Freeing the Finch

162

FREEING THE FINCH

Lucy Greenly

Copyright 2012 by Lucy Greenly

Smashwords editions

Preface

Are you the victim of domestic abuse? Do you have a sister, niece, daughter, friend… whom you suspect or know of being a victim? This seems to be quite a touchy subject and everyone has an opinion, including unfortunately, abusers. I am a victim, a survivor and hopefully a kind voice in the wilderness for you.

As I sit here recounting the past thirteen years of my life, I can honestly say that I am in love with life. I live in a glorious coastal town in Scotland, have four beautiful, talented, clever & delightful children and more friends & family than I can count. I am truly blessed. I could list all my blessings but that is another book entirely.

For now, I intend to tell my story of abuse, survival and triumph. This story begins in quite a typical manner but soon turns into scandal, drama, and participation in a fight I was not prepared to undertake but from which I emerged victorious. My expectation is that you can learn from my experiences.

If you are not a victim, I trust that you can gain an understanding about how victims of domestic violence suffer. If you are a victim, I intend to show you that there is hope for you to have a beautiful life free from your abuser. For everyone, you will be on a journey into the psyche of an abuser with a warped reality.

I would like to state at this time that although I use terms throughout my story, placing the abuser as male and victim as female, I understand that is not always the case. I only speak in these terms because it has been my personal experience. Women do abuse their husbands and for the abused men reading this, I have the same advice as that which I offer to an abused woman. I also have concerns for male/male and female/female relationships. Abuse can happen in heterosexual and homosexual partnerships alike. I am an advocate for ALL victims regardless of gender, sexual preferences, social status, culture or religion. Accordingly, please appropriate the gender and social roles I have assigned from my experience to suit your particular circumstances.

My life has not always been what it is today. There was a time when I was in the midst of the prison of domestic violence. My mind was a mess, my heart twisted and life seemed hopeless. How did I, an intelligent woman, end up in this situation?

I have been through the wringer and have come out the other end a bit scarred but with a lifetime of lessons to share. I wished there existed a manual to follow while going through the toughest times. I certainly wish I had had a bit of forewarning regarding abuse. However, I did not. That is not to say the instructions and help were not available. They most certainly were but in a sense too much information and help from too many different sources. I was overwhelmed and confused.

I wish to tell my story so that my personal experiences can help you. I will include the mistakes I made and my successes. A great deal of soul searching goes into building one’s life after abuse and there are numerous things I wish I had done differently. My wish for you is that you learn from all of it and save yourself (and children) at least a little bit of pain.

I am not a psychiatrist or a professional anything. I am however a victim who has learned how to regain the power which had been stolen during more than thirteen years of radical domestic violence.

Many of my experiences are not unique. I have heard some stories that mirror my own in such uncanny ways. Abusers work in a predictable manner, which usually follows a pattern. There are consequently, a myriad of ways we victims react. Our minds become confused during the process of abuse, which makes it hard to think rationally while we are in the entanglement of violence.

It is worth stressing here that there is no rationalization for abuse. It is always wrong for one person to abuse another person and the victim is never at fault. When I speak of the mistakes I have made, I am not saying that I caused the abuse, deserved the abuse, or made it worse. I am only saying that I could have reacted in ways that would have helped me and my children rebuild our lives more effectively.

I must reemphasize a point that I believe needs branded on to the minds of all victims. It is not your fault. The abuse directed towards you is always wrong and should never be tolerated or rationalized. I am certain there are a number of beautiful souls reading this who are blaming themselves and perhaps rationalizing the abuse. Drop those thoughts right now because they will not benefit you.

I will soon begin to relate my personal story of abuse. We all have one. I know there will be many Aha moments for you as most acts of violence are not unique. Sure, the abuse occurs to and by different people from different cultures in different places and varying circumstances, but the underlying events always seem to carry a similar violent undertone.

As I progress through the chronological order of my abuse, I will frequently share my personal opinions now and in relation to what I was thinking at the time. I trust you will be able to see the progression my husband’s abuse took. It developed in such a way as to keep me stuck in the situation. Only in hindsight, can I see the cunning and manipulation that transpired. Please be at peace with yourself for what you are enduring now. It is time for you to begin to heal.

Chapter 1

My Life Today

EPIPHANY

Alright Mac, the beach isn't going anywhere so just calm down. I say as my loveable dog nuzzles me towards the door, anxious for his first walk of the day. Where did I put those damn walking boots? I mumble under my breath while rummaging through the cupboard, Mac still pestering me. Okay silly mongrel, you can be a bit more patient than that.

Grudgingly, I have to pull every pair of shoes, boots and sandals out of the cupboard to solve this mystery. They must be here somewhere, I think. I must have buried them in my rush of packing to leave on holiday a month ago. The boots are not to be found, however something else of interest is in the back of the cupboard. There at the bottom of the heap, is my old grass stained trainers. I look at them as if they are an abandoned old friend. Those were my favourite walking shoes so I wonder why I have left them abandoned for the past 2 1/2 years.

I dig them out and loosen the laces without a thought. As I do so, I can still smell the sundry scent of grass and autumn leaves. I pull the first shoe on and a surprising flood of anxiety washes over me. I suddenly remember why I no longer wear these shoes.

The feeling of that shoe; the scent; the memories... My mind is whirling, with the bemused memory of what was to become the spark that began a two-week long rampage of abuse from my husband. This seemingly innocent shoe incident is what prompted me finally to escape the captivity in which I was living. As it turns out, not the last instance of abuse, but certainly the kick I needed to get me out of that cage. As I pull on the second shoe, I decide that this memory needs to be revisited so that I can finally heal my internal wounds and progress with my life.

My mind takes me back as if it was yesterday. It was a rather warm October morning and I walked Mac as I always did, well before the kids woke for school and before I had to get ready for work. That was my usual routine. My husband, Emery, was always still in bed when I went as he expected me to be back before he woke for work so that I could still wake and help the kids prepare for school. Those were my duties after all.

I decided this particular morning that I could walk for a bit longer because the kids and Emery were enjoying a holiday. Since they did not have to wake to the usual weekday routine, I figured they would not notice if I arrived later than usual. I still had to go to work but there was no reason for anyone else in the house to awaken early.

After my walk, I arrived home at 7:45, walked up the stairs to the living room, as was my normal routine, sat on the end of the couch, which was only one-step into the room and proceeded to remove my shoes. From the opposite corner of the room, Emery began to shout at me, "What the fuck do you think you are doing? How can you be such a tink* walking in here with your muddy shoes? You are the dirtiest mingeri I’ve ever met…" The rampage continued for some time. I sat emotionless, continued to methodically remove my shoes, sat them outside the door and proceeded up the stairs to take a shower. Emery followed me into the bathroom but I ignored him. I knew better than to speak back.

As I showered, I could still hear his tantrum but failed to make out the actual words. As usual, I thought of other things so all I heard was a roaring Blah Blah Blah Blah Blah. That had become one of my many defence mechanisms. I could have analyzed why he was angry with me. I could have felt guilty for getting one single blade of grass onto the carpet. I could have felt just as horrible as he wanted me to feel. However, I was so very used to this sort of unreasonable attack that I emotionally separated myself from the scene.

What exactly did I do wrong? I did nothing wrong! I did what I did every morning; the only difference was that Emery was present in the room and needed to, for whatever reason, wound me. Again, I was familiar with this trend.

His excuse for this attack was that I was being inconsiderate because I dragged all of the dirt from outside, into HIS house. In fact, my shoes were clean apart from the odd blade of grass. I noticed one blade on the carpet that I promptly picked up after taking my shoes off. That was my crime. My punishment was to endure harsh insults and continued abusive attacks for two weeks. He promised me that his anger about this issue would continue until I apologized to him for being so inconsiderate and made amends to him. Amends usually meant some form of deviant sexual act. This particular incident was quite similar to hundreds of other times before so I was familiar with the cycle.

As I left for work that day, Emery was still shouting. That amounted to 45 minutes of continued abuse that I (sort of) ignored. Of course, the children woke at the very first foul word as their bedroom was just next to the living room where Emery began his tantrum. As usual, they heard and witnessed all of the abuse. My eight-year-old daughter was crying when I left but as I kissed her good bye, assured her, Daddy will stop shouting after I leave. He is angry with me, not you so you should be strong and try to enjoy your day. It killed me to have to tell her that. I have never enjoyed glossing over the abuse. In reality, I wanted to hold her and explain everything to her. I wanted to tell her the truth about the whole situation. However, in that moment it would have made matters worse.

My ten-year-old son Stefan, has always reacted much differently to the abuse. He regularly retreated into a silent rock. He refused to acknowledge any of the abuse. His usual response was to leave the room the moment Daddy’s forehead vein popped out and voice rose. I knew he could hear the shouting though as we have never lived in soundproof homes. I can only imagine the pain he has pushed way down into the depths of his soul. It kills me to think of how this will affect him later in his life.

At work that day, I phoned Women’s Aid for support. This was not the first time I had sought help from women’s agencies specializing in domestic violence. I had been seeking help for years. They were always very helpful in offering emotional support. Unfortunately, I at no time was ever in a position to leave the marriage for many reasons that I will explain later. However, this time was different. I had lost hope that he would change. I was emotionless and cold. He had changed me into someone who had learned not to feel.

I returned home that evening and promptly began preparing the evening meal. I did not even say hello to my children. I was hoping that my silence would ensure Emery’s silence which in my opinion, was better than the children having to witness more violence. My daughter Natalie came into the kitchen and chatted with me for a bit. Then Emery came in and I had to ask Natalie to leave because I knew the abuse was about to begin again.

Emery did not wait for Natalie to leave the room. He began in the same manner as the morning. I suppose that because I had not yet reacted in any way, he felt he needed to start his rant over. I calmly informed him, Drop the issue; the carpet did not get dirty so you are wasting your energy abusing me. That statement angered him even more. He did not like me using the word abuse to describe what he considered simple marital spats. I refuse to share responsibility for his temper so I will always consider his abuse to be just that.

It takes two people to have an argument. I am intelligent enough to understand that if one person punches another for no reason than that is certainly not a two-person fight. In that case, you have one aggressor and one victim. What Emery engaged in was not fighting or simple arguing as he tried to convince me. He was an aggressor abusing me. Unfortunately, I was not the only victim. The children suffered much more than I.

As Emery continued his verbal attack in the kitchen that evening, I can honestly say that I did not hear a word of it. My mind was busy contriving a scheme of escape. At about the time dinner was finished Emery finally stopped shouting. His abuse was not over though. I knew this because he never got the apology he was expecting. That used to be my usual way to shut him up. I would grovel at his feet and take on whatever blame he wanted to impose upon me which was usually followed by a sexual punishment he deemed appropriate. I did this for many years. Now however, I was finished taking false and obligatory responsibilities. I vowed that evening that the apologies and sexual currency would cease. I was about to regain the dignity which he had smashed.

So now, began the silent treatment. Emery thought that his refusal to speak to me served as a sort of punishment. My little secret: I quite enjoyed the silent treatment. It always provided a break for me. Yes, the air in our home was tense and I am sure this affected the children but it gave me time to reflect and attempt to make sense of life. Sometimes this silence went on for days, sometimes for weeks. The longest period I can recall was six weeks. I thought I had gone to heaven. On this particular occasion, it lasted for one week. Imagine, why would someone go a whole week without speaking to his partner simply because one blade of grass got on the carpet? Ludicrous, but it was how Emery operated.

During that week, Emery only spoke about one issue. He had told me at one point that the children had dentist appointments on 12 October. Will you please help to remember me the appointment? I’m still on holiday from work so I’ll take them but don’t let me forget. At least he said please. Therefore, I wrote the appointment on the calendar in the hallway, posted sticky notes on the refrigerator, in the living room, and bathroom, sent him several e-mails, wrote the date on an A-4 piece of paper in huge red letters, and tacked it to the bulletin board. In addition, I made sure that once a day; I reminded him that we were one day closer to the appointments. Those were the only words I dared speak to him in that entire week.

On 12 October, I returned from work and proceeded to prepare dinner. We had a calm meal and the children seemed happy and chatty. I felt that maybe the whole shoe incident had blown over and perhaps we could have a few calm days. I had learned to take each day at a time. I had also learned not to hold out complete hope that Emery would stop abusing me but I did enjoy the days and sometimes weeks when he seemed in a good mood. I was hoping that this period of calm was about to begin. Therefore, I broke the silence by asking, How did the dentist appointments go?

Emery shot up from his chair, spilling two cups of milk and very nearly turning over the table. Shouting, "How could you make me forget about the thingy* appointments? They never went you stupid bitch. You were supposed to remember* me!"

I quickly and silently retrieved the calendar, sticky notes and A-4 paper and placed them all on the table. And, I said, I have reminded you every day for an entire week.

"But you never remembered me this morning. You knew I would forget. You did that on purpose…" Time once again to block out the shouting. Emery continued but I only heard loud blurs of sound as I methodically cleaned up the spillage. Surprisingly, his tantrum was a bit shorter than usual. Perhaps it was because I just turned on the radio loudly and went about my kitchen duties. He must have known I would not listen to him and left the kitchen.

About 30 minutes later, Natalie came into the kitchen and asked, Mommy, why aren’t you crying? You always cry when Daddy shouts at you. My response, I’m just used to it I suppose.

It was at that moment that I suddenly broke down in sobs of confusion. I heard very loudly the words out of my own mouth. I’M JUST USED TO IT I SUPPOSE What had I become? How could I have grown used to and emotionless to such unreasonable outbursts? I knew exactly how the rest of the evening was going to go. It had followed similar patterns for eleven years. I was such a wreck at that point that I do not remember Natalie leaving the kitchen. I just remember sobbing on the floor of the kitchen for several minutes.

Then a strange series of events began to unfold. The radio began to play, Everything’s Gonna Be Alright by Bob Marley and I felt a tingling calm wash over me as I sat in a heap on the floor entranced in the music. Oh, it gets better. The next song to play was I Will Survive by Gloria Gaynor. At that point, I composed myself and went into the living room to see if there were any dishes for me to wash. The kids were watching the film Fame and the words to one of the songs rang out, Enough is enough is enough is enough…..

I smiled through my still teary eyes, glanced at Emery and decided I had had enough. I returned to the kitchen as I will survive was just finishing. At that moment, a car drove past the kitchen window with very loud music playing. Signs, signs, everywhere are signs the words washed through my body. Okay Universe, I am paying attention now! Tell me what to do next. The next song on the radio of course had to be, These Boots Are Made For Walking by Nancy Sinatra.

My tears of pain turned instantly to hysterical laughter because I knew then that it was finally time for me to get my life back. The series of songs was just too much of a coincidence for me to ignore. The Universe was speaking to me and I decided to listen.

Later that evening, I was in a surprisingly fine giggly mood that really upset Emery. Every time he shouted at me, all I could do was laugh. I felt like I was on drugs. I can’t believe how unrespectful you are to me. Would you stop that laughing? You don’t ever take me serious and I’ve had enough of you. It is time for you to leave my house. You are nothing to me. I’m going to take the kids away from you and make sure you have no money to live on and all that sort of stuff. You’ll be sorry for treating me so bad… I‘m writing to Immigration and I‘ll make sure you are deported, you stupid American trash… Nobody in this town likes you anyway. You‘re loud and stupid and you thingy all the time. You‘re gonna be alone for the rest of your life ’cause no other man will be able to put up with you. Look at how fat and ugly you‘ve become. I‘ll laugh when I see you are alone on the street with nothing….. and on and on and on. I had heard it all before. Usually though, I would ignore it and wait for his anger to boil over.

This time was different. I stood up and asked, still with a slight giggle in my voice, Are you kicking me out again? Do you really mean it this time?

"Of course I am and I’m gonna ruin you and all that sort of stuff. I’m gonna make you regret you‘re even alive..."

I interrupted his rant with an elated laugh, Okay and I laughed some more. You’ve ordered me to leave your home for the last time so that’s what I’m doing. That is just what I did.

Here I sit 2 ½ years later and all the pain of that marriage still haunts but no longer controls me. I have moved on and every day I become stronger and more capable. My old favourite shoes are back in use and I am ready to share my story with you.

My Background

Before I share my memoirs of abuse, I must begin with a bit of personal background. Some information may seem pointless at the moment, but needs to be included briefly, as it will pertain to later events and abusive incidents. I will be concise because I do not wish to tell my entire life story. Something I have learned is that Emery was all too skilled at twisting past events to harm me. He even used events that were a part of my personal story from a time before he knew me.

I had a good childhood in general. Bad things did happen but my parents and extended relatives always set good examples for me to follow. My family members are all deeply religious (Christian) so our core values were mutual love, acceptance and happiness.

My biological father was a soldier in the Viet Nam conflict at the time of my birth. When he returned home, he was not the same man he was before the war. I am not making excuses for him but am just stating what other relatives had told me. He did not play an active role in my upbringing. I can remember little of him other than being disappointed when he would not turn up for events that he promised he would.

The real first heartbreak in my life occurred when I was nine and went to visit him for a summer. He was, much of the time, drunk and/or high on marijuana. That summer, I saw a very neglectful and abusive side to him. The details are unimportant so I will not share them. I do not want to dwell on this event because it has not had a negative impact on my overall life. I only mention it now because in later life, Emery often exploited this dysfunctional parental relationship in an attempt to stigmatize me.

My family swiftly and effectively dealt with any damaging psychological effects that could have developed within me because of the events of that summer. I returned to my mother and extended family then proceeded to enjoy a normal happy childhood.

Just prior to that summer with my father, I had begun learning to play the violin. At that stage, I struggled but after the summer, began to pour my passion into music. That may be partly because I needed a creative outlet. Perhaps the zeal was always there lying dormant waiting to emerge at a point when I needed to express my feelings. For whatever reason, I think music helped to place the difficulties in life into perspective. It gave me something for which to aim. Some means of expressing myself while at the same time helping to process angst.

The music is still with me and I will jump ahead just to say that many times over the course of my life, music pulled me out of troubling issues. It kept me from depression when the weight of the world fell on me. It boosted my self-esteem, brought into my life countless talented and loving friends. Music has lifted my soul and I now continue to value my talent, although modest, as a part of my very existence.

When I was nearly twelve, my mother married the wonderful man who would a year later, adopt my sister and me. He was to say the least, a positive influence on us all. I could dwell for ages on all of this but that is of course another story.

Therefore, I had a normal life with two parents who loved and respected