Reclaiming My Power and Control...

This post isn’t about music therapy. However, it is just part of a personal story that has greatly influenced me as a clinician and caregiver. I have learned the debilitating effects of anxiety and emotional abuse, and in turn become more empathetic and relative to my patients and clients. This journey of self awareness is always ongoing, and this journal post feels required in order to continue on to my next destination. It’s time to let go.

I’m finding myself awake at nearly 2 AM writing the beginning of this post less out of actual desire and more for therapeutic necessity. You see, I have spent the previous evening in my hometown reliving old memories with friends and acquaintances- surprising myself with how little I seem to actually remember from my undergraduate college years.

Reminiscing is entertaining and fun, but this particular reminiscence took a dark turn into the memories I have since suppressed after years of therapy and “growing up.”

I moved away from my hometown to have a new beginning. I needed a fresh start where (almost) no one knew my name or past mistakes and where I could figure out who I actually am as a person. Many people do not know this part of my story, because it is not who I identify as...but I do think that maybe this is my time to tell this chapter. After all, I would not be the “me” I am today without it. Some people know small bits and pieces...others know not to bring it up at all.

At the age of 22 I had hardly had a boyfriend - when I was a few years younger I briefly dated a total jerk that I met at work, who broke up with me to date a coworker. That’s not this story, though.

Not off to a great start in the romance world, I was awkward and unsure of myself. I lacked self-confidence and had a rebellious “I shouldn’t do that but I’m probably gonna” spirit. I found myself in a serious relationship with someone who at first made me feel beautiful, happy, and like the only girl in the room...and eventually made me feel worthless, insane, and weak.

This is the Power and Control Wheel of abuse I learned about when I did an amazing music therapy clinical at a domestic violence shelter. I experienced some form of abuse under almost all of these categories.

I was called names (Emotional Abuse). I was kept from my family and friends (Using Isolation). I was belittled, mocked, and diminished (Minimizing, Denying, and Blaming). I was forced to do things I did not want to do because I was bullied into submission (Using Intimidation, Using Male Privilege, Using Coercion and Threats). I was the only one working a steady job and paying the bills (Using Economic Abuse).

I was given a ring I did not want, which had previously belonged to a girl who had likely been in my shoes,  for a wedding to the shadow of a man I am sure I never even loved. I was manipulated and controlled. I have little memory of these times...I’m sure I have subconsciously blocked them out to avoid the painful and embarrassing reminder that I thought this was the type of love I deserved. So I don’t talk about this. I have carried shame for many years, and made self-deprecating comments to make a joke of my past very real nightmare. So here is the infamous question people who lack empathy or a filter immediately pose to me when they learn this story:

Why did you stay?

I feel blamed and mocked when people ask me this, though I don’t believe that is their intention. But it feels like they are claiming to never act as I had and stayed in the toxic relationship for two years. I’m *quite* aware that giving him the time of day at all was ridiculous. But it was a gradual abuse....I did not see this shitshow coming. I was so young and naïve, unsure of myself and real life experiences. I can’t validate why I stayed for as long as I did, but here is my attempt.

The truth is it was easier to stay- It was much harder to leave.

Finding out he cheated was a welcome reason to escape the life I had convinced myself was normal and easy. I constantly ignored my gut feeling that this treatment wasn’t right or normal at all: “Just apologize to him so the fight will be over.” “I shouldn’t have overreacted so much.” “I’m being too clingy...he doesn’t need to like my friends.” “He is going to be so mad that I’m not home yet.” This pattern of my denial was the consequence of long term gaslighting.

I left on a whim with just my dog and a bag- I don’t remember most of that night- but I had a short window of time before he found out. I remember calling my mom and telling her “It’s time. Come get me. I have to get out.” I remember calling my best friend sobbing....taking Tylenol PM to numb a headache and my overwhelming anxiety...and being able to sleep soundly that night for the first time.
Because I felt *relieved*. And safe.

I hadn’t realized how scared I had become. 

He told anyone mutual that I was a crazy bitch. He made up a sob story that I had left him for no reason. I felt isolated from my own life. I no longer visited my Alma Mater where I had met him and where I invested five years of my life. I avoided the local theatre that he was involved in, and found out how many women there had experienced similar and yet less severe outcomes with my abuser. I looked over my shoulder constantly- afraid he was there. I once had an amazingly fun night out with friends (after all, I hadn’t seen or spent hardly any time with my friends in the past year of the relationship) and dedicated a spiteful karaoke song to him- he wasn’t there. We all died laughing, and I felt free and alive. But I should have known somebody reporting to him was at that bar. And he contacted me before I left the bar, demanding to know how I could do something so ridiculous and immature. He was everywhere and he had eyes everywhere. He hacked into my Facebook account. He threatened me and continued to relentlessly play exhausting mind games long after I was gone.

I learned from my therapist that he is likely a narcissist, which is a clinical diagnosis in the very DSM 5 that I familiarized myself with for my graduate degree. That made my stomach churn...I had no idea who I had been dating and what I had been up against. I read a document on narcissism provided to me by my therapist, and I was in awe. Nail. On. The. Head.

The stalking behavior was infuriating and anxiety-inducing. My mom paid extra for our phone company to block his number. Colleagues were alerted to not let him in the workplace. I temporarily deleted my social media accounts. Neighbors were made aware of his car make and model- in case his false threats ever took a turn for truth. My parents considered a restraining order that ultimately would be a worthless piece of paper that we believed wouldn’t stop him.

And then it was quiet. He had likely moved on to his next victim, noted with my refusal to engage he and his mind games. I moved to start graduate school, finding inspiration to use music to therapeutically help anyone who felt as worthless as I once had. I was reborn. Determined. Outspoken. Worthy. Strong. I promised myself to never let anyone make me feel like the shell of a human I had once been formed into. I lived alone for a year and became better acquainted with myself and my human qualities. And in the most unexpected way I met my now husband, who fills me to the brim with happiness, love, and affirmation every single day. I am so lucky. 

Not every victim of abuse is lucky to escape. And so when I revisited my hometown and the memories were triggered...I thought maybe I should address that this is part of my story. This happened to me and it was awful. But it’s over. I’m better. He’s gone.

I met a fellow victim of my abuser. She told me, “I’m so happy to know you. Because it means I’m not crazy. And I’m not alone.” We compared shockingly similar stories. And although the reminder was hurtful and overwhelming, I felt comforted knowing that there is at least one other person in this world that understands exactly how I felt. And that was all the reassurance I needed to tell this story. It lacks detail since my memories are clouded. I’m not asking for attention. I just needed to tell this story and let it be out in the universe. I needed to process the anxiety that was reawakened with my hometown visit. I feel at peace with this story now. And maybe I can walk into my old college or that theatre with the confidence that because the thoughts aren’t swimming alone and isolated in my head, perhaps no one is actually associating me with those awful times and identifying me as the poor girl that escaped the chronic womanizing abuser. My story is out in the open now. I’m not scared of him anymore. And I’m not scared of speaking my mind.

After all, my life is MY story. Not his.