An Abusive Husband, part three

For the first part of my husband's story and why we are sharing it read this.
For the second part of our story read this.

Today I offer the final part of the story:  what happened when he saw the truth.

I WAS AN ABUSIVE HUSBAND.  REALLY?  (PART THREE)

I started to work with a friend from an old job.  He is a very sensitive and caring man who understands women (and no he isn't gay).  But when I would talk to him at work and tell him how nuts my wife was he would always tell me where I was wrong.  He was very good at it because he can talk both male and female.  He had been through a lot of therapy, too.

Robin and I were about done with marriage and I was sick of all the accusations of being abusive.  I still loved her and didn't want to divorce but she just wasn't getting it.  Then one day we had a meeting, just her and me.  I was finally to the point where I really wanted to understand what she was trying to say.  I don't know if she explained it to me better that time or I finally listened but I got it.  It was the yelling, putting down and getting even that was the abuse.  The seething hatred when I was angry.  The fact that everyone at home was walking on egg shells around me so they wouldn't trigger another outburst from the angry man.

Holy cow, what an eye opener that was.  I love these people and they all feel like I hate them.  They walk on egg shells around me.  My wife and kids.  It was a shot to my heart.

But how to fix it, for now I see just what a bastard I am.  Anger was my nature.  I couldn't control it.  It would explode in me and I had to yell or I would be violent (I never was but it was because I could yell at those I was angry with).  I also knew that my OCD triggered my anger and how was I going to fix that?

That's when I started therapy (or thereabouts).  We found Dr. Dan.  Robin, bless her, saw my horror when I finally understood and we decided to work together to beat this thing.  I was ready.

It was really hard.  I had to learn how to control my anger.  I had to face issues from my past that I wanted to leave alone.  I had to trust Dr. Dan.  (Don't think that wasn't hard.)  I had to learn how to be a real man.  A real husband and father.  I don't always win in my daily fight to control my anger or my OCD, but I win most days.  I've learned that you can change.  You can control anger.  I'm to the point now where I hardly ever get angry anymore.  It's been a long road and I've had a lot of help.

The most important thing I've learned in this whole process is that you have to accept the fact that you are wrong.  Be humble enough to be told you're being a jerk and realize you are but you can change.  Your wife isn't trying to control you.  She loves you and is trying to help you reach your potential.

Thanks for helping me be a better man, Robin.

Confronting My Therapist

A little background -- Bill is my husband.  My therapist used to be his therapist.  And even though I have never sworn in a blog post before I swear once in this one.  I tried to find another word to use, but nothing else conveyed the same emotion.  I did try.

**********

Telling the truth to power is difficult.  Telling the truth to anyone can be hard.  Especially if you grew up in a situation where the truth was only appreciated if it was what they wanted to hear.  Otherwise, you'd be punished.

Well, that's the situation I grew up in and today I had to tell my therapist something he might not want to hear.  I had to give him feedback.  There was something he was doing that was counter-productive to my healing.

I was anxious.  But I knew that it was important.  He had done it multiple times and it was a big problem for me.

So today I got to therapy, all geared up and ready to go.  I can do this.  I can do this.  Don't let him start talking about something else.  Dive right it.  Just get it done so we can move on.  I can do this.

Well, he started talking in the hall on the way to his office and by the time we were in the door he already had a review going of my progress.  I went along, wondering how long I could put it off and knowing that it had to be today. 

We spent half an hour reviewing.  Talking about how I'm doing on my regimen and if I feel better and why all of this matters.  It was time well spent.  I covered things I wanted to cover.  But it wasn't what I was dying to say.

As we wrapped up the review he asked what direction I wanted to go today.  He mentioned a few of the things we'd been working on in the past that don't feel finished.

I stopped him.  I told him we could get to that in a minute.  First I needed to address something with him.  I needed to give him some feedback about something that isn't working in our relationship.  Then I asked if he was ready.  He asked if he needed a seatbelt.  I told him no.

I took a deep breath and began.  It went something like this:

"There are going to be times when I need to talk about Bill, to process things.  There are still lots of times he's an ass.  I need to be able to talk about that in order to heal.  Whenever I start to talk about Bill you re-frame what I'm saying so fast that I can't say what I need to say.  Or you say, 'But this is better, right?'  You seem to be defensive when I talk about him.  I don't know if it's because you like him and feel like you need to defend him.  Or if it's because when I tell you he's not doing well you feel like it's an attack on your work because I'm saying he's not cured.  Or if it's because you're both men and you feel like when I say negative things about him it's an attack on men in general.  Whatever it is, it feels like you're defensive.  I shut down and am unable to say the things I need to say."

He said, "Okay."  He pondered for a minute.  Then he asked me if I knew what counter-transference is.  I said I did.  (If you don't, you'll have to look it up - sorry.)  He said counter-transference is not uncommon with therapists and they don't know when they are doing it unless someone points it out to them.  He said that he still didn't recognize it in himself, but that if I'm saying it's happening he needs to believe me.  He's been a therapist long enough to know he doesn't know everything.  Twenty years ago, when he was just starting, he probably would have balked at what I said because he thought he knew it all.  But now when someone says something like that he takes it as truth and tries to fix it.

He told me strategies he would use to try to be aware and stop doing it in the future.  I told him that if it happens again I will tell him to shut up and listen to me.  Or throw the pillow at him.

I told him I'd been nervous about confronting him with it.  He told me it was a good sign of progress that I was willing to stand up for what I needed, especially to a man.  He then told me he knew I would never say anything to hurt him, only to help him or help us do better.  He was right.

This is more evidence that my therapist is a good fit for me.  I trust him.  He's a good man.  I was pretty sure he'd want to know if something he was doing was hurting me.  I was right.

It was a good session.

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I wrote about the rest of my session on my other blog -- It Matters When He's Mean.

A Lesbian Trapped in a Man's Body

This is how my husband describes himself.  You see, he's very attracted to women.  I know, try to wrap your mind around it.

As I examined this phrase I realized that he might be right.  He is kind of a girl.

He's not effeminate in any discernable way.  And he does enough stupid man-things that I want to kill him on a regular basis.  But if ever anyone were "in touch with his feminine side" it's him.

Allow me to illustrate.

My husband does not do home repairs.  He has no idea how; he's not allowed to try.  He can fix computers but nothing else.  He does not own any tools.  He is forbidden to touch power tools.

My husband likes scented candles.  Way more than I do.  His favorite scent is lilac.  Back when I used to get invited to candle parties all the time there was always a handwritten note on the invite that said to bring him along.  Please.

And speaking of parties, you should see him go nuts at a Pampered Chef party.  He thinks anything made by Pampered Chef is a godsend.  I was also instructed to bring him to these parties.  The demonstrator would talk about an item, he would gush about how he uses it to make such and such, how he couldn't live without it, and sales would soar.  I'm pretty sure that as long as he went no one would care if I even came.

At social gatherings he is much more likely to hang out with the women than the men.  Those men are just such . . . men.  They are just gross.  He can't stand locker room talk or behavior.  He doesn't talk sports.  But get him with a bunch of women talking about the mini-whip from Pampered Chef and he can hold his own.

And as much as I love him, he is more like a 14-year old girl than I ever was.  Emotionally needy.  Playing mind games to get attention.  Pouting when I don't include him.

I guess it works out well for us because I am more like a guy in so many ways.  I own the tools.  I do the repairs.  I mow the lawn.  I split the wood.  I explain sports to him.

No, I do not consider myself a man nor am I trapped anywhere I don't belong.  I'm just a very progressive girl.

We fit, in our own peculiar way.  My favorite memory of how we're different would have to be as we prepared for a Memorial Day barbeque with my family.  I was up in a tree with a chainsaw while he was in the kitchen making deviled eggs.

Yup, that's us.

*****
If you liked this story, you'll love the one my daughter tells about him trying to do something manly.

Pedmeregocide

Last Sunday was a little ugly.  I'm not afraid to admit it.

We're a go-to-church-every-Sunday family.  (Except for dad, although that only plays a small part in the story.)

I got up early to work on my lesson.  I'd been up for an hour or so showering, curling my hair, making cute little handouts.  Things like that.  I was in a pretty good mood.  It was going to be a lovely day at church.

Then it was time to wake others.  One daughter was out of town.  That took a little pressure off.  One daughter was exhausted from performing in the orchestra for her school play the night before, but she's kind of a morning person (at least compared to the rest of us) so she groaned and got up.  One daughter is in college.  She got up, looked at the clock, and said she was going to be late (I'm thinking, "Then why don't you get yourself up in time to get ready like an adult?" *grrr*).

The morning started to turn at this point.  Oh, did I mention that I started new meds a day or two before that have been affecting my moods?  No.  Well, that could possibly have played a part in the day as well.

Last two.  These two are the toughest.  They have never been morning people anyway and are both at that age when their bodies need a lot more sleep.  And they haven't gotten to the point where they will get up and do something they aren't dying to do if they are still tired.

I wake my son.  Four times.  Every five minutes or so.  The last time I am not pleasant.  "Get up here now or you are grounded from the computer for a week!"  (You've got to know their currency.)  He stumbles upstairs like the living dead.  I tell him to find his clothes before he eats.  He groans an assent.

I wake my youngest.  She tells me she is *cough, cough* sick.  I tell her she is tired and to get up.  We argue back a forth a bit, me getting more impatient every minute. 

My husband and I have a deal that I won't force the kids to go to church.  (And really, if you're forcing someone to go to church will they be getting much out of it?  The gospel isn't really about force; it's about choosing.)  I agree with this in theory but it's a little tougher to live up to Sunday morning as my stress is climbing.

I tell her that it can't be a decision every Sunday.  You just have to plan to go.  Otherwise you're going to choose to sleep in more often than you think.  Soon you won't be going at all.

I hear my son eating.  I ask if he found his clothes.  He tells me he did.  (Let me add here that he has grown many inches lately and now only has one pair of church pants and one church shirt.  I know, I need to get on that.)

The daughter refuses to go.  We are both grumpy and snapping at each other now (fairly loudly).  I tell her I am leaving and I am disappointed that she won't go.  Son is still eating.  I tell him he's going to be walking (only a few blocks) and he'd better get there soon to do his duties.  Two older daughters are ready and head out to the car with me.  As I pull out of the driveway son peeks his head out the door, gets my attention, and tells me he can't find his shirt.  I tell him good luck and he'd better look harder.  I drive away.  (I am now cursing my sleeping husband for not being up to help me.)

Youngest daughter gets to church just as it's starting and tells me her brother still can't find his shirt.  (I'm fairly certain there is smoke coming out of my ears now.)  I get in the car, drive back home, and start hunting.  I can't find it either.  He gets a lecture for lying to me about having found his clothes.  And another one about learning to put his clothes away. At rather high volume.  He finally ends up wearing one of dad's dress shirts (at least four sizes too big).

We drive back to church (son has missed his duties) and I am trying desperately to let it all go so that I can get something from the meeting.

Throughout this morning the thought that kept running through my head was, "I'm going to kill him/her."  I must have thought that ten times.  Maybe not the best mood to go to church in.  But, if you're in that mood, I guess church is the best place to go.

At this point, the wordsmith part of my brain kicks in.  What's the word for wanting to kill your child?  Homicidal is too general.  Fratricidal is wanting to kill your brother.  There's got to be one for wanting to kill your kid(s).  I can't come up with anything.

After the meeting, and before the others, I speak to a couple of my friends I know pay attention to Greek and Latin roots, like me.  I ask if either of them can think of anything.  They can't.  Although we consider Youth-anasia.  (I know, it's only funny if you're a nerd.)

By the time I get home I still don't have a word, but I've come up with a complex.  I declare that I have a Medea complex, which still doesn't entirely apply because she just killed her sons and I have daughters involved.

I mention to my oldest that I've been trying to come up with a word and does she have any idea.  (She's an English major so she's dealt with root words more recently than I have.)  She starts working on it.  Soon my other daughter and son are working on it as well.  They are on the computer, looking up root words.

And I just start laughing.  I have just told my children that I spent the day wanting to kill them and they are working to figure out what to call it.  As if I've just asked them to define the word shoe.

They said they knew I didn't mean it.  And that makes me happy.

The final word they came up with was pedmeregocide, a mix of Greek and Latin roots.  Ped - child, mere - part, ego - self, cide - kill.

And that's what teamwork looks like in our family.