"JUST GONNA STAND THERE AND WATCH ME BURN. THAT'S ALRIGHT CAUSE I LIKE THE WAY IT HURTS." -EMINEM

I was 25 years old and about 3 years into my military career and my relationship. It was not uncommon to be on the phone that late at night with my husband. I stood duty two days on, two days off, and every other weekend. And when I was on duty, if I wasn't on the phone with him or at least texting him, I must have been, absolutely, no other possible explanation, fucking another dude. It was exhausting. Nearly three years with him and I was coming to the end of my rope and my patience. He would keep me on the phone until I fell asleep because that's the only way he knew I wasn't cheating on him. But, this night I was up working on some paperwork that needed to be done by the next day. I can't recall what he said that caused me to have my first panic attack ever, but I couldn't breathe.

Unable to explain to anyone what was happening, I barely knew myself, I knocked on the door to the Officer of the Day's (OOD) sleeping quarters. Luckily, it was a female that night. I'm not being sexist, but can you imagine a completely panicked female at the door of a male military members door in the middle of the night, begging for help? I'm not sure it would have gone as it did, had it been anyone else. I remember, well, the scared look she had on her face. I have no idea what I looked like, I only knew what I was feeling, but I'm sure I looked like a mess. By this time I had hung up on my husband (I'd pay for that later) and he was calling non-stop. I was put in the government van and taken to an ER at a hospital on Long Island. My OOD called him to tell him where we were going.

My husband took a one hour and hundred and something dollar taxi to the hospital where I was. That sounds really sweet and that's how every one else saw it. But I knew that I was going to be around people, medical professionals, asking me what was wrong and I knew that he thought that I was going to tell them. So, he rushed to my bedside to ensure that I couldn't do that. To be honest, I wouldn't have done it had he not been there. I was too afraid to tell anyone what he was putting me through. By this time I had grown into an empty, shell of a human. I was a puppet on a string. I knew what to say and what not to say. I became a good liar because I had to lie. Simple conversation like, "Oh, yeah, I heard John talking about that at lunch today," would turn into a conversation like, "why were you talking to John at lunch today?," followed by a 7 hour fight about whether or not I had been cheating on him. Which I never did. Not once. But I had to lie all the time, or keep hidden, friendships that I had with people in order to save myself from the insanity that was my husband.

In the emergency room, they called for a psych consult. A psychiatrist came in, probably from his very warm bed at home, to interview me. My husband sat by my side the entire time, holding my hand, putting on the show of loving husband, that he put on for everyone. I didn't dare ask him to leave. What is quite shocking, now that I have an education in Psychology, is how that doctor couldn't tell something was wrong. He looked at me like a dramatic, ridiculous piece of shit. I'll never forget it. I told him that I wasn't being abused at home, I was in an amazing marriage, that I had great friends, but I can promise you that I looked like someone who was in a lot of emotional pain. How he didn't recognize the signs of a clearly abused woman, is beyond me. Why did my husband take a very expensive taxi at 3am to my bedside? Why was I saying everything was perfect, but I couldn't breathe? I am still hurt by this psychiatrists lack of empathy and willingness to dig a little deeper. But, I had become a really good actress and my husband was a master manipulator.

I remember the day he asked me to marry him. Well, asked is a strong word. Very rarely did he ask me anything. He grabbed my hand and put a ring on my finger. Then he screamed at me because I was excited and wanted to call my mom. "This is our night, can't it just be our night?!" I was isolated from everyone I knew. I was in New York City, away from all of my family. I had one friend from high school that was living in NY at the time, but I wasn't allowed to hang out with her. I wasn't allowed to call anyone or talk to anyone unless it was right in front of him. I wasn't allowed to be alone in our apartment, because if I was, I was cheating. I couldn't get away from him. I felt trapped and he had the keys to the cage.

The night that he asked me to have anal sex with him was a night I remember well and wish I could forget. After a couple attempts at it, I was scared and felt uncomfortable doing it. It hurt and I wanted to stop. He screamed at me that night because I was such a "pussy" for not being able to do it. And I was a bad wife for not doing it for him. From being forced to watch pornography, not being allowed to wear anything but lingerie around the house, to wife swaps, solicited sex with another guy on Craigslist, and watching my husband fuck a prostitute in our hotel room in Vegas, needless to say I was in an extremely abusive relationship. Verbal, sexual, and occasionally, physical.

I remember the smile on my face. Every day, smiling away trying to convince myself, my family, my friends, my job, and especially my husband that I was happy. I did things willingly and was obedient because if I wasn't, I paid. I was tired of fighting and tired of pretending like everything was okay. But on the other hand, there was a part of me, because I didn't know any differently, that thought that maybe I was being dramatic and that I was lucky to have a man who loved me so much. That wanted me like that. This is why abuse is so scary. Because there are times when you actually question if someone hurting you, yelling and screaming at you, or sexually abusing you is normal. You question everything you know and you've been taught. You can't even begin to think of leaving because you have been brainwashed to believe that there is no way out.

One of my very best friends came to New York to visit me one weekend. He struggled with saying no because there is a balance as an abuser that you have to have or else you will out yourself. If he said that my best friend of 20 years couldn't come visit me, then it would definitely raise questions with her. But, he couldn't leave me alone with her because he knew that I could tell her everything. I'm sure he thought that it would all be fine. I mean, I had been in this relationships for three years and had not outed him.

I remember the second she got in my car when I picked her up from the airport. I was different and she could tell immediately. The charismatic, outgoing, loud, and overly excited woman that she once knew did not welcome her to New York City. I remember her, so excited to see me, and me just like, "Hey." I remember, so well, the look on her face. It's like she could read right through me, even though she had no idea what was happening. When she met him and heard the way he spoke to me, I could tell that she was uncomfortable and confused. She asked me to get away and go explore the city with her the next day. He was very hesitant to allow this. I had to talk him into it but he eventually let me go. We walked to the train station without saying much. The second the doors to the train closed, she looked at me and said, "what the fuck is going on!?"

Like word vomit I told her everything. It was the first outlet I'd had in three years. The first time someone had begged to know what was happening. And I couldn't stop telling her. I went on and on and on and on because there was so much to tell. Honestly, I can't remember half of the things he put me through. They are hidden away in my subconscious. They will always be there, like the scar I got from falling off my bicycle when I was 7. As I was telling her everything, I remember her face. The utter shock and horror that was coming out of my mouth. I remember the last thing I said to her before she really began to speak was, "I want a divorce."

I still, to this day, can't imagine how much longer I would have stayed in that relationship had it not been for her. I honestly feel like she rescued me that day. She, very simply, asked me what was wrong and it changed my whole life. I found the courage and had the support to finally leave him. I left him three days later. And I never, ever looked back. It makes me wonder how many times someone had the opportunity to ask me what was wrong, and they didn't. Why my mom didn't question why I was acting so angry toward her. Why she didn't wonder why I wouldn't talk to her. Why my friend from high school didn't speak up and help me see what was happening. How, in one second, did my friend know that something was wrong with me but so many others didn't? I can't blame them, it's just interesting to me.

After everything, I became extremely depressed. I could barely function. I couldn't stand the silence in my apartment. So, I would go to three movies a day and then out to a bar to drink myself into enough of a stupor that I could just go home and fall asleep. I dreamed of hanging myself in the boat house at my military base. There was a time that I felt like suicide was the only way out. No one could understand why I wanted to kill myself AFTER I had finally gotten out of that marriage. Everyone experiences trauma differently, and this is just my story. But, let me explain something to you all.

When you're being abused, you have no outlet for your fear, sadness, anger, and anxiety. It is taken away from you by your abuser. They don't allow you to feel anything. When they scream at you and you cry, they then scream at you for crying. When they hit you and you hit back, they then hit you for hitting back. There's no way out, there's no right or wrong in a world like that. The only thing you know is that you are wrong all of the time and that the best thing you can do is keep your mouth shut. Which means no crying, no talking, no expressing anything. So, you can imagine how after the abuse, when you're finally allowed to feel everything you've had bottled up all that time. How that can cause you to have the feelings that you probably should have felt DURING the abuse, but wasn't allowed to feel. So, I wanted to die after my divorce because I wasn't allowed to want to die during my marriage.

In the very beginning of this blog, I told you that I have lived many lives. This is one of those lives. A part of my life that has felt separate from the rest. Compartmentalizing my life into segments and pieces is how I am able to move forward. I can't logically say that that experience was part of my life, because it is easier to say that it was a life that I've lived. This is just what helps me get through the day. It helps me to know, for sure, that that life is over and I am safe. I don't know how I got from there to here. Some days I don't know how I'm still alive. But, I pushed through and I am so thankful that I did. Life is going to throw shit at you. Some of it will be worse than others but I stand before you today, a woman who once believed there was no way out, to tell you that there is absolutely a way out other than suicide. I can't really tell you how I did it, but it doesn't matter. Because there is no right or wrong answer to getting through trauma. Everyone's journey past that experience is different.

With all of that being said, I have forgiven him. I have not spoken to him since that time, but I have forgiven him, within myself. His demons do not have to rule me forever. His hatefulness and anger does not have to hurt me forever. I am sure that he thinks of me and sometimes I wonder how he remembers it all. I wonder if he feels badly or if he still believes that he was right and okay in doing the things he did to me. For making me feel the way he did. I will never know, but I don't need to. Because how he chooses to get from day to day does not effect me. What haunts him or doesn't haunt him is none of my concern.

It was only 10 months later that I found myself in a new relationship. A relationship with a man who would become my second husband. A man who was nothing like my first husband. Who never laid a hand on me. But, in so many ways, hurt me just the same.