emotional abuse – Notes from an Invisible Woman

Lightbulb moments

I’ve had a few lightbulb moments over the past couple of years; single thoughts and realisations that took my breath away. Sometimes they’ve been things I’d said out loud in some form or other but had never really accepted their truth. Sometimes they’ve been random thoughts and feelings pulled together suddenly into a coherent whole.

I’ve given up all hope of ever being happy.

The first was when I decided to leave my marriage. After years of feeling miserable, isolated and inadequate, I had the single clear thought that I’d given up all hope of ever being happy. By making the daily choice to stay in a toxic, dysfunctional marriage, I was choosing a future where I could never be myself or believe that I could be content or happy.

That thought was the first step towards my decision to leave. If it had just been that thought in isolation, I still might have stayed. I’ve been conditioned to believe my happiness is insignificant, so I probably would have accepted that and continued on. But that first clear thought was followed by the realisation that I was teaching my daughter that this was what she could expect from life too – that as long as her partner and children were happy, then her happiness was irrelevant. And I was teaching my sons that their happiness was the only relevant factor. I probably could have resigned myself to an unhappy life, but I couldn’t do it to them and their future partners.

I am a victim.

After I left my marriage, I had several people direct me to support services for victims of domestic violence and abuse. Not church friends, of course, they all told me that I simply needed to pray more, read my Bible more, focus on being a better wife, and uphold the sanctity of my wedding vows. Friends from outside of the church, Centrelink staff, my new GP, a psychologist – they used the word victim. They said it with confidence. I shrank away from the reality of what that word meant for the longest time.

Then one day, I had the clear thought “I am a victim”. The behaviour of others, outside my control, had negatively impacted my life and was continuing to negatively impact my life and cause me harm. I accepted that the word applied to me. It was strangely heartbreaking and liberating at the same time. It allowed me to stop blaming myself for so many things, but it created new pathways for blame and guilt and shame. It’s been a challenging thing to process.

I have PTSD.

I’d been attending specialised trauma and PTSD counselling for months before this thought truly settled in my mind. I was walking through a shopping centre after a therapy session vaguely reflecting on what we’d discussed, particularly the mechanism of response attached to physical, emotional and mental triggers. Even though I’d used cPTSD (complex PTSD) to describe my reactions in discussions with others and even though it was something I had read about, discussed and thought about in relation to myself, I’d never really accepted that it belonged to me. I think I was somehow holding on to the belief that this was some passing phase of the recovery process with PTSD-ike reactions that I’d get over any day now.

I have PTSD. I could have sat down in the middle of that shopping centre and wept when the thought appeared in my mind. I almost did.

The actions of others, their choices and the priorities they’ve imposed on me – my ex, my parents, my church – have rewired my brain and created response pathways that continue to impact my life even though I’m created boundaries to protect myself from them. Other people have used emotional abuse to force me to be the person they wanted me to be, and it has caused me harm in a way that continues to echo through my life.

Narcissitic abuse is intentional.

Last night, a random meme from a Facebook page for survivors of abuse that I follow popped up in my timeline. It appeared again this morning. It gave examples of behaviours as proof that narcissistic abusers know exactly what they’re doing, including the fact that they’re able to switch their abusive behaviours on and off depending on their audience, their abuse is victim and situation specific, and their tendency to gaslight the victim to convince them that the abuse never happened.

I’ve acknowledged my ex was and is abusive. I can describe behaviours that have clearly been emotionally and mentally manipulative and harmful. I have pages of examples of harmful behaviour towards myself and the children since the separation, and could write dozens of more pages about things that happened during our marriage. I can now clearly see how abusive the relationship was in a way that I never could when I was with him.

But despite that, despite all that he’s done and all the ways he’s blamed me for the consequences of his decisions, all the times he’s denied things that the children and I have observed to be true, all the ways he’s chosen to inflict pain and attempt to control me, some small part of my brain resisted believing that it was intentional. He’s emotionally immature, self-absorbed, socially awkward, thoughtless – all these things could result in similar behaviours, couldn’t they?

Narcissistic abuse is intentional. He chose the time and place for his abuse and it was never in front of others (although they may have thought he was a little awkward or weird). He never accepted responsibility for anything, ever. In 22 years of marriage, he never apologised for anything. Not once. My feelings were ignored or, worse, I was told I was feeling the wrong things and should adjust my responses. He treated me with no respect – emotionally or physically – while attending men’s Bible studies and support groups that focused on respecting women and rejecting inappropriate sexualisation of women. I baked for those damn meetings, so that he could look like someone with a wonderful relationship. I facilitated the image he wanted others to have of him, while in the privacy of our home he undermined my image of myself until I believed I was completely inadequate.

My ex-husband chose to treat me badly. He chose to behave in a way that damaged me in order to build up the image of himself he wanted others to believe (and that he already believed was true). He was abusive by choice. He gaslighted me constantly – it was always my fault, I always misunderstood, I was always being unreasonable. Forgotten birthdays? Never once reading anything I wrote including books I had published? Unwanted physical contact? Never using my name, ever, even though I said I hated the nickname he used for me constantly. The fact that those things and so many more upset me were my fault. Always. Now be a good girl and pull yourself together so we can go and play happy families at church and everyone can see how good our life is.

That’s been the lightbulb moment of the past 24 hours and I still feel sick at the thought of it. How does someone do that to someone else? To someone they profess to love? How can someone put so much effort into creating a fake image for others only to erode the foundation of that image in the privacy of their home, on purpose not by accident. How did I ever think his abuse was unintentional? Why do I still buy in to his distorted view of who I was. And who I am.

As awful as this latest lightbulb moment is, I’m hoping that like the previous realisations it indicates a step towards healing and away from the trauma of the past. But for the moment, it hurts and I feel betrayed and angry and weak and devastated that my story includes decades of prioritising the happiness of someone who not only never prioritised my happiness, but actively discouraged it.

The trouble with lightbulb moments is that they make you aware of just how dark things were before the light came on.

When Getting Better Means Feeling Worse

I wonder sometimes why I feel so anxious now, when my life now is so much safer and I’m surrounded by so much love and acceptance. I don’t remember feeling anxious ‘before’, when I felt so sad and lonely and insignificant so often. I don’t remember having to talk myself out of panic attacks or even having panic attacks. I don’t remember a constant fluttery ache in my chest or being self-conscious about joining conversations, or avoiding certain places or people or songs or words because I knew the emotions they triggered would feel overwhelming. I would never have described myself as anxious.

I do remember attempting to get support for depression on multiple occasions. I tried different medications (which resulted in unbearable side effects). I went to several different psychologists over the years, who focused on encouraging me to find ways to take care of and prioritise myself as a way of counteracting my feelings of sadness and lack of energy. I consulted with my pastors and church elders, who recommended prayer, a heart of service and humility, reading the Bible, and focusing on being a better wife and mother.

I felt sad and overwhelmed and, at times, hopeless, but not anxious. Outwardly I maintained the facade of a happy if tired stay-at-home mother busy with children, volunteer work and hobbies, raising three wonderful children, supporting my busy professional husband, and trying to be an active part of my extended family, church, and school community. Inwardly, I was exhausted and emotionally depleted. Maybe people noticed that, but I don’t think so. If they did, very few cared enough to do anything about it, so that’s pretty much the same as not noticing, right?

While I was undeniably depressed throughout my marriage, I think the depression was a symptom of a bigger problem. I think I felt sad and trapped and inadequate beyond the ability of my brain to process those feelings and that presented as depression. I wasn’t depressed, I was distraught. And abused.

It’s almost three years since I left that marriage. It’s just over a year since the last time I had to talk to the police to report harassment and intimidation from my ex. Almost one year since his most recent openly expressed harassing demands, delivered via his lawyer with the threat of legal action. (More subtle acts of intimidation and emotional manipulation continue.) More than 18 months since my last conversation with my mother (which lasted less than two minutes) and ranting text message from my father. One year since I wrote my parents a letter saying that their ongoing indifference to me and my children and support of my ex meant that I was choosing to no longer include them in my life.

It’s been thirteen months since I commenced trauma/C-PTSD therapy with an incredibly helpful supportive therapist, attending sessions on an almost weekly basis to find ways to understand and counteract the coping mechanisms and conditioned behaviours of a lifetime of emotional neglect and abuse. And it’s been just over a year since I married a man who reminds me daily that I am loved and valued and safe and who always treats me like I matter. Always.

My children are safe and happy. I’m surrounded daily by people I love. I have a good job working for a man I respect, and I am slowly, slowly regaining the ability to connect with people and with words. I have everything I need, and more.

Yet the fluttering ache of anxiety in my chest remains a constant companion. I often start the day slowly, not because I struggle to wake up, but because I have to give myself a pep talk to convince myself that I can cope with whatever the day might bring my way. That I’m not useless and inadequate and vulnerable. That I’m safe.

It has surprised me that even though I am in such a safe and happy place, that the anxiety still feels so intense. I’ve had to come to terms with the fact that anxiety isn’t a reaction to my environment (as the depression was), but it is now part of who I am. Maybe I’ve always felt this way, but now I’m more aware of physical and emotional signs of my anxiety. Maybe I can simply better recognise anxiety, instead of grouping all my feelings together and labelling them as depression because that was much easier to deal with than being honest with myself about how trapped and hopeless and awful I felt for so long.

Or maybe I’m still riding the wave of those suppressed emotions now that they are free to be acknowledged after almost 44 years of putting in so much effort to convince others, and myself, that everything was fine when so much of it was awful. I guess it will take time for those previously unacknowledged feelings to run their course (because ignoring them doesn’t make them go away).

I am so much more aware of myself now. I struggle daily with feelings of inadequacy and anxiety and low self-worth (well, mostly non-existent self-worth, actually). I have no idea why my husband loves me. I blame myself for everything (including things I have no control over). I anticipate my failure in every situation and I anticipate the worst case scenario for everything I do. I accept all criticism as being justified, and shrug off compliments as unwarranted kindness. Simple acts of love and caring from my husband and my children leave me feeling overwhelmed and confused. I need to talk myself back from the edge of tears and panic far more often than I should.

But despite all of this, because of it really, I can see that I’m getting better. Because I can write all of this down. I can see that the way I’m responding is dysfunctional. I can see that my view of myself is distorted through the lens of the disapproval and unrealistic, narcissistic, self-focused expectations of people who only ever valued me for how I made them feel and never for myself.

I feel worse because I’m more aware of my own emotions and because acknowledging the reality of my past is hard. It’s all part of the process of recovering myself after a lifetime of abuse that conditioned me to believe that only the parts of me that supported others had any value.

My anxiety is part of who I am now and I’m finding ways to deal with it. It sounds like things are worse, but the reality is that despite the anxiety and challenging truths and emotional triggers and the effort required to counteract so many emotionally undermining conditioned responses, I am starting to make active choices to care for myself. And I am starting to slowly believe that I deserve to be happy. And that’s a sign that things are getting better.

How Does This Happen?

A few months after I left my abusive marriage, when I was confused about how I’d stayed in a relationship that was so toxic for so long, how I hadn’t even really realised how toxic it was until various social workers and secular counsellors immediately recommended I contact abuse support services when I shared details, a friend said something that has stayed with me: you don’t realise the air you’re breathing is poisonous until you take a breath of fresh air.

It made sense at the time in relation to my marriage. The reaction of others as I shared details from the 22 years I was with my ex-husband gradually helped me realise that what I’d accepted as ‘normal’ was in fact toxic and dysfunctional to an extreme level. I was surprised, but somehow not surprised, as I took a step back and realised that the relationship that had made me feel so sad and hopeless and isolated wasn’t considered normal by others.

Then I faced the judgement of Christian friends and my church family for stepping away from my marriage and betraying my wedding vows. I had close Christian friends urge me to return to my ex-husband, even though they were aware social workers and domestic violence counsellors were advising me to protect myself and my children from his manipulation and encouraging me to access support services for abuse victims. Church friends ignored my assertions that he was controlling and toxic and urged me to do the ‘right’ thing for myself and my children and restore our family to what God intended. And I took a step back, took a deep breath and realised that the poisonous air hadn’t just been inside my marriage, it was inside my church too.

Then my mother assured me she was there for me and I told her my ex-husband had been abusive. She was sympathetic and said she wasn’t surprised that I was so unhappy. She encouraged me to talk to her and lean on her, and in the same breath told me that she would be available to him too, because she loved us equally. When I told her he was stalking me, she said that was very troubling and if he shared anything with her that she thought might indicate there was a problem, she’d definitely let me know (then let me pay for the morning tea that she’d taken me out to for my birthday).

And when, after months of no contact, I called her to confirm what my ex had told my (confused) kids – that he was planning to have dinner with my parents and they’d sent him a birthday card – I was informed very firmly by my mother that she had no intention of allowing me to tell her who she could talk to and she would most certainly be happy to have my ex visit her any time if that’s what he wanted. Followed up by a vicious text from my father accusing me of maniacal ranting, relentless selfishness, and informing me that I was no longer allowed to contact my mother directly.

And I took another step back, took a deep breath and realised that the poisonous air had been there from birth. That I’d never breathed fresh air. That I’d been conditioned to accept the poisonous air as normal since childhood. Not just normal, but what I deserved; all I deserved.

How did this happen? How did I live a functional and ‘normal’ life for so long, gasping for breath?

I feel stupid and naive – how did I not realise this was happening? Why did I allow other people to define my worth? Why did I accept it when they said I was worth nothing (unless I was exactly what they told me I should be)? Then I feel angry. These were people I trusted, people I should have been able to trust above all others. People who should have loved me unconditionally but didn’t really love me at all.

And then I just feel overwhelmed and broken and lost. How can I retreat to a place where I feel safe so I can rebuild myself when it’s obvious I’ve never been emotionally safe or accepted for who I am? When my entire sense of self has been defined by others whose only concern was how I made them feel? What does it say about me that those that should have loved me valued me so little (but said they loved me, even though I made it so difficult and was so unloveable).

It isn’t possible to rebuild myself, because who I thought I was is built on lies and manipulation and judgement. I’m starting over and it’s surreal and awful and terrifying to be 47 years old and have no idea of who I am. I can’t discern the real me from the conditioned and controlled version of myself. I don’t know what I like, what I want, who I am. I feel lost. And I feel so supremely inadequate for the task of moving forward into my new life.

I need to start over. But where do you start, when your life is already underway? When you have responsibilities and commitments? How do I take the mental time out that I need to work out who I am when I have a full time job, three teenagers and two step-children to encourage and support, and a new husband whose love gives me stability, but also leaves me confused and overwhelmed because I simply don’t know how normal relationships work? Where is the space in my life to work out who I am when I have so many reasons to simply be what everyone else needs me to be? Just like I always have. Just like I’ve been conditioned to do.

My therapist has been talking with me about core values, about the core of who I am. She’s reassured me that person is good and kind and compassionate. But we’ve had to acknowledge that those characteristics are a response to how I’ve been treated and how others have made me feel. My parents, ex-husband, and church family made me feel so invisible and insignificant and inadequate, that I hate the thought of making others feel that way. A longtime friend jokes that getting people to share random details of their lives with me is my superpower, but the reality is that I hate the thought making others feel isolated and inadequate and I do what I can to help them feel connected and let them know that who they are matters, even if it’s only for the length of a casual interaction.

Which works on a casual level, but proper friendships require substance and I feel like an outline of a person, with no detail and no depth and no focus – a vague shadow that finds it so hard to connect with others. Real friendship requires giving of yourself and I simply don’t know who I am and I feel like I have nothing left to give.

And I wonder again, how does this happen? And how do I find the emotional reserves to move forward, when I feel depleted beyond my ability to recover?

And I take a deep breath, breathe in fresh air, and face another day. Because I deserve the chance to be who I am and I refuse to let go of the hope that it isn’t too late to find myself underneath the debris of the person I let others tell me I was.

Unravelling

Once, when I was very young, my grandmother removed a splinter from my finger with a sewing needle threaded with a strand of cotton. I asked why she needed to thread the needle and she replied that she would use the thread to pull the needle out if she lost it in my finger. It didn’t occur to me that she might be joking. I was in my teens before I reviewed this memory and had a WTF moment as I realised the absurdity of what she had said.

As children we absorb the words of those we trust unprocessed and unchallenged, and as adults we often don’t unpack those memories to evaluate the validity of what we have accepted as truth. With some memories, such as this one, it’s not a particular issue one way or another. It’s a nice memory of my grandmother and serves as an amusing anecdote but not much more. Other memories are not quite so easy to process.

A significant component of my C-PTSD (Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) therapy has involved working through old memories, reviewing the messages I’ve taken away from those moments, and evaluating the validity of those messages.

Reliving memories from my marriage and the first 18 months after I left it has been awful, triggering guilt, self-doubt, anger and panic. It’s been confronting and has left me feeling bruised and exhausted.

Dealing with memories of my childhood has been far, far worse. I feel like I’m unravelling.

As with the splinter anecdote, reviewing memories connected with my parents has involved rethinking the ‘reality’ those memories imprinted in my mind and it’s not as straightforward as simply realising I misunderstood the first time around.

As an example, when I was about seven (or probably a little younger) my mother asked me to choose between her and my father in a very tense situation. I chose because I was asked to. My mother has reminded me of that moment, and that choice, repeatedly throughout my life, always emphasising how hurtful my choice was. Those reminders reinforced the message that I am, and always have been, selfish and thoughtless.

I’ve never had a rose-coloured glasses view of my childhood but there were plenty of happy moments amidst the conflict and challenges. Creating a timeline of memories with my trauma therapist has revealed a pattern of judgement from my parents that has caught me by surprise and accepting the dysfunction of my relationship with my parents on several levels has been disorienting and upsetting.

I want to rail against my parents for the unfairness of the way they raised me – that I was expected to be perfect and judged for falling short of that goal, made responsible for things that were clearly beyond my control (including the behaviour of others) and reminded often that my choices were disappointing and my attitude selfish. While other family members caused drama and difficulties at every turn and were forgiven, it was made very clear to me that my failures were unacceptable and disconnection as punishment was far more frequent than I realised until I began to create the timeline. It’s been confronting, but it’s also helped me understand why my response to others choosing to disconnect is so strong and so painful (and why I always expect people to walk away).

With the help of my therapist, I am slowly allowing myself to process the events of my past in ways that don’t simply reinforce that I’m always to blame, always inadequate, always a disappointment. Seven-year-old me responding to a request to choose between my parents isn’t proof that I am thoughtless, insensitive and selfish. It’s an impossible situation for a child to navigate, and blaming me for my response and spending the rest of my life reminding me how hurtful that response was says more about my parents than it does about me.

I want to be angry. I want my parents to take responsibility for all the hurtful, diminishing, undermining, self-esteem destroying things they have done and said. I want them to understand that I tried my best, and beyond my best, to be what they expected me to be, even though it was never enough. I want to respond to accusations by both of my parents in recent years that I am selfish and think of no-one but myself with a list of all the ways that I am damaged and incapable of prioritising myself because they taught me, explicitly and implicitly, that my thoughts, feelings and opinions are insignificant. When asked to make a choice, even a simple one like what movie to watch or what takeaway to buy, I instinctively choose what I think will work best for others. Prioritising myself takes effort on my best days and is impossible and distressing in my lowest moments. I have my selfish, self-absorbed moments, of course, but to accuse me of caring only about myself is particularly hurtful coming from the people who taught me that my needs don’t matter at all.

I’m gradually realising that processing these memories isn’t breaking me, it’s helping me to discard thoughts and beliefs about myself that I should never have taken hold of in the first place. It’s unravelling the network of lies and unrealistic expectations that have kept the real me restrained and silenced, and stopped me believing in myself and *being* myself. It’s about removing the tangle of distorted perceptions and expectations imposed by others so that I can be myself, not the person they’ve told me I am.

It’s scary to do that. The dysfunction is familiar and my overwhelming self-doubt is safe in it’s own way. There is a weird sort of comfort in assuming that I’m always to blame, always wrong, always inadequate, always responsible but never good enough. Being myself is scary and overwhelming. It’s like I’m having to relearn how to think and feel and function, yet life goes on at the same pace and there is very little time available to adjust and recalibrate. As a result, I’m making lots of mistakes, frequently triggering the well established pathways in my brain that tell me I’m inadequate. It’s a constant battle to reject the influence and control of people who never liked who I really am (a thought expressed by both my mother and ex-husband)

Taking a step back and realising that I’d blindly accepted my grandmother had a Plan B if she lost her needle in my finger was amusing. Taking a step back and realising I’ve blindly allowed my parents and my ex-husband to define how I see myself – that I’ve accepted their disappointment as valid and reasonable – has left me feeling vulnerable and disoriented. It seems stupid to say that at 47 I’m having to relearn not just who I am but how to be that person when I interact with others, but that is where I’m at. It’s so hard to resist the behaviour patterns of a lifetime. The task of working out who I am and what I want seems impossibly huge, especially when I’m trying to integrate that with my existing relationships and responsibilities.

As always, I feel completely inadequate for the task ahead, but I’m holding on to the hope that there are better days ahead. Unravelling is just another necessary step in this journey.

Accepting that I am Broken

Several events recently have forced me to accept that after decades of fighting to be strong and confident in a relationship that constantly made me feel insignificant and invisible, and another 15 months of an emotionally manipulative separation, I’m not simply emotionally battered and bruised, I’m broken.

I want to write about it – about what it feels like to not be able to trust yourself, to be vulnerable to so many emotional triggers, to be constantly debating with yourself and analysing your thoughts and emotions in an attempt to discern the reasonable from the irrational.

I want to describe what it’s like to accept that you’ve been a victim of abuse and all that means – the sense of weakness and failure and frustration and guilt. I want to share how it feels to realise that the only counselling that provides meaningful support and comfort comes from domestic violence and trauma specialists.

I want to describe what it feels like to stand on the sidelines of public debate about how evangelical churches handle abusive relationships, reading comments by those who are criticising the presentation of research, deflecting attention away from the main issue and feeling offended by the suggestion that Christian communities would condone any kind of domestic abuse. I want to share what it is like to listen to these discussions while feeling overwhelmed by the memories of my own failed attempts to seek help from leaders of the four different churches I attended during my marriage.

I want to describe what it feels like to have some of the most significant people in my life look at me in my most vulnerable moments and tell me that they think I’m self-absorbed, selfish, lacking in faith, unnecessarily emotional and inappropriately focused on my own happiness. To have my father tell me I only think of myself and my mother say that she can’t bear to be in the same room as me, while they mention that they are willing to invite my abusive ex-husband over to their home for dinner. To have Christian friends pass judgement because I’m not valuing the preservation of my marriage ahead of my own emotional wellbeing. To face a wall of silence from people I assumed would be the foundation of the network of support for myself and my children.

I want to share how terrifying it is to encounter an unexpected emotional trigger that leaves me shaking and in tears and feeling so incredibly isolated. What it feels like to be curled up on the floor having a panic attack feeling weak and fragile and hating myself for not being able to control the flood of anxiety that makes it so hard to think clearly.

I want to write about how much I hate that my brokenness impacts on those I love.

I want to talk about all of these things and more. The thoughts swirl in my mind and I want to share them, but when I sit at a keyboard suddenly the words are flat and meaningless and convey none of the intensity of what I’m feeling. It’s just another part of me that is broken.

I’m hoping that accepting that I’m broken and making the effort to get the words out more regularly – dull and lifeless as they are – will help me to reach a place where I feel less shattered and better able to pull the pieces together to redefine myself and my life.

Today I am broken, but hopefully accepting that brings me one step closer to feeling restored.

It’s All My Fault (and other things I tell myself)

It’s been a pretty upsetting few days as I’ve approached and reached the 12 month anniversary of my separation. As usually happens when I’m stressed, I’ve had a soundtrack of statements swirling about in my head that have made me feel worse:

You should have tried harder to make it work.

You should have left earlier instead of exposing the kids to so many years of emotional dysfunction and abuse.

You should have realised it was emotional abuse and left. You’re so pathetic.

You’ve failed your children by not caring for them properly. You didn’t leave and remove them from the situation, and you didn’t give them the attention they needed to compensate for all the things they were missing. You’re a terrible mother.

You’re over-reacting and hysterical. It wasn’t that bad. You’re being self-indulgent. No-one has a perfect marriage. You should have been happy with what you had.

You’re so selfish. You’re a terrible mother, daughter, sister and friend. All you care about is how you’re feeling when you should be prioritising other people instead.

Of course, I’m aware that some of these statements are contradictory and part of my brain doesn’t really believe any of them (although part of it believes them all). This isn’t as illogical as it sounds, because ultimately the exact wording of the statements doesn’t really matter. It’s all about the underlying message, which can be summarised into one sentence: You’re a failure, it’s all your fault, and you’re not good enough.

I feel like I failed at my marriage (if I could make it ‘work’ for 22 years, surely I should be able to make it work forever). I’ve failed to support my children as I should have (by staying in a terrible marriage, by being so caught up in trying to survive each day that I didn’t give them the attention they deserved, by making the decisions that have led to the past 12 months of horrible, confronting conversations with their father for them because he can’t get to me). I’ve failed to be a Good Christian Wife (which I feel bad about even though I can see how damaging trying to achieve that distorted ideal is) and I’ve failed to be a confident independent woman. I failed by creating the image of a functional, happy family so that others didn’t realise that I needed help and now don’t realise that my ex isn’t the victim he portrays himself as being.

Every time something is said to the kids by their father, his family, my family or ‘friends’ that upsets them, I feel like it’s my fault. I should have protected them better and created a safer place for them. I should have known this is how things would pan out when I left their father and either stayed, or prepared them better for the fallout. My decisions have created the emotionally fraught landscape they have had to navigate over the past 12 months. It’s my fault that I’m not qualified enough to get a well paying job to give us all financial security and independence from my ex.

The ‘you’re not good enough’ soundtrack is the worst. That’s the one where I run through all the things I’m not – not strong enough, not smart enough, not brave enough, not coping well enough, not organised enough, not available for the kids enough, not supporting them enough. I’m not a good enough mother, friend or partner (in my new relationship). I’m not good enough at prioritising the practicalities of our everyday life, so the house is messy, the clothes aren’t ironed, and dinner is a bit of a potluck affair that could be a home cooked meal, but could also be takeaway pizza. Or toasted sandwiches.

Of course this is balanced out by a list of all the things I am: selfish, needy, flawed, broken, damaged, stupid, naive, disorganised, unqualified. The list goes on.

I’ve always thought I had a reasonably solid understanding of my strengths and weaknesses, but in these moments (and there have been so many of them in the past 12 months), it’s like I’m viewing everything through a filter that assumes that I’m to blame for everything – every unhappiness, every disappointment, every misunderstanding. After so many years married to someone who never apologised or accepted responsibility and always assumed that I was somehow to blame if things didn’t work out, that viewpoint now seems to be my default setting. It’s like it doesn’t matter that I’ve left him, because I’m now wired to be emotionally abusive to myself.

I’m not posting this to invite a raft of positive affirmations. This isn’t a cry for help or attention. It’s an acknowledgement that stepping away from my marriage was just the first step in a very, very long process of reclaiming myself. Some days it’s easy to see the wonderful things that are happening in my life, and other days I’m just too emotionally exhausted to find the energy to silence the ‘you’re a failure/it’s your fault/you’re not good enough’ soundtrack.

I know I am loved. I know I am valued. But tonight I am sad, and that’s okay. Tomorrow is a new day.