compromising myself for scraps

I recently wrote a letter to my ex-husband.

It was merely a continuation of the same conversation we’ve been having for years—it’s not okay for you to treat me like this. But, that cannot be explained to an abusive man. Nevertheless, I keep trying, trying to find a way to make him stop. Trying to appeal to some sense of empathy I naively hope he has. My goal here is to stop this war that has my daughter positioned in the line of fire. I am attempting to find a way to keep her from danger.

When we separated, I did my best to accommodate his feelings and entitlement to my space and attention, for my daughter’s sake. I have internalized the message that under no circumstances are you to cut yourself off from your abuser entirely when his child is involved because that is wrong. It’s misandrist and sexist and hateful and violent. It’s abuse. You heartless bitch.

However, I had started setting up boundaries—not only setting them up, but defending them, holding my line. No, you cannot sleep on my couch. No, you do not get to comment on my appearance, either in a “positive” way, or as a subtle criticism. No, coming to pick your daughter up is not an opportunity to abuse me. No, I will not have sex with you. No, I’m not ready for you to come back home. No, it’s too early for you to come to my house every single day for hours. And then, I would clarify, and unwittingly undermine, my position by telling him…one day. By telling him my dreams for us, that we could one day be in a position to, if not get back together, have an amicable divorced relationship. I told him I wanted us to be friends, one day. To appreciate one another for what we had to offer. That maybe, yes, one day we could have weekly family dinners and go to events together for our daughter.

None of this was acceptable to him because he had been so used to having constant access to my being. He would not allow me to say no to him in any regard, much the same as it had been when we were together. I cut off almost all contact with him.

I’ve slowly tried to reintroduce him back into my life, but it’s an endeavor fraught with peril. Every time I open the lines of communication, he uses them to abuse me and threaten me. I’ve generally reacted with what I would consider a strong response. Not allowing him to get to me, cold dismissal and sarcastic rebuttal. It’s exhausting though, and terrifying. We haven’t actually gone through a divorce. He is trying desperately to avoid paying child support, especially the back child support. I am happy enough to not to deal with the confrontation of a custody battle and have to send my daughter to him…a place I do not believe she will be safe, especially without me there to take the brunt of his violence.

Periodically, I try to explain to him why I feel this way, why I had to cut off contact with him, why I have such a hard time. It falls on deaf ears.

In my last letter, I made the (what I told myself was) final attempt. One of the many “transgressions” of mine that he plays upon to show me what a hateful and abusive person I am, is that I am a feminist. Not just any feminist, a man-hating feminazi hypocrite who hates men but is also desperately searching for a man to take care of me because “disposable men” “reverse sexism” blah blah. I addressed this transgression. I thought that if I was honest with him, instead of trying to keep up a “tough façade” (which is how it feels, as I can hardly believe in my own strength) I told him…that I don’t hate men, I fear men. I tried to explain to him the power differentials in our relationship. I laid bare my fears and the nightmares and then panic attacks. I explained to him that he had victimized me and made me feel like nothing. I told him I would be haunted by this for the rest of my life.

Initially, it was met with the same reversals and gaslighting that he specializes in. “I suffer from permanent psychological damage that you have caused me,” “I’m not capable of the things you’re saying. I know it was bad, but…,” “why won’t you admit that you’re just as abusive as you’re accusing me of being,” “we both did horrible things in our sham of a marriage,” and “why are you playing such a victim?”

However, our interactions have become different since this exchange, and it took me a little bit to realize why. By sharing my feelings with him, I had repositioned him in a place of power over me. I had reassured him that I was HIS victim. Our interactions have been much more civil since this, a far cry different from when I was trying to show him that he had no power over me. My inevitable existence in his life was once again as it should be, with me subordinate to him.

I’m upset, regardless of my momentary hopefulness at this brief respite from his overt abuse… while what I had said true, and I was just trying everything in my power to get him away from me, to make him stop, to give myself a feeling of safety, illusionary as it may be, I am displeased with the realities of what exactly that entailed.

In order to be able to speak with him, I had to shove down that ever-present fear that he will kill me. I have to pretend that he isn’t a threat. I have to lie to myself.

I feel as if this cease-fire has cost me dearly. Reinforcing the idea that there’s something that I can do, if I just tried harder, gave more. Placing the blame on myself when the honeymoon period ends, because I did something wrong, I didn’t do enough. And so, the cycle of abuse continues.

This has been playing through my head lately, and I feel the need to cling to it: he is out there. He can’t be bargained with. He can’t be reasoned with. He doesn’t feel pity, or remorse, or fear. And he absolutely will not stop, ever, until I am dead.