A Dark Part Of My Life - Freedom to Grieve the End of Abuse

I never knew what was going to set him off. One day it might be that I stepped on the white tiles of the floor, the next it would be because I stepped on the black. Maybe dinner was not to his liking, although he had proclaimed this dish to be his favorite last week. Perhaps I failed to hang his shirts in the particular order that he had decreed proper, or I had left my room before receiving permission.

Tonight it was the evening news.

Somewhere in the broadcast, I had gone from casual viewer to responsible for a story’s content. Exactly when that occurred, I could not say. I had been too busy nursing our less than six week old baby to spare much attention to anything else around me, but his rising voice and angry pacing now commanded my full attention. We exchanged some words, words I cannot recall to this day.

There are really on three other things I remember about that night. The first is none of our neighbors were home, and I was aware of how alone I was as I faced him. The second is that when I rose to turn off the TV he pounced, wrapping his arm around my neck in a headlock – there were two distinct thoughts that filled my head, don’t drop the baby and don’t let him break your neck. I held my daughter with one arm and gripped his forearm with my other, trying to take the strain from neck as he lifted my feet from the floor and shook me like a ragdoll.

I managed to absorb the force of the fall in my shoulder and hip when he threw me away from him, and avoided crushing the baby still in my arms. He never stopped screaming his rage at the television. Blood dripped from my lips onto the pastel baby blanket, causing me to freeze but simultaneously causing my mind to race. I rose to my feet and faced him. I reached out and turned the TV off. I can still remember the coldness in my voice as I said, “If you are going to act like that you need to leave.”

It was the first time that he attacked me in such a manner. The abuse until that moment had been of other kinds. The kinds that he believed would not injure his unborn child, but now, I was fair game to his rage.

It is hard for some to understand why I can honestly say that this moment was a relief, why the tangible violence was so much easier to bear than the mental, emotional, and even the sexual attacks that had gone before. I think we both always knew it was a matter of time, and we were just waiting for him to have the guts to do what he really wanted to do to me. It was the explosion after months of watching a slow burning fuse. Finally, I could breathe again instead of holding my breath in dread.

After years of study and close to two decades of reflection, I now know why I did not call the authorities. That night I believed myself to be completely alone and I was acting on the instinct to survive. There was no room for a misstep and to stumble would cause him to pounce with renewed vengeance. A glimmer of fear would be the only excuse he needed.

In the end, it was my knowledge of the danger that bought him the time he required to plant the seeds of doubt that would keep me there for another two years. For as I waited for the moment when I could escape or make a call, he was there full of contrition and affirmations of his love. The excuses for his anger and why I had to help him overcome this ugly part of who he was. He loved me, he adored me, but most of all, he needed me. Tears poured down his face as he wept at my feet, begging for my forgiveness and promising me that he would never hurt me again. This became our dance – dread and fear, ideal circumstances of isolation, violence, contrition, appeals for grace and affirmations of love, a few days of peace and hope, and then a return to dread.

When I share my story today, someone always asks the question, “Why did you stay?” The answer is not simple, for the threads that bind an abuser to their victim are so thin that they are invisible to the eyes of those not ensnared by them, but their strength is in numbers. I could say that I stayed for the children, and for a time, I believed that was true. I could say I stayed because I loved him, and I also believed that was true. I could say that I stayed because I believed that I could help him get better and we could move beyond the rage that filled his heart and mind, and this, too, I believed was true. But even all of these things do not begin to encompass the reasons I stayed, for as these threads were shredded under the weight of reality, others took their place binding me with equal efficiency.

But perhaps the biggest factor in keeping me there as long as I was, was nothing more than the idea that I should feel good about walking away from my abuser, that there would be a sense of joy and vindication at leaving such an evil situation and person. It was the response that those who loved me wished for me, encouraged me to reach for, and to embrace as my right. So I waited, hoping that I could find a sliver of the right feeling to propel me forward.

It never came.

I cried the day I packed up mine and my children’s meager belongings. I wept as I loaded my friend and brother’s trucks with the odds and ends of furniture while I prayed that my husband would not return. I did not leave a triumphant victor, but slunk away a broken and defeated shell of a woman.

It took me a long time to realize that I was not grieving the loss of my abuser, my emotional captor. It took me a long to stop feel shame for missing him and wanting to find a way back in hopes of repairing our broken marriage. It took a long time to unweave the threads that bound me, and I learned the truth that had been so carefully hidden from me – I was not grieving the loss of the man who left bruises on my ribs or bloodied my lips. I was not aching to return to marriage wrecked with violence. I was not grieving for the reality lost.

I was grieving for the death of a dream, the hope and promise of what should been, of who he claimed to be. I was crying for the person I loved, not the person he was. I was missing the man he had promised to be and had never become. My heart ached for the dream that would never be, and the person that I would never be because I dared to place my faith in lie.

Who can feel joy, or even vindication, at such truth? For even if my head could not understand it in those moments, my heart did. I will forever be the divorcee, the single mom, the abuse victim, and the woman I never intended to be. Picket fences and daisies edging the yard were ripped from my future. Happily ever after was consigned once again to fairy tales, when I had been promised it could be mine.

Grief was and is the proper response.

It was only when the pain of reality became bigger than the fear of losing a dream that was already dead that I could leave. And it was only when I could find the strength to face the truth that the dream had died a long time ago that I could turn loose of the man who killed it.

Why do I share this dark part of my life? Why when I have moved on, found new dreams and new visions for my future that have exceeded anything that I may have clung to before? Because there is a woman out there, right now, who believed the lie I once did. She is working so hard not to make him mad, and she dancing a dance I know all too well, but sister, it is time to realize that dream is dead and it is not coming back. Walking away means you will have to accept that cold hard truth, and you will grieve. Friends and family will not understand why it fills you with sadness, and they won’t get the tears or why you are not happy about reclaiming your life and freedom, but that doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is that you do.

Healing will come. New dreams will be found, and life will change if you have the courage to walk away. It will not be as you envisioned it before, but it can be greater than you dare hope for now. I promise, because I have lived it and I am here to tell my tale.

Jael - Most Blessed of Women

There are just some stories in the Bible that I wish had been written by women. Men are good at giving us the facts, but let’s face it, if you want all the little juicy details, usually you need a woman to do the telling. The story of Jael, for instance, is one of those tales that would benefit from a few additional details. I mean, who was this woman who took down one of the most brutal generals in Israel’s history? What was she like? Where did she get the guts to do something so audacious and bold? I have read her story countless times, and each time I have been left wanting more.

I don’t think you have to be a Bible scholar to know that Jael seems to leap from the pages of history and demand that we acknowledge her as someone special. After all, how many women in the Bible do we see engaged in battle and subterfuge?  And then we have Jael, whose quick and decisive action is among one of the goriest and most celebrated scenes in the Bible.

We know that she was Kenite and married to Heber. They had separated from the rest of his tribe to settle near Kedesh which is close to Megiddo – if that name sounds familiar, it should as it is the same place identified as the Armageddon, a foreshadowing of the bloody future of this place, perhaps? The Kenites are an interesting people unto themselves, as they were the descendants of Moses’ father-in-law who was recognized as priest and one Moses’ trusted advisors. Some traditions trace their lineage to Cain, due to similarities in the two names Kenite and Cain (the connection is far more obvious in the Hebrew) and the belief that they were skilled metal workers, a trade also connected the children of Cain. (Genesis 4:17-22).

If Heber was a skilled metallurgist then that might explain why there was friendship between King Jabin (Sisera’s boss) and himself. (Judges 4:17). Jabin needed someone to make his weapons of war, and who better than a Kenite smith? And that friendship is probably why Sisera felt that Jael’s tents would be a safe place to hide. (Moral number one of this story, your friends’ wives are not required to like you so never assume they do.)

But this also adds an interesting twist to the story – Sisera was at the very least a social acquaintance with Jael’s husband, possibly the primary source of their income. Jael was familiar enough to walk out and greet him, call him by name, so there had been some previous contact between the two. In a society and culture where we picture women as completely subservient to their men, her actions become even more outrageous when we consider that little fact.

If we read only the Judges 4 account, the situation seems rather cut and dry. Sisera entered the tent, Jael covered him, he asked for water, she gave him milk, covered him again, he fell asleep, and she put a tent peg through his temple. However, some scholars to believe that Sisera not only imposed upon Jael for a place to hide, but that he also raped her.

The basis for this view are the multiple references to Jael covering Sisera in chapter four, a common Biblical metaphor sex as I covered in my post about Ruth, and the emphasis placed on violence in Deborah’s song, verses 26 and 27. Particular attention is paid to verse 27 and the repeated refrain:

“Between her feet he sank, he fell, he lay still; between her feet he sank, he fell; there he where he sank he fell – dead.”

If you read my post on Ruth, you also know that the word feet is a euphemism for genitals, and it is believed by some that the first “between her feet he sank, he fell, he lay still” refers to the rape, and the second and third  time refers to Jael turning the table on this man who abused her. Penetration for penetration, if you will.

Adding to this argument is the fact that Deborah even mocks the lust of the Sisera and his men in verse 30a:

“Have they (Sisera and his men) not divided the spoil? – a womb or two for every man;”

“Womb” being the closest Hebrew word for vagina you will find and the word is placed in the mouth of Sisera’s mother as she waits for her conquering son to return from war.

Do I agree with this view? Let’s just say, I don’t dismiss it as a possibility. Sisera was a man of violence, he went to the tent of a women (why not Heber’s tent?), and raping women was considered part and parcel with warfare. We have every reason to believe that he was capable and willing to commit such a heinous act. What I do not like about this view is the fact that it has been used to discount Jael’s bravery and justify her violence, and therefore denying her example as bold woman to anyone who does not have this strong provocation. However, the truth is we will probably never know exactly what happened in that tent and in the end we are left with nothing but speculation to flesh out the bare skeleton of what was recorded in Scripture.

What we should not lose sight of is what do know with certainty. Jael showed courage and strength. She did not let societal constraints or even her husband’s friendship with Jaben to stop her from putting an end to the enemy of God’s people. She risked her life when she opened her tent and allowed him to enter, a risk posed first by Sisera himself and then by her husband who could denounce her for adultery as she had welcomed another man into her private quarters. She did not shy away from the gore of the task, and she did not do it in half measures.

This earned her an extraordinary honor that was reserved for only one other woman in history. Look at verse 24:

“Most blessed of women be Jael.”

There is only one other place in the Bible where this blessing is given, Luke 1:42, when Elizabeth greets the pregnant Mary. I think there is a reason why God chose to link these two women this way. Each of them accepted a role in history that required great courage and posed significant danger to their lives and reputations. Both delivered a death blow to the enemy of God’s people, and I don’t think he wanted us to forget the sheer grit that honoring him would require of them. I don’t think he wanted us to believe that good women are weak women or even proper women. I think he wanted us to know that our service to him would cost us, place us in positions of danger, and cause us to be the subject of scandal of gossip.

I think he wanted us to know and remember the truth. We are daughters of the High Priest. We are have been chosen because he knew we could handle the gore and violence of this life, and we strong enough handle the rumors about what we may have done or what may have been done to us. He expects to eradicate evil when it enters home, even in the guise of friendship and to not be intimidated when the men of this world have formed evil alliances. He promises to redeem our reputations and honor us for being faithful the call he placed on our lives. He sees who we really are and in knowing that we find the strength to deal the death blows to the enemies who threaten his children, and these are the truths, my sisters, which we should cling to as women of God.