The Abuse We’re Still Not Talking About

The news about the NFL’s Ray Rice and Adrian Peterson has put a spotlight, for the time being anyway, on domestic abuse. Whether it’s hitting a significant other or hitting a child, important issues are being raised about abuse, what proof of wrongdoing is required, what punishment is appropriate, and what action, if any, the NFL and, by extension, other employers should take when one of their employees is accused of abuse.

I am glad these conversations are part of the public discourse now. There is one kind of domestic abuse, however, that we are still not talking about. To date, I have not heard anything said about emotional abuse.

There are many similarities between physical abuse and emotional abuse. Both kinds of abusers tend to be charismatic, and believe their good qualities make up for their abuse. Both start with mild forms of abuse, and work their way up to more extreme forms over time. Both use abuse to control those closest to them. Both kinds of abusers cut the person they are abusing off from their friends, to minimize the possibility that a friend will notice the abuse and encourage the abused person to leave the abuser.

I know about emotional abuse because I lived under it for ten years. And lest you think abuse happens only with people in violent jobs like the NFL, or people who are uneducated, or in other communities but not among Jews, I feel it necessary to point out my ex-husband was a college graduate, a successful business man, and Jewish, born and raised.

Often people who are abused are ashamed to speak about it, even years after the abuse has stopped. We imagine it reflects some moral flaw on our part, or some lack of intelligence. Who would be stupid enough to stay with an abuser for that long, after all?

The plain truth is, for most of those ten years, I didn’t know I was being abused. I had heard of domestic violence, and I knew I wouldn’t ever put up with that. But I had never heard the term “emotional abuse.” And like the proverbial frog which will jump out if you throw it in a bucket of scalding water but which will cook to death if you put it in tepid water and raise the temperature slowly, I failed to notice how the abuse against me was escalating slowly over time.

Another thing that stops people who have suffered emotional abuse from talking about it (and yes, I am avoiding both the words “victim” and “survivor” here on purpose), is the comparison we think will be made to domestic violence. “It couldn’t have been that bad,” we imagine people will say, “if he never hit you.”

So let me tell you a bit about what it was like for me, living with emotional abuse. It meant I was under a constant state of external control. It meant I lived in constant fear that at any time something I said or did, or something I failed to say or do, would set him off. One misstep, and I would be subjected to a lecture about all the things that were wrong with me. He would berate me until I was reduced to tears. Not that the abuse would stop when the tears started.

I lived in a constant state of sleep deprivation. Even though before I lived with him I used to get about nine hours of sleep a night, my husband only slept about five hours a night. And since he believed my main purpose in life was to serve as an ornament to him and to keep him entertained, if he was awake, I was required to be awake.

He wanted me to wear contact lenses, so I did. More than once, when it was hard to put in my contacts because my eyes were irritated due to lack of sleep, he berated me for wearing eyeglasses instead. He often insisted I didn’t need as much sleep as I claimed I did. Instead, he told me I needed to get cover makeup for the dark circles under my eyes.

The alarm would go off every morning at 6am. I did not have to get up that early in order to go to work. I was required to get up that early because he wanted to exercise before work, and I had to watch. I was allowed to lounge on a couch if we were not going jogging together that morning, but I was not to doze off during this time.

Everything I wore was approved by him. Although I typically wore three rings, a necklace, a watch, and three bracelets, he often let me know he was dissatisfied due to my lack of accessories. He wanted me to bleach my hair, so I did, and had it cut to suit his taste.

Every day, I had to call him from work to tell him what was going on. In the evening there was always a guessing game about dinner. He would say something like, “should we have chicken tonight or beef?” and if I answered wrong, I would get a lecture about what was wrong with me and how it should have been obvious which choice was the correct one.

He complained that I was underweight, but I was not to cook with butter or oil or make anything fattening to eat, or have fattening snacks around the house, because he was trying to lose weight.

I had to watch whatever TV shows he wanted to watch. Because I don’t find TV sufficient to hold my attention by itself, I took up needlepoint. From time to time he would ask me questions about the shows he was watching in order to make sure I was paying attention.

If I drove him somewhere, he would yell at me if I picked the “wrong” parking space. If we parked in a self-pay lot, he would berate me for trying to pay the full parking fee. If we went to the mall, he would reduce me to tears over how I wanted to try on the “wrong” clothes (and not enough accessories!) and, no matter how much I rushed, it was clear to him I was taking too long in the dressing room. But I was not to go to the mall by myself under any circumstances.

At night, I had to stay awake watching late night TV with him in bed, until he fell asleep with the remote control in his hand. I then had to take out my own remote control. Its sole purpose was to allow me to slowly, slowly, turn down the volume of the TV until it was so low that I could turn it off without waking him up. Then I could go to sleep.

This is just a taste of what emotional abuse is like. For the most part, you can’t see it. You will be hard pressed to find any video tapes of it. But it is real, it is damaging, and it is worth talking about.

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