The first few months with this individual were magical. To start with, he made me feel like the chosen one, like a princess. There were so many treats—and he paid for everything. We went places, we did things. He took me to restaurants and nightclubs. He also bought me lots of food. All brought and left in bags in my kitchen, signed with little love letters.
He had this special way of looking at me. It was as if his gaze was nailing me to the wall. He could look at me for what felt like forever, intensively and penetratingly. It was both intimidating and flattering. Like he saw something within me that I didn't know about. Sometimes it was as if he saw right through me, as if he understood both my strengths and weaknesses.
The way he treated me also brought me a sense of imperfection. He seemed to know so much more about how to be human. I was like a thirsty and insecure camel in the desert, searching for something to heal and fill the big hole of uncertainty and unsafety that had been pounding in my chest for so long.
He had had a rough life with many thorns and bumps. I, on the other hand, had been protected my whole life, growing up in a sheltered world where everything was predictable. Looking around I saw the same people, the same values. I was fed up with it. It seemed all boring and narrow-minded. I thought he was the answer. I wanted him to teach me how to think and live—bigger--and without boundaries and judgements. I wanted to lean onto him, I wanted him to give me the answers and the directions.
I was convinced he wanted the same thing. I told myself his gaze was full of love. I thought he wanted to see me grow and become my best self. I thought he was the only one who could complete me, who would heal my wounds.
He was soft but also manly. He moved like a panther—and smoothly he sneaked himself into my life. I lived to please him. Whatever I did, I did to make him happy.
It was a constant longing to see him content and happy—and I wanted to make him proud of me. Pleasing him became a full-time job. He had very strong opinions and values—and they were all sprung out of his religion and culture.
When he thought I didn't understand, when I said or did things that broke his rules, his ideas of how to live life, he showed great disappointment—and he told me—how could I not understand the most obvious …?
Looking back, I now know he was never impressed by anything I said or did. I walked around feeling that he expected more, something else, something different. My life was all about trying to work out how I could satisfy him—and as the months went on—I started doubting myself and everything around me.
It didn't take long before he told me I wasn't good enough, nor beautiful enough, or smart enough. I was constantly told, in a very implied way, he could get any other woman he wanted—as if women were lining up for him. Women who had what I didn´t. Women who came from where he came from, women just out there. Women who were everything but me.
The first time he didn't come home I was furious and devastated. I remember confronting him, raising my voice. He snapped in an instant, grabbed a pair of rolled up socks and tossed at me. His gaze was filled with threats. As if he was saying “Don´t you dare set yourself up against me.” The socks didn't hurt, but the way he looked at me did. I once had seen that look—and rage before. That time he had ragingly smashed a bottle at the man's head—a man who´s only mistake was that he wanted to dance with me. I didn't dare to pursue questioning where he had been.
It wasn´t outspoken, but I knew I had to accept him the way he was, or he would abandon me. For some reason that frightened me a great deal. I no longer knew who I was without him.
And it happened so fast. I had only known him for a couple of months, but I was already his prisoner. I longed for the first few weeks when he had looked at me with love and understanding. I was longing for a time when I felt that he was the only one who understood me.
Three months into our relationship he was deported. His visa had expired, and it showed when he got caught in a routine traffic control. He had to leave the country. At the same time, I realised I was pregnant. I went after him, and we got married in his country. I did it so he would be able to stay in Sweden. I did it so my unborn child would have a father present. It was very important to me. When I was five months pregnant, he came back to Sweden. However, he showed no interest, nor joy in us having a baby. He was just quiet, frosty, and withdrawn.
I was devastated. All I had waited for was for him to come back to me. All I wanted was us to start a family together.
Two months before our baby was born, he got arrested with full restrictions. I wasn't allowed to see him, nor to speak to him. All we could do was write each other letters. All the letters he wrote me were full of love and promises of how everything was goint to work out and how proud he was to become a dad. His letters told me how much he was looking forward to seeing me again. I lived for the day when we were going to be reunited. Hope became my second name, and all I could think of—and hope for—was that he would be out before our son was born. But he was facing a serious felony. In trial he was found guilty and sentenced to prison for three years following a deportation. My world was shattered—it was like the ground I walked opened up in front of me as a big black hole which I fell into.
His case was appealed. I testified in court, cried my eyes out in front of the judge and assured everyone that I would personally make sure that he would end up a law-abiding citizen and a good father.
He received a lighter sentence, and the deportation was lifted.
However, nothing changed. When he was released, he went straight back to his old life. Everything he had promised me went out the window. I confronted him. I remember I yelled at him. I recall this as the first time he hit me. The slap across my face was so hard that I fell over. Our son, just a few years old at the time, found me on the floor. I remember I told him everything was fine. I told him I had fallen over.
From that day there wasn't a stop to what he would do. He brought friends home who stayed with us for weeks, living on our expense, taking over our home. I questioned it, he called me skimpy, selfish, evil, and mean. Sometimes he disappeared without a word of where he was going or where he was. Sometimes he was gone for months. All I could think of was how to get him to change, make him appreciate our family and choose us. All I could think of was how to prove myself worthy and so much more than the things he chose to do instead of being with me and our son.
I couldn't tell anyone about my situation. I didn't have the guts. I was too ashamed. I didn't want anyone to come for a visit. I was afraid of all the questions a visitor would ask. Outside my home I acted like everything was fine. I put up an act, I did what I thought was expected of me. I showed the world that there were no worries. I made jokes and I laughed. I now know I behaved excessively positively.
In the midst of it all, I got my university degree. I just kept going. Making excuses, hiding the truth, avoiding questions and even people was something I did on autopilot. I kept friends at a distance, even if I easily made new ones, I didn't want anyone to come too close, to know what was really going on. A few times he got really violent. Once he chased me around the apartment with a knife, another time, he tried to throw me off the balcony. Luckily his friends stopped him from succeeding. I told him it was over. He disappeared without a word.
I know I should have been happy that he was gone, but I wasn´t. All I could think of was how to get him back. When he did come back, I was in so much denial. Friends who tried to tell me the truth became my enemies. When I was told he had others, I stayed, even though I knew that the only right thing to do was to leave. He told lies about the people who tried to help me. He planted seeds of distrust in my heart and mind—and I believed him. I withdrew from people he didn't like. Eventually all my friends were gone, he had made sure of that. He always came up with something mean to say about people who cared for me. I played along by believing he was right.
There were times when I begged him to go away, to get out of my life. But when I did, he played all his cards. Suddenly he was the loving and caring husband again. For a short while it was all back to square one. Just like in the beginning of our relationship, he wooed me lovingly and promised me dearly that everything would be fine. Every time I took him back, I truly believed he had learned his lesson. His ideas and promises became my truth. I was so wrong.
I spent my days waiting for him to come around and to stop being a criminal. I told myself that what he did, he did so we could have a good life. I really believed he would turn around and change, it was just a matter of time, we would soon live together in the way I wanted to - and wished for.
In crises, going through traumas, as humans, our nervous systems often go into fight, flight or freeze mode. I was in a freeze mode for years. I couldn't sleep, I grinded my teeth so badly that a few of them were totally destroyed. My stomach was in constant pain. I lost my hair. My skin aged. I gained weight, and I suffered memory loss.
I thought fast carbs were the solution to my problems. I ate them to be able to stay awake, to gain energy, to think. I walked around with an immense brain fog, and I got lost in my own winding road of thoughts. I had problems staying awake for more than two hours at a time. My body craved rest. I woke up in cold sweat every morning—and with a high level of anxiety. I knew I had to leave him, get a divorce. I just didn't know how to get the strength to pull it off.
I was constantly told that if I would leave him, I would never ever find another man who would love me as much as he did. He brainwashed me to believe him. I was so broken, so worn out, so depleted that I couldn't do otherwise. I also believed I couldn't do life without a man. The thought of being lonely terrified me.
Our financial situation was another source of fear. We never had enough money. The fridge was so often empty, our bills didn't get paid and a few times our land line phone was cut off. Sometimes I had to borrow money so I could pay the rent, not to be evicted. He didn't seem to care. He lived as we were rich. He wore the latest brands of clothes, while I had to get clothes from second hand shops. I knew he always had stash of cash in his pockets, but he never shared any with me. He brought friends home who ate the food I had purchased for our son. I worked two jobs to cope. I got the local shop to give me a lead way, buy the food and pay later. I worried so much about our finances—and I thought it was going to get even worse if I was on my own. Occasionally he brought home bags of clothes for our son, bought expensive presents for us both, but the daily life costs he all left for me to sort out.
One day, one of my best friends came to visit. She had been living in Norway for years and I hadn't seen her since she left. When she saw me and the state I was in, she was shocked, but also furious. She made me realise I had to end the relationship immediately. Somehow, she gave me the strength to throw him out together with all his stuff and get the key back. I filed for divorce, and eight long years were finally over.
I didn't heal overnight. It actually took a lot of time. I didn't think I needed any therapy, so I didn't really talk about it. Instead, I walked into new relationships, into which I brought the needs of attention and acknowledgement. I got myself involved in a very dysfunctional relationship with one of his friends, whom in so many ways reminded me of him. We argued a lot. However, I didn't submit to him. Instead, I questioned back if I was questioned. After another dramatic relationship ended, I realised that I needed to look at myself and work out why I was so co-dependent. My journey towards healing has had many destinations along the way since.
I have done therapy, taken yoga classes, gone through the twelve steps, opened up to spirituality and to faith, believing that there is a mightier and higher power beyond myself. Recovering from my own destructivity is a lifelong process. I will probably have to keep my spirit in shape constantly, so that I do not fall back and lean into old habits and old patterns.
To anyone who is going through what I did, I want you to know that you are not alone—and there is help to get. The most significant thing to start with is to break isolation and to reach out for others to help you. We are many who have walked this healing journey before you. There is an infinite amount of strength and love out there. People who get it, people who will acknowledge you, validate you, and bring hope to your table. People who will support you, guide you and help you heal—and while doing so they will keep healing themselves. Just as I am doing in writing this.
- Charlotte