Photo credit by Express Monorail; creative commons license

I have developed a tremendous appreciation for honest men.  Not honesty wielded as a weapon or as a shield but more like a cup of clear water for a thirsty woman.

Relationships are the best place to see honesty in action—and the different interpretations of honesty and the different rationales for deception.  Abuse is never a good enough excuse to tell the truth, and saving your own ass by lying through your teeth is never the same as “for the greater good.”  There’s no middle ground, and if there’s a bad feeling surrounding the honesty or the deception—for either party—then it’s nothing but poison.

Too often, I see people—both men and women—employ a “policy of truth” to justify being downright mean or verbally abusive.   These are the “friends” who will joyously tell you that the “truth” about your hairstyle or your clothes or your home décor—the “truth” always being something that stings.  Most of the time, ironically, it’s just opinion and sometimes that truth is fiction in the guise of a supportive friend who needs to feel superior.

Listen, any friend who is happy to tell you something that cuts you to the bone—whether it’s that you have chronic bad breath or spinach in your teeth after an interview or that your partner is cheating on you—is not a good friend.  Truly compassionate friends may tell you, but they’ll have to struggle to do it.

I had a boyfriend once who wielded the “truth” like a weapon.  Ultimately, it was his way of controlling me and putting me constantly on the defensive.  Honesty became synonymous with negativity.  I came to dread his honesty as much as I’ve ever dreaded a man’s lies.

He was quick to tell me if a skirt didn’t look good on me (in his opinion), that my hair didn’t flatter in that particular color (in his opinion), or that I needed to lose weight (in his opinion).   He had gotten into trouble for lying and had decided to turn over a new leaf and tell the truth—about EVERYTHING.  If he was unhappy, and he often was, he would feel compelled to tell me  The Truth about whatever was on his mind.  I never asked how he liked my outfit, hair, or weight, but he was quick to offer because, to him, he had to spew  his brand of honesty.  There was nothing  off limits.

If I proudly showed him a cool poster I’d bought for my office, he reminded me that his best friend had a signed original of the artwork,  that I had only a cheap knock-off, and that my possessions weren’t as worthy.  If I proudly showed him my home, he quickly told me how unsophisticated he thought it was because I didn’t have a unifying theme of Early American or Mid-Century Modern throughout the entire house.   When we were close to deciding to go our separate ways,  almost the last thing he said to me was that he would never marry me because he hated my natural body scent and if he stuck around, I would have to find a way to change my body chemistry to his satisfaction.

(Thankfully, my partners since then have all loved all the things he hated that became his “truth” that he just had to tell me, and the more recent men in my life cheerfully volunteer that they like these things very much, thank you.)

By the time I said good-bye to him, I felt as though whenever he was around, I was being bludgeoned with verbal abuse that he politely excused as “I have to be honest.”  Nothing he ever spewed as truth was indeed fact, which is the irony when I think back on the demise of our relationship.

I’ve also seen men (and women) use honesty as a shield to keep from allowing anyone, including me, to see them with their emotional walls down.  I recall begging for emotional support for my creative passions only to be told that my art was terrible by people with no affinity for that kind of art or its genre.  Even if they recognized that they held no expert status, they knew their honest dislike would force an emotional distance between us.  I never came out and asked if they liked my art, even though I desperately wanted them to like it because it could have been a beautiful avenue for sharing.   No, they shut down that avenue before our relationships ever got that far.

When it comes to honesty, there’s no middle ground, regardless of the supposed good reason for it. I’ve had boyfriends tell little white lies to me because they were sweet enough that they didn’t want to do anything to hurt me, but in the long run, I no longer could tell where the little lies turned into big ones.  Yes, telling me his mom was a decade older than I am made me feel better about dating a younger man, but finding out she was oh-so-much-closer to my age was inevitable.  A host of other little deceptions, so easily told for the nicest of reasons, slipped off his lips with the same deftness as far-reaching, heavy dishonesty that impacted many lives at once.  He was trying to find middle ground where it was okay to lie, but it was never okay to lie to me.  And never necessary.

There’s only a quick hop from being a man who will lie to make someone else feel good to becoming a man who will lie to save himself and consider it doing what he has to do or that he has no choice but to create huge deceptions.  The little lies make it very easy to talk himself into major fictions.

While there’s not a middle ground for honesty, there is something better.  I believe—and have experienced it several times recently—that you can be honest without being brutal.  You can tell the truth without volunteering opinions as fact or offering up hurtful interpretations without being asked.  You can find positive and truthful things to say, even if they’re opinions—rather than searching out a negative truth.  You can gently lead a person through a horrible truth with love and kindness…and with great forethought.

The secret is compassion.  Honest compassion and compassionate honesty.    It’s refreshing and sweet, like that cup of clear water after so many previous chalices of cloudy poison.    The need to be honest isn’t in the wake of all the possible bad things that can come between two people.  It’s not even considered a need because it’s simply a way of life.  And while the bad things are expressed with compassion, the honesty is more about sharing the good things, openly.

Photo by Lorna Tedder, copyright December 2006; Peaceful on the farm at sunset–a much gentler energy after Daddy died.

I hated him.  I loved him, too.  But this is probably the first time in my life that I’ve been grateful that Daddy was a tyrant.  It’s afforded me the opportunity to see his traits in others and identify others like him.

Not at first.  It usually takes a few interactions to really make that connection.  I don’t fault myself for not recognizing it immediately.  How can I?  There were many people inside and outside my family who knew him only superficically but thought he was a good church man, a wonderful and doting father,  a kind husband.  But they didn’t live with him and see him with his guard down.  So how can I assume someone else is fabulous just because I’ve been told some nice things about them?  I can know them only when they show me their real faces.

Daddy is on my mind heavily several times a year–around Father’s Day, his birthday (both his legitimate and not-so-legitimate ones), and around the anniversary of his death, which almost two years ago.  I don’t think about him much.  I don’t grieve him.  He made life hell for the people who loved him.  Other than those few times a year, I really don’t think much about him and I don’t miss him in a sad way.

This is not one of those times. 

For the past couple of weeks, memories of him have re-surfaced, triggered by upsetting interactions with new people in my life, ones I’ve never been a fan of.  Two years ago at Labor Day, I left my parents’ house in tears, saying to my mom that I’d either see her at the holidays or at his funeral, but I wouldn’t be back before then.  I finally had to put my own mental health and that of my children ahead of Daddy’s guilt-tripping, manipulative tirades that had all of us cowering before him.  To some people, that made me a bad daughter for refusing to see him in his last few months, but his effect on my family was devastating, and we’d cry for days after each visit.

He had some truly bad health problems, yes.  But it’s wasn’t his health that was upsetting.  He had always been controlling and manipulative, so his health was just another way to draw us close and then beat us over the heads emotionally.  There were many times in his last few years that I spent curled up and sobbing and no one knew.  I am content with the decision I made.

Daddy was a textbook case (if there is such of thing) of Bipolar Disorder.  Never medicated for it or for depression because that would have been a “weak” thing to do. I was there when his physician offered him a prescription and saw Daddy’s vile reaction.

He loved us, yes.  I do know that.  But he rarely showed it or he showed it in a way that was inherently controlling and painful.  There were few kind words and  I think his children were always hungry for them.  We almost never heard them for ourselves, though plenty for other people. 

There were times I tried to find a common ground with him, times when I tried to have a real relationship with him.  If I broke through at all, it was only for a little while and then the old behaviors returned.  These were the dynamics of our relationship and always underlying every conversation.  I knew two years ago by the heaviness of the energy over him that he would not live much longer and that each time I waved goodbye, it was likely the last time.  So I tried in that last year of his life to reconcile my turbulent emotions of dealing with his manipulations with my desire to make peace with him and him to be willing to see me as a child worthy of his unconditional love. 

What I learned was that sometimes there is no reconciling it.  No matter how much you want a certain kind of relationship with someone who has extreme emotional and mental issues, it’s just not going to happen.  They are in control of the relationship, not you.  Even if they want it, they may not be capable of it. 

What I had to do, ultimately, was to take care of myself, to stay away from him, to get my own balance back.  That meant staying the hell away from him. 

Last night, over a glass of wine with Luna, I told her about my dad.  Wise woman that she is, she asked if I had noticed certain patterns in my life.  I tried not to laugh–she doesn’t know the extent of the self-inquiry I’ve done to work through all this.  But she noted how I started with dealing with abusers at the closest level–through blood, my father as my primary role model–and progressed to spouse, to best friends who were abusive, to best friends/business partners/lovers who have been abused or are still tied to abusers and unable to walk away.  I humorously suggested that there are just soooooo damned many abusive nut jobs out there that you can’t throw a stick without hitting one…or get into a relationship without one being attached somehow to the other person as an ex or parent or business partner.   Luna noted that, for me,  the tendrils of abusive people have been thinning out but they are still there.  I think they probably always will be because I can recognize them and help other people understand them.

And for that, I guess I am grateful that Daddy showed me what such a person looks like and that sometimes you just have to let your abusers go and walk away, no matter how much you care.  Daddy gave me a lot of pain in my life, but he also gave me something I can share and help others understand.

Photo by Randysonofrobert; creative commons license

 
It’s a perfect example of the Law of Attraction in action, but  I tend to draw to me people who are or have been abuse victims. This was highlighted for me by The Elemental Muse (hi, Bev!) this week and through an intense EFT (tapping) session with AngelSu when I was having chest pains and migraines yesterday. 

I often write about how much I enjoy being single and independent, but actually, it’s the not being abused that I enjoy.  Being single again and independent were part of my escape process and I often equate them with being abuse-free.  It’s been a long time since I’ve written much about my previous situation, and my ex and I are now quite civil to one another in a keep-your-distance-and-interact-only-for-the-sake-of-the-kids kind of way.  After talking to a repairman this week who used to see me in my old life with a polite smile plastered over my sad face and realizing that he never had any idea of what life was like for me, it’s time to talk about it again.

I was in a long-term abusive relationship, I allowed myself to be abused and dominated, and I left it, finally. Leaving it was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, and the most rewarding thing I could do for myself and my children.  

Most people think of abuse as closed-fist beatings.  It can be, yes, or it can be more insidious, something that’s often referred to as verbal abuse, and often neither the abuser nor the abused realizes what it is because they can’t link it to a physical bruise. I see this with submissive men who are seeking a dominant woman and find a domineering one instead.  I see this with spiritual women who will do anything to keep the family together and take on the task of self-sacrifice, absorbing the brunt of cruel words so their children won’t have to, even though their children experience the abuse through their mothers.  I see it in loving, strong people who turn into doormats just to keep the peace and lose themselves in what amounts to a suicide of the personality as who they really are is completed eradicated from the planet in order to please their master/mistress.

If you have no idea what type of abuse I’m speaking of, then here are a few from my own history.  Do you recognize yourself?  Anyone you know?  No one who knew my ex through work or as a casual acquaintance–or even fairly close friend–would ever have suspected what was really going on between us.  A facade is hard to keep up all the time, and when you’re married to someone, they can usually relax and let the real self shine through.

He constantly criticized me, all of which was for my own good, of course.  For a long time, I believed him.

I was a different person in his presence.  My friends noted this.  Even my children noted this.  I changed from a vibrant, fun, independent person into a shell of myself, rushing to placate him about most everything so he wouldn’t be sharp-tongued with me or give me that withering glare.

I was put on a short leash.  He had to know where I was, what I was doing, who I was with every moment of the day.  The reverse was not true, but he had the need to dictate my free time and fill it how he wanted.  As our relationship deteriorated, this just got worse until I felt I was suffocating.  I could not go anywhere without him with me and if he didn’t want to go there, he behaved badly or sulked until I gave in.  If I did got anywhere or spent time with anyone else, including my pre-teen daughters in a private girl-stuff conversation, then he accused me of excluding him, and one again I was the bad guy.

He frequently told me that our problem was that I didn’t communicate more, yet he talked over me when I did or told me what I was saying was stupid or worthless.

Almost any decision I made without his complete approval was subject to criticism.  If I thought of it, then it was inadequate.  Some good stock market decisions come to mind.   No matter how much research I had to back up my decision or my suggestion, it was never good enough.  Like what type of dog would be non-allergenic for Aislinn…which is why we didn’t get a dog until after I filed divorce papers.

He supposedly supported my religion and often said he did to others, but then ridiculed me for my beliefs, both privately and in front of our children. 

I was told how much of a burden my family members were, even when his assistance was minimal or just normal good stuff that any friend would do for a friend with a family medical emergency.

Whatever happened between us that made me unhappy, I was told that I had wanted it fiercely and needed to keep it, whether I had or not, and even when many times I’d said it was something I didn’t want.  That included being in a job I hated and desperately want to leave and  the Mercedes I drove but hated because I preferred a pickup truck and he liked the image of a Mercedes-driving wife.

I could never do anything well enough.  Even if it was something that I excelled at and my employer appreciated that particular skill because I was one of the best at what I did, well, for my abuser, it was never good enough.  In fact, with little or no knowledge of how I handled the situation in my daily job, he always thought he could do it better and would give me instructions on how to do it as if I were a small child.  The Stupid Treatment was administered in regular doses.

I was frequently told that I expected too much in regard to small things that happy couples always had.   I was told that my yearning for a romantic connection or a long conversation was unrealistic. 

I never knew what mood he would be in when he came home or answered the phone.  Everyone has different moods throughout the day, but I would get knots in my stomach when he came home because I didn’t know if he’d be smiling or yelling. 

He would unexpected fly off the handle at me, then be fine and happy, then angry at me for being upset or skittish. 

Every other sentence was a guilt-trip.  He later admitted to me, during the divorce, that he knew just what my buttons were and how to push them to get what he wanted. 

I was told in front of my daughters that I was “weird.”  I was told to my face, on a regular basis, that my dreams for my life were silly and that no one would want anything I had to offer except him, so I should be grateful for what I had.

I could never do anything quickly enough.  Even if the normal process took months, he’d be upset if I couldn’t accomplish it with superhuman speed. Even if I had to rely on others who took too much time, it was still my fault.

He would “thank” me for something in the most sarcastic voice he could.  Or I might get the silent treatment for weeks at a time.  He had the ability to turn off and on like a light switch, so that he would be loving and happy and then–boom!–no interaction for weeks and then–poof!–talking happily again and demanding to know what’s wrong with me that I’ve withdrawn.

He punished me (for decisions I made without him, for my opinions, for no reason) by withdrawing his affections.  I’ve never been lonelier than in the same room with him.

He would give me delicious crumbs, just enough that I knew he could be loving and responsive, just enough that there was always the promise of a banquet, and I was seduced into staying, hoping for banquet eventually, but it never came.

He let me know he had achieved all his dreams, but my dreams didn’t matter.  For me to have my dreams, it would be a step down in our affluent lifestyle and it wasn’t “right” for me reduce his lifestyle in order for me to have my heart’s desire. 

There were times when I wished he’d change back into the person I knew he could be and had seemed to be, and I kept hoping he would.  For years.

These are a few of the ways I lived my life back then.  These things only got worse over time.  They never got better, except for a few weeks when I was filing for divorce and he was scared, but even that didn’t last).   Abuse never gets better.  It may take a day’s break here and there but  it’s only a quick plateau before it escalates yet again.  The only way we got along was if I tried to be something I wasn’t, and that made me even more miserable.  I was not loved for who I was but for what I was supposed to be, and being that person was the same as suicide to me.   I no longer existed except as an extension of him. 

But I stayed for my girls…and then I left for my girls, and for me. 

The best advice I can give to anyone who recognizes himself or herself in some of what I’ve said is to take a vacation from them.  A few weeks or months if possible.  If not, even a few days.  My ex did not want me away from him for any length of time and especially not out of his range of his cell phone.  This was his best way of controlling me.  I could not get “out of his energy” long enough to think things through.  That was a valid concern on his part because once I did have a few days away, I could look at everything objectively and start to see what was really going on in our relationship and how I was being manipulated.  For this reason, he refused to move out and give me some space to work through things when I was still open to a reconciliation.  Even though the marriage counselor advised it. 

An abuser knows that the moment you stop focusing everything on him or her, then you might actually focus on yourself and do the right thing for you, and that translates into being able to do the right thing for your children, too.