Stuck

I can look back now and say yes, it was emotional abuse. It was a term I didn’t know all those years ago and not something I ever considered. He wasn’t hitting me so it was fine – I had to suck it up and carry on.

My self-esteem virtually disappeared. I was nothing special. I wasn’t anything special to look at. I had nothing interesting to say. I was boring. I had no interests and no time to find any. John would get up on a Saturday and say, “I’m going out” and walk out of the door. I had no idea where he went or when he’d be back. I was unable to make any plans for myself because I had our daughter to look after. I became more and more isolated. I saw my friends less not by choice but because it was impossible to plan anything. Even if I made the plans weeks in advance there were times on the actual day that John would let me know he had something on and I would have to cancel at the last minute. Eventually, I would stop organising things and I was invited out less and less.

I actually left John after that horrible Christmas. I moved out with the help of my brothers and I called John in the evening:

“I just wanted to let you know that I’ve moved out – we are at my Mum’s.”

“Ok.”

That was it. He didn’t plead for me to stay or for us to work it out – just ‘OK’.

A week later he asked to meet with me. We ended up at MacDonald’s where he told me how sorry he was; how when I said I’d left, he thought I’d packed an overnight bag rather than clearing out all of mine and our daughter’s things. He pleaded with me to give him another chance. He was upset, he was sorry – so sorry and he understood how much he’d hurt me. He was going to do better if I would only give him a chance. I listened and said nothing. I didn’t have any words.

We caught the bus back to my Mum’s together and I reached for his hand. I don’t know why. He was visibly surprised and held my hand tightly.

We went to counselling together and worked through some stuff.

I moved back in with him in September – eight months after I’d left him.

About a month later I was sat at the computer and saw an email to some woman about visualising her naked body in the bath and wanting to join her.

Nothing had changed.

And so we entered a cycle that would last the entirety of our marriage. He’d get caught and would apologise profusely. I would be angry and hurt and filled with regret that I went back to him. We would have a few days of not speaking and then he would say something like: “Let’s be friends” and we’d end up in bed.

I didn’t believe him, but things would be better until the next time I looked at his phone and the cycle would continue.

I had told my family that we had worked things out – things were better, so much better – and that was why I was going back. They supported my decision. I couldn’t tell them I was wrong, that he hadn’t changed; that I was the dumbest woman alive – that was how I felt.

I was trapped.