and he was the lovebird all over again.
And of course his abuse was all my fault: he accused me of wanting him to change, of not loving him the way he was, of not being good enough for my impossibly high standards; then it was his ex's fault when even by his twisted logic it couldn't be my fault (i.e. the psychopathic rages): she had treated him so badly; then it was his father's fault, who had a temper and was always dissatisfied with him and abused his mother psychologically. It was never the alien's responsibility. Even the rages after a while were my fault because I provoked them (by the end, only by leaving the room or having a certain expression on my face). His favorite reason for abuse was that I was the one who was angry and that was unforgivable, somehow. Sometimes I was angry. Mostly I became scared.
I started being just unhappy all the time. Nervous when he was around. Lonely when he wasn't. The few friends I had made in this new town (most were also his friends) were strangely distant, in particular one who was his lover for a short while before me and who, I discovered later, had smeared me extensively.
A couple of weeks before I was to go to my home town for a visit, the tension started to rise, just like every time I was leaving for a visit home. Only this time it was so much worse. During my last week there, I started considering whether I should come back or just use the momentum from my visit and just stay away. The idea gave me hope.
And I had this idea. He had mentioned in passing during one of our arguments that he knew he was passive-aggressive. And much earlier in the relationship, he had said mockingly that the mediator who helped him and his ex through the divorce had accused him of being narcissistic. I started reading online. Then read non-stop for a week. As the abuse grew stronger I started locking myself in the bedroom and refusing any confrontation. Read and read until my eyes were sore. And cried. And saw the picture. Whenever we could have low-aggression conversations, I observed him. I didn't provoke him. I didn't need to. There it was, the whole list of symptoms of the narcissistic personality disorder, right in front of my eyes. And in the last remaining days, his grasp was losing its strength. I had the knowledge. And I decided I probably wasn't coming back.
The day before I left, I sat him down. told him that I might come back if he got treatment. That I would do some work on my end (his favorite, as it meant I admitted fault or mental issues or what not). And that there was a slim chance I would come back, but that I would need to know there was significant change in the way he related with me. He was all sensitivity, cried, told me how much he loved me, interspersed with vague promises on how he would do the work if I did, with hints that I was the one with issues and he was just a happy-go-lucky guy who wanted to be happy. The way he was acting, I was an overbearing mother and he was the victim willing to admit any fault as long as he could have his "candy". It was pathetic. Never any concern for my well-being. Anyhow, you know the script.
I left. After two weeks of long-distance phone conversations and online chatting, same patterns, same abuse, same what is wrong with you woman, I told him I wasn't coming back. And that was the beginning of healing, and it hasn't been easy, the anxiety, trauma bond, physical despair, atrocious loneliness and insomia. Being afraid of everything and everyone. Second-guessing everything with jumpy fear, even the smallest thing, like where I was putting down my coffee cup or my foot and what expression I had on my face.
It's all getting better. The fear is going away little by little. And the guilt at being so helpless. And especially, realizing along the way what made me get into such a relationship in the first place: My mother, who I'd known to be controlling and toxic for a long time, had actually been a narcissist herself, and had shown me that someone who loves you is allowed to control you, that it was okay for loving relationships to be about power and about who finishes on top, and that it was okay to have someone in your life who was concerned only and exclusively with themselves. That I wasn't worth the love, the concern and the effort.
Screw that! I am! :teethy:
So here I am on the road to recovery from a lifetime of wrong assumptions, having taken the psychopath-free pledge (thanks Peace!) and re-learning all I thought I knew about interactions with other human beings. It's a wonderful learning curve. The hardest thing I've ever had to do, harder than heartbreak, harder than professional failures, harder than broken bones. But worth every turtle-speed step. I'm learning to fully love, because I'm learning I don't have to be afraid. The blessing is enormous.
One thing that still breaks my heart is knowing that his children have to grow up with such a monster. My relationship with them was wonderful, and while I was around, he listened to my requests that he treat them fairly and kindly, without screaming or intimidation. I gently put in a routine focused on their needs first, and ours as well. They thrived. For his children, he was on board. But whenever he thought I couldn't see him, he started on them again. Menacing, screaming, overbearing, power-mongering. So, I know they're in for a hard life. I just hope somehow they've seen with me and some of their extended family that another way to relate is possible, even when he is around, and that they'll remember.
This is a long post. Thanks for reading. But mainly, thanks to Peace and the other hard-working, gentle souls on here for their support. Even writing this today helps me to see my path better. Love and peace to us all xo