“I wouldn’t act this way if you didn’t push my buttons.” I watched the words spilling out of my husband’s mouth, but couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I recognized the blaming, finger pointing, and minimization for exactly what it was – abuse.
Of course I recognized it. I’ve worked as an advocate and attorney with victims of abuse for years – in fact, my entire career. What I couldn’t understand is how I had actually ended up with an abuser. No, my husband never hit me. But, just like so many women I’ve worked with, I found myself feeling confused, exhausted, and ashamed.
Like so many women, I learned at an early age that my worth came from being accepted, especially by men. And the years of sexual abuse I endured at the hands of my grandfather taught me that I wasn’t good enough, smart enough, or pretty enough to ever be treated with respect. I spent years fighting those lessons. I opened up to counselors, immersed myself in self-care, and surrounded myself with supportive friends. I healed. And yet somehow, here I sat with my husband – the man who I thought was the love of my life – as he stood over me and blamed me for his outbursts, cheating, and lies.