Life and Choices
Updated: Dec. 13, 2023
Originally Published: Nov. 12, 2023
I chose them by choosing myself.
I wish I could say I was oblivious to the warning signs from the start, but that would be untrue. I can clearly remember the very first moment I noticed them; they appeared almost immediately.
You might wonder how I managed to endure nine years in that situation after recognizing the signs — and sadly, I did recognize them. This won’t be an exploration of statistics, nor have I conducted extensive research to support my experiences, but I can tell you it is a cycle. A relentless, cruel cycle. Growing up surrounded by abuse, infidelity, and chaos creates a distorted sense of normalcy. When you experience abuse and betrayal yourself, you feel no fear; it’s familiar. This is “normal.” This is what I deserve. This is love, or at least my flawed understanding of it.
As a daughter and a mother, I have played both roles. I’ve walked in the shadows of others, following footprints that have deepened with each generation. I don’t take pride in my past, but I hold no shame. I could have continued down the path of despair until one fateful day.
That day seemed ordinary, far removed from our worst altercations, but there was a slight difference. For nine years, I naively believed I had concealed the emotional wounds from my children. On that day, it dawned on me that the scars were far from hidden. Not only was my pain evident, but I also realized that my children had been living in a state of anxiety and sadness, just as I had. We never spoke of it. I shed countless tears in silence, always managing to compose myself before facing the outside world. Little did I know, I was inadvertently teaching them to bury their feelings, to wash away their tears, to pretend everything was fine—worse yet, to believe it was acceptable.
On that day, just like many others, tensions flared. The evening plans unraveled. He hurled names at me that used to pierce my heart, but over the years I had grown numb. I had become too desensitized to let this hurt me. I asked him how he could speak to me that way, to which he coldly replied, “Because that’s the way I talk to you!”
Those words replayed in my mind, cutting deep, making me crumble. He went out, and I found myself curled up next to my sleeping son. I longed to scream, but my two older daughters had friends over, and I knew I needed to maintain my composure for them. What I didn’t realize was that it was far too late. They had heard everything. Moments later, my 13-year-old daughter lay beside me, asking if I was okay. I attempted to reassure her with a lie, telling her I was just frustrated.
She could no longer bear it. In a heart-wrenching moment, she asked if it was her fault. Her sobs shook me to my very core! I held her tightly, explaining it wasn’t her fault, but the damage was done. I tried to convey that her happiness was the only thing that could lift my spirits. This bought me a little time, but not much. I gave myself until the morning to make a decision—this is where it gets complicated. A lifetime without healthy boundaries clouded my judgment. He was a wonderful man who had committed terrible acts. He was a caring partner, yet he had trampled my self-worth. He offered sweet words only to follow them with harsh insults. He was everything I desired but also my greatest weakness. I felt lost, praying for divine guidance, but after hours of deliberation, I found myself empty-handed.
Morning came and went. My deadline had passed, and despite my heart knowing what needed to be done, I remained paralyzed. You don’t leave someone you love, especially when you believe they love you back. I walked through that day in a haze, feeling the weight of my children’s eyes, waiting to see how I would respond to the verbal abuse and put-downs.
Amidst all the chaos, I had a moment of clarity. I envisioned my daughters, the loves of my life, being insulted, being told they weren’t enough after giving their all. I imagined them crying alone in their rooms, questioning their worth. I pictured them following in my footsteps, and that image gave me the strength to change course.
We decided to turn off the GPS of our lives. While it would have been easier to follow familiar directions, that was not our path anymore. I had always hidden my sadness from them, but I was compelled to be transparent when explaining our family’s separation. I wanted them to understand unequivocally: love should never hurt like this. We cried together on the couch, but they left with a powerful message: no matter how much we love someone, if they treat us poorly, we must walk away. I made them promise that the cycle of pain would end that day.
For years, I had convinced myself that leaving would ruin their lives, avoiding the reality that staying would cause greater harm. Perhaps I justified my fear of their pain as a reason to remain. When I finally gathered the strength (or became broken enough) to face the truth, the answer was clear. To prioritize their happiness, I first had to prioritize my own. By choosing myself, I ultimately chose them.
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In summary, leaving an abusive relationship is a journey that often requires a painful awakening. Recognizing the impact on oneself and one’s children is crucial, and ultimately choosing self-love can lead to healthier dynamics.