Sticks and Stones

 Sticks and stones can break my bones, but words can never hurt me...

We learned to chant this laughingly on the playground when other kids said things about us.  But even then, we knew it wasn't true.  We just learned that you will only get in trouble for the sticks and stones, but words went unpunished.

I knew the day that there were bruises on my arm, but I should have seen it clearly before.  Maybe I did, but the weight of trying to explain it and be believed was too great. 

The sad truth is that the Christian world is not set up to recognize, understand, and come alongside a wife suffering emotional and verbal abuse.  We default to preaching forgiveness, grace, patience, long suffering.  And we quickly and easily believe passionate verbal promises to be better.  We want to believe them.  We want to believe that when we confronted a brother and he "repented", that we have saved our brother and saved the marriage, so our pastors and elders are quick to believe these repentances.  

We're also quick to believe that the people we see and know are transparent.  That the person we see is the person who is.  Maybe that gives us a sense of security, but our churches are quick to believe their eyes, and less to believe the eyes of someone else.  "But I've known him for years.....!  He's so nice.....!"

In public, yes.

Then comes the most twisted tool, but it comes in almost every situation.  I've seen it happen to me repeatedly.  It's happening again now.  And the very twistedness of it is what makes it so effective.  They blame their wives for "having emotional problems"  or "having unresolved issues from her childhood" or "having some psychological problems"  and ask for prayer for her.  It is almost as if people take a huge breathe of relief - "ah, that explains it"!  Then they have a context for the things that haven't made sense up to then.

And in one line, the abusive person both bolsters their own position, gaining support, and silences the victim.

Because it makes sense.  People nod and think back.  Yes, haven't we all seen how upset, withdrawn, troubled, sad, whatever she looks at times?  He's usually so nice, outgoing, talkative, willing to serve, friendly, but yes, she has issues at times.  We've all seen that.

They have.

What they haven't seen is that on the way to church, she was subject to verbal abuse.  That she was cut down, told she was nothing, she was his biggest mistake, that no one could ever love her, that she's lucky she has him because no one else would ever put up with her, that the world would be a better place without her.  And as they pull into the parking lot, she's told to straighten up right now and put a smile on her face so people don't see how crazy she is.

And she tries.

And they walk into church.  And he greets everyone cheerfully and with enormous kindness for the details of their life.  "How's your mom after her stroke?", "Wow, new haircut! It looks great!", "have you lost weight, you're looking wonderful!".  And she trails behind, more silent, trying to smile.  Struggling to reconcile the man she sees now with the one she saw five minutes ago.  The stark difference re-enforcing his words that maybe it is something about her.

So when she tries to get help, and he pulls out this twisted tool, "please pray for me, she has emotional/psychological issues", people think back to how they have perceived them and nod and agree.  And not only is she silenced yet again, but judged and de-valued.

Maybe one day, she's strong enough to try again.  And she gets the simple question, "why didn't you just leave?"  or "why didn't you just say something?" 

Because she tried.  And there was no "just" about it.  It wasn't just easy.  And it wasn't just.  Because a spoken apology is given great weight in the absence of real repentance, and yet the spoken testimony of what has been said is not given weight.  Not seen as abuse, but as a "communication breakdown" or as "arguing".  You need to work on your communication.  You need to try better.  You need to keep the house cleaner.  You need to meet his needs.  You need to speak better about him in public so he feels valued. You need to learn to phrase things better.

But where is the statement, "You need to be protected from abuse"?  Because we think that if it didn't leave bruises, it isn't abuse.

My bruises healed in a week.  My soul still bears the scars of words.  And sadly, not only my husband's, but those added by those he was able to turn against me.  I still face that today.

The Lord is a shield about me, my glory, and the lifter of my head. This is the verse I cling to.  I know my God.  I know His heart.  And while I don't know the future, I know He is there in it, and He will still be a shield about me, still be my glory when so many people will say I failed, and will be the One who lifts my head.  When He lifts it, He lifts my gaze to meet His eyes, and His view of me.

The Day I Knew

 It really started out like any other day.  I had people coming, but everything was under control.  Except one thing...  you see... I'm a doula now.  And babies have never listened to my plans for the day.

This mom was a midwife herself, so when she called, I knew she meant it was time and it wasn't just early labor.  She's stoic and informed.  She also wanted me there.  A new country, a new language, a new system... she wanted help, she wanted another woman there with her.

This is my life now, walking through pain with people, encouraging them, reminding them that they are stronger than they think.  And slowly, I've been surrounded by women who remind me of that as well.

I rushed home to complete one thing and grab my bag, quickly calling my husband to arrange one final detail, and setting my daughter on cooking chili.  Looking forward to a "good birth", a woman determined to go through this well, and to welcome this beautiful baby girl.

But it is the smallest things, you never know when they will come, what they will be, how to predict, or how to avoid.  And that day, it was a load of laundry unfolded on the couch that set it off.  That one load became "the whole house is trashed" and was followed by a angry "why don't you schedule your babies better?!"  And it began.

I sighed and came back in to fold the laundry - a task my daughter would have done one she got the food cooking - and load the few dishes in the dishwasher before I ran.  Already conscious that I had got the second call of "where are you?!!  I don't want to go in without you!"  And as I walked in, it hit me - my doula bag thrown across the room, and then I was grabbed and shook.  More words followed, but my brain froze in shock.

Up to that point, I had not named it.  But that day, while I rapidly folded laundry and loaded the dishwasher to the wide eyes of my daughter trying not to be caught meeting my eyes, I knew that it was time that I begin to face what is.  This is abuse.

I drove in after quickly calling my oldest son to get home to be with his sister, and I began to shake.  It wasn't that the shaking had been so bad.  The next day, four finger point bruises would be visible on my arm, but it was that the realization was overwhelming. This is abuse.

I left that birth as soon as baby was out because I needed to be home again.  The baby's name was one which meant "health".  I look back and see that as fitting.  Because as painful as it was, it was the first step to health to name my reality.

It was still a long trip from that day to now, but it began that day.  I did the usual - go to the church.  The church did the usual - you need to get better at communication.  They also suggested the usual - anger management would be good for him, but never followed through that the very agreeable man sitting in front of them smiling and nodding to every suggestion did what they asked once he walked away.  They also did the usual - if you kept a cleaner house, if you had food ready, I'm sure it would all work out.

I cringed.  I had heard it all before.  But a little voice inside of me this time said, no.  No.  This is not an argument.  This is not frustration.  This is not lack of communication.  This is not burnout.  This is not ptsd.  This is not a clash of cultures.

This is abuse.  And this is not right.  That was the day I knew.

It was abuse far before hands were laid on me.  Because bruises heal in a week, but the wounds from words designed and spoken to wound last years.  They alter a person until one barely recognizes who you were - if you even remember that person.  But we've been taught that it's only abuse when there are visible marks. So we ignore the wounds on our soul, wounds laid over wounds over more wounds, and we try to find that magic formula that will improve our communication or figure out what part of the house is the one that was needed to be cleaned that day, whatever it is to bring peace, but peace does not live in the house with abuse.  A lull can, but never peace.

Breaking My Silence

 There is a time to break the silence.  To speak things as they are.  To face truth.

That time comes often before we are ready to admit it is here, but it still comes, standing quietly until we acknowledge its existence.

First we have to speak the truth to ourselves.  An intimidating task.  To face what is, to call it by its real name, to deal with the stigma.  To deal with the emotions and shame of it.  

Then we have to speak the truth to others.  And few will believe it.  They will say they do, but their actions belie that.  They believe a lesser truth, one easier to believe.  And while you struggle to face the truth, their hesitation to believe will be deeply wounding.  Because it comes across as accusations.

And you've faced far too many of those.

The choice is then to retreat back into silence or continue to speak.  To speak the truth of what is.

There is a time to speak.  A time to be silent and a time to speak. Ecc 3:7

That time has come.  To tell my story.  To face the label of what it is.  

And yet, I stand, like I did on the early mornings beside the cold pool before my swimming lessons, shivering.  Afraid to jump. 

But when I took that jump, I learned to swim.  And it is time for learning that I will not sink, but I will learn to swim.

It's time.