The time I moved the dial for future improved birthdays

I’ve spoken on here before about how I was once in an emotionally and physically abusive relationship. It’s not anything I’m proud of, but I’m not ashamed of it, either. You don’t go into a relationship knowing it will happen. When the situation becomes apparent, in my case, slowly, and then chronically, getting free can be complicated and filled with risks.

I think in the context I’ve discussed it previously (here, I mean), once was because I knew someone else who read here still struggled with her memories on the same topic (the dial comes with added features like guilt and self-blame). The other was because someone I trusted, who sometimes showed a tendency to criticize me under the guise of humor, once directed hauntingly familiar language from my former abuser at me during a conversation. I unplugged that “friendship.” I don’t need to learn a uniquely hard lesson more than once.

I’ve never used the abuser’s name on this site. I never will. To be clear, this was not my first husband, who was a good human being, as a number of people (including family members) who visit this site can confirm. This was my first post-divorce relationship. There’s no connection between the abuser and anyone else in my life.

Today’s my birthday. I’ve received texts and messages from across the States, north to south, east to west, and (so far) two European countries. I never take friendship, love, and kindness for granted. The distance I’ve traveled since that bad relationship, including geographical along with emotional and mental distance, are compelling reasons to be grateful for everyone and everything good in my life.

Today’s paisley letter harks back to a long-ago birthday when I was with the abuser. I’m writing this letter to my younger self. I have nothing to say to him.

“Dear Becky, it’s okay to remember the good things you saw when you met him. He was hardworking, sometimes holding down two or three jobs simultaneously (so were you at that time), to put himself through college in your small town. He lived very simply, frugally, to be able to afford tuition, rent, and the books he needed for his classes. He could be funny. He was smart. He was even handsome. He shared some of your musical interests, and when times were a little easier financially, you saw good concerts together.

He transferred to your alma mater (about a three-hour drive away), and you’d visit him there sometimes. It reminded you how much you missed Tuscaloosa. You still had friends there. After your divorce, you’d floated other possibilities (for places to move, careers to pursue) for your own future, some that included friends, but those didn’t pan out. You applied to graduate school, got accepted, and you moved to Tuscaloosa and shared an apartment with him.

There’s no reason to go into grim details about how the relationship devolved. It lasted longer than it should have. You made a lot of concessions and put in a lot of effort to keep things going and to remove pressures. You altered your behaviors around his temper and your fear. You made sacrifices you shouldn’t have, but you long ago realized that hindsight and regrets can be traps, too.

Some good things happened. Your parents sold their house in your small town and moved to Tuscaloosa for a while. The city was full of happy memories for them (your brother and sister were born there while your father was in college). Some of their old friends still lived there. Your brother also moved to Tuscaloosa. You didn’t feel so isolated.

And then… you had a birthday. He didn’t say a thing that morning. He never handed you a card, or even the simplest of gifts like a flower or cupcake. You had an all-day meeting and told yourself he had something planned for the night. Nope. The birthday was never mentioned or acknowledged in any way… Except by your family.

You made changes slowly and carefully. You had options and relied on them. A friend you met in graduate school wanted to rent a small house and invited you to be her roommate. A woman you met at a place where you worked became a friend and mentor. Later, Debbie, your old roommate from your undergraduate years, who was working on her doctorate, made her place available to you as needed.

The leaving process wasn’t easy, and you never knew when there might be an explosion. Even when you finally lived separately, he was always a presence. Then he graduated and got a job in a different Alabama town (close to where you’d first met him). He finally seemed happier, more in control of his moods. Of his anger. One weekend, you agreed to visit him there and shop with him to help pick out things for his apartment. He bought drapes that day to hang in his living room. You offered to iron out the wrinkles, and you set up the ironing board near the living room windows.

That’s what you were doing when something triggered him, and the verbal abuse started. It seemed to go on forever, and you knew sooner or later, it would become physical. You kept ironing. Then you looked at the iron and you realized it could actually be an effective weapon. It was hot, had weight, and was in your hands, not his. You had the briefest vision of slamming the hot iron against him.

You turned the dial to off. You went into the other room, where your overnight bag was still packed. You found your keys and walked through the living room with purse and luggage. All you said was, “Goodbye.” It’s easy to remember the fear you felt when you walked out the door and to your car. You kept expecting him to come up behind you, to grab you, but you had one thing in your favor. He didn’t believe you were strong enough to leave. You were.

It was over. Sometimes he’d show up in Tuscaloosa at the place you now shared with Debbie, but you’d learned the hard way never to let him inside. You’d sit on the front porch, in full view of the elderly next door neighbor, who always seemed to be outside on those days. On one of those surprise visits, he left a small box with you before he went to his car.

They were similar to these. You never wore them. Not even once. Several years later, in fact, the same year you married Tom in June, you inexplicably packed the earrings when you drove your widowed mother north to your sister’s third wedding in December. (Debby always managed to stay one marriage ahead of you.) She needed ‘something borrowed’ to wear. You offered the earrings. The two of you laughingly agreed there was no ‘curse’ on them.

On her honeymoon, she took off the earrings and left them next to the bathroom sink. Then she forgot them when they checked out. For the sake of someone from hotel housekeeping, you hoped they really weren’t cursed. The earrings had no value to you at all. You never regretted their disappearance. As always, someone in your family did you a solid.

And no matter what struggles might have gone on in your life, even losses of people and pets you loved and cherished, you’ve never again had a miserable birthday.”