I didn’t think anything of it when my daughter took a bottle of food coloring outside to play in the snow.
“Be careful,” was all I said.
But the next morning, when I looked out the window and saw the snow above our retaining wall dyed a deep green, my heart began to race. This wall is brand new. The top is light colored granite. If the food coloring managed to get through the ice and stain the stone, my husband would be pissed.
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The kids were still in bed and my husband was out eating muffins, a special snow day breakfast treat. So I went out to assess the damage. But as soon as I put my toe on the stone steps that lead to the corridor, my whole body went flying.
One leg remained in front of me, facing down, while I tried in vain to catch myself with my hands. The other tucked under me, my legs absorbing the impact of each step as I slid helplessly down.
I came to rest at the bottom and pushed myself up and tested my legs. I would have some ugly bruises, but nothing was broken. I stumbled to the wall and brushed aside the eight inches of snow, relieved to see the bottom half clean and white.
But when I got home and sat down to take a closer look at my injuries, I realized I didn’t feel great. I felt angry.
Angry at my child for thinking not to put food coloring on top of a new, expensive piece of hardscape. I’m angry with my husband because he’s so meticulous about things.
But it’s not their fault that I went out there. The reason I want to keep my husband happy has nothing to do with my husband.
In an abusive relationship, your survival depends on keeping the other person happy.
Sam and I met on the first day of college and had a great time together.
We would play pool in the Student Union building, drink a pint of Ben & Jerry’s while sitting on my bed, listen to the Grateful Dead and study calculus, and borrow my friend’s car for long drives around town. He even wrote me a song. By January, he was basically living in my apartment.
When he felt it, that is.
I never went to his residence. I never met any of his friends. I never knew when he would leave or when he would return.
And I never knew when he would turn on me.
During the good times, I could pretend they would be good forever. We were finally on the verge of having a normal relationship. We have put our problems behind us.
But the bad times seemed impossible to live through. He never touched me; He didn’t have to. His words were enough.
I never saw that coming. One minute things will be fine, the next his eyes will darken, and I know it will be hours of running in circles before we emerge, dizzy and out of breath.
I had to prove that I wasn’t the “worthless bitch” he said, and he had to question me from every angle until he was satisfied. When is that? I never knew, but I wouldn’t let him leave until we sorted things out.
We will hug. We accept. We will go to sleep. After a day or a week, we will be back where we started.
If I could only figure out what made him angry, I would be able to set up our little world properly. I can keep the darkness away and we’ll finally be happy.
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I’ve been playing peacemaker all my life.
I didn’t fall in love with Sam by chance.
There was something about him that attracted me like an anglerfish, luring unsuspecting fish and closing in on them before they could escape.
I didn’t see it at the time, but the unpredictability of his outbursts and the way I had to shapeshift in an idle attempt to keep him happy now screamed “MOMMY” to me in flashing neon letters.
My mother drank every evening, and some nights I would stay up with her. At first, she will be a pleasure to be around. Then something will change. Her eyes were cloudy, and her words turned to venom.
She called me names, shattered my already fragile self-esteem, and pretended the next day that it never happened.
These encounters would leave me crying and broken, at a time when — because of the sexual abuse and just being a little girl — I was already very lethargic.
I will do anything to avoid fighting with her. I found myself massaging my words before they came out, watching them carefully and preparing myself in case they went in the wrong direction.
No wonder I didn’t think twice about working hard to keep Sam happy. I’ve done it all my life.
I have eliminated the abuse from my life, but I will still do anything to avoid conflict.
I moved out of my home and away from my mother two months after I turned seventeen. I broke up with Sam the summer after sophomore year.
In the years since, I have formed strong relationships with people who are not abusive — including my husband.
My husband is kind and caring, and would never lift a finger or say a bad word to me or anyone else. He loves me, and he loves our children.
