Before moving into part 3 of the story I've been sharing, here's an excerpt from today's sermon on Mary as it relates to these topics today:
"With all of the toxic masculinity that surrounds us, it’s probably not a bad idea to remember that the Hebrew word translated as virgin in the Christmas stories means “young woman” — which is to say, not owned by a man
“This part of the Christmas story gives Mary agency apart from a man,” Danielle Shroyer writes. “When we read about Mary through millennia of men telling us about her, she becomes a symbol of servitude and chastity. But other traditions read her story as a powerful figure not beholden to patriarchal power structures. Mary reinscribes what joy and hope can mean in their fullest sense. Here joy and hope is countercultural, not just a personal feeling but an embodied promise of what life can be outside the confines of conventional societal expectations.”
As described elsewhere, “The virginal conception bypassed the procreative role of the human male, signaling that the salvation of humanity would come not via a patriarchal genealogy, but through a peasant girl blessed by the power of God’s spirit.” (Source: Complicated Pregnancy)"
Part 3
The Way We Were
At some point between the two kids, Mark started controlling what I wore, what I watched on TV, and who I spent my time with. If I talked to someone he didn’t approve of, I was reprimanded. If I wore a sleeveless shirt, I was told to go back and change. He threw my books, CDs, and DVDs in the garbage or (quite literally) ran over them with the car. He canceled the cable and my cell phone. He wouldn’t let me drive the car. I needed to spend less time with my family because they were a bad influence. He would never hurt me the way they had. He took my birthday money and used it to pay bills. And three times a week, he expected sex. Whether I wanted it or not.
But no matter how bad it got or how angry I felt, I knew it was my fault. When he hit me, it was because I was being argumentative or disrespectful. If he threw away my books and movies, it was because he was trying to protect me from the outside world. We couldn’t afford cable or a second cell phone because I’d spent too much money on luxuries (like food and diapers). He didn’t want me spending time with my family because they weren’t good for me. He was protecting me. I didn’t need to drive the car because I had nowhere to go. It just made sense that he take it to work every day and that I only use it for grocery
shopping.
And paying the bills was infinitely more important than buying myself a new duvet. Really, it was selfish of me to want to keep my birthday money for myself. I had a husband and children! It was even more selfish to refuse sex. It was a physical need and he couldn’t have that need met anywhere else. He just wanted the best for us You know what? Even now, I truly believe that Mark did only want the best for us. Every movie he threw out, every “rebellion” he quashed, every sexual encounter – he truly believed that he was doing the right thing – for us. I mean, it’s crazy… but I really think his intentions were good.
Is it really abuse?
And therein lies one of the reasons it took two years of therapy for me to recognize the abuse. How could someone abuse me without meaning to? Abuse was a purposeful act committed by a burly, sweaty man with a beer bottle in one hand and a fist in the other, towering over a small, meek and, most importantly, completely innocent woman. Abusers didn’t read the bible and talk about God’s love. And abused women weren’t strong and opinionated. But the truth is that abuse is not dependent on intent. We all know that
horrible atrocities have been carried out by good people who truly believed they were on the right side of history. It doesn’t matter if the abuser has a good heart, goes to church, feels bad after, or had a rough childhood.
I’m not alone
Diane Lamarche is a social worker in Toronto, Ontario who has been working with abused women for 14 years (Dobson, 2003). She reports that it’s very common for victims of IPV not to recognize that they are
being abused, and that some women are in such a state of denial that they will even make up excuses for their partner’s behaviour (Dobson, 2003). As far as Lamarche is concerned, it takes an “enormous amount
of courage for a woman in an abusive relationship to finally leave” (Dobson, 2003, pp.1) The media portrays IPV as violent and… well, obvious. And it’s always physical. When women experience other forms of abuse, like emotional, financial, or spiritual, they either don’t recognize it as abusive or they
brush it off as “not that bad” (Centre for Addiction and Mental Health [CAMH], 2004). It took me years to recognize the emotional, spiritual, and financial abuse I’d suffered.
I just wore out
I was ready to leave long before I did. I was utterly depleted. I got up every morning and prayed that I would have the strength to love my husband the way I was supposed to. I taught myself to cook three course meals and iron shirts and bake his mother’s apple pie. I practiced submitting to his leadership even when he wasn’t watching, which meant very little TV, almost no communication with anyone he didn’t approve of, and saying yes to sex even when it made me want to vomit.
I’d like to say that I suddenly became aware that the relationship was unhealthy and I was instantly brave and strong, but the truth is that I just wore out. I was broken and empty and raw. More than once, I found myself contemplating ending my own life. I thought about taking the car and driving into oncoming traffic. I imagined taking a bottle of pills and just falling asleep. But, for the sake of the kids, I couldn’t do it. Very slowly, I began to realize that if I didn’t leave, I was going to die. I wasn’t going
to be able to keep going. And that was when it hit me ‒ where would I go? My parents lived 3000 miles away. Shame and fear kept me from reaching out to them. I had no money and no way of earning money.
Despite the fact that I was smart and capable, I wasn’t educated or trained to do anything useful. And I had two kids to take care of. Even the house wasn’t technically mine. I had nothing. Nowhere to go, no way out. It would be almost two years before I’d finally leave.
Even when women recognize the abuse and stop blaming themselves, the barriers to leaving are astronomical.
Fear of homelessness is legitimate. Women who experience IPV often find themselves isolated from family and friends and completely dependent on their abuser (Dobson, 2003). They may have been unable to work or go to school and they depend on their partner’s income (Dobson, 2003).
As the result of patriarchal societal discourses and gender inequality, women are more likely to experience poverty and homelessness (YWCA, 2012). A large percentage of women who do leave abusive situations cite a fear of homelessness as one of the reasons (Dobson, 2003).
Another concern for many women is the health and well-being of their children. Mothers worry about the physical and psychological damage their children will incur from sleeping in cars or in homeless shelters (Dobson, 2003). The risks are weighed against the risk of staying in the relationship and, unfortunately, many women choose to stay (Dobson, 2003). Many are not aware that the impact of IPV on children living in the home can be catastrophic (Violence Prevention Initiative [VPI], 2015). In fact, studies show that, in terms of psychological, cognitive, and emotional damage, witnessing IPV is as harmful to a child as experiencing it themselves (VPI, 2015). This is something I wish I’d known.
The day I finally had enough
Eventually I did leave, though not as a result of a premeditated choice. The impetus was anger and a genuine fear for my children’s safety. Mark came home from work one day in a rage about something or other. Maybe because I didn’t answer the phone when he called, or Jennifer’s diaper was wet, or he found my stash of romance novels.
David was in the living room playing and Jennifer was standing at my feet, chubby baby arms wrapped around my legs. When Mark started yelling and stormed toward me, I didn’t even think – I picked Jennifer up and started running. I got about two feet into the hallway when I felt his hands on me
and I flew face-first into the wall. I reached out to put my hand in the space between the wall and my
daughter’s head, but I was too late. It hit the wall with a crack! Mark stood gaping at me as I slid to the floor, my arms cradling Jennifer’s limp body. She wasn’t making a sound. It. was. terrifying. Within a few seconds, her wind came back and with it came the wailing.
I don’t know what came over me. It was like once I realized she was okay, all the rage and ferocity of a rabid wolf landed in the pit of my stomach and roared out of my mouth. I screamed. I screamed bloody fucking murder. Mark was still standing there in shock, just staring at the baby. So I stood up and I pushed him. He didn’t move. I screamed at him to get out! I just kept screaming Get out! Get out! Get out! I held Jennifer up against my chest and literally chased him out of the house, screaming all the way. I slammed the door behind him and locked it. And that was it.
I don’t know where he went. I don’t know what he did. But when he came back, I refused to unlock the door. Three weeks later, when he called from a friend’s house, I told him I wanted a divorce. He didn’t argue. I didn’t know if it was the shame of what he’d done or just the mental and emotional exhaustion of trying to change a Jezebellious woman for ten years. I later learned that he was hoping that if he laid low
for a while, I’d calm down and change my mind. But I didn’t. And I knew the exact day he realized I wasn’t going to back down because I woke up to find a For Sale sign on my front lawn. His message was clear – stay with him and have a roof over my head or stick to my guns and the kids and I could find somewhere else to live. My choice.
Less than two months later, we were homeless.
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