Tag Archives: domestic violence

Infidelity and Soap Bubbles

An August afternoon in Bath. The weather’s being kind to tourists and photographers alike, and the street performers are out in force. In the heart of the city, a man’s making bubbles, to the delight of a crowd of children. I stop to watch as he lifts a net out of a bucket of soapy water and sends a myriad giant rainbow-tinted bubbles skywards. The children shriek with joy. As generations have done before, they chase the bubbles with outstretched arms, only to see them vanish at the smallest touch. I stand fascinated as the bubble man lifts a different net into his bucket. This net creates just one enormous bubble. The crowd holds its breath as he lifts it. A tiny, blond toddler stands very still immediately in front of the bubble man. The man manoeuvres the bubble skilfully until it surrounds the enraptured child. For a brief second, he and the child are enclosed, then the bubble’s gone and the chase resumes.

I’m at the beginning of my eighth decade on this earth, yet something in me still connects with the magic of chasing bubbles. I’m sufficiently wise now to know they’ll always burst at a touch, but still a child enough to feel the delight. It’s a delicate balance though. There’s a place somewhere between longing to catch and control things that are essentially ephemeral, and becoming cynical because I know it’s not possible. 

That place can be hard to find, and these past months it’s been particularly difficult. When a certain Donald J. Trump burst upon the political scene a few years ago, a friend remarked that it felt as if the whole of America was now in an abusive relationship. Over time, the parallels have become increasingly stark, and the relationship has begun to threaten not only America but the planet itself.

I think anyone who’s experienced an abusive relationship will understand how it feels to live in a bubble. The highs of absolute connection can be breathtaking, but the bubble is fragile and will vanish in a puff of wind for any or no reason, at the whim of the abuser. That Trump threw a plethora of tantrums when America rejected him in favour of Biden came as no surprise. The lies, threats and dominance displays were absolutely to be expected. So was the continued wooing of his base – that part of the American psyche that hadn’t yet seen through him and longed to be back in the bubble, a sensation painfully familiar to anyone who’s experienced that particular addictive craving.

Over the past four years, Trump and his team have woven deceits of such magnitude that more or less anything that comes out of his mouth these days is probably a lie, or at least a gross distortion of the truth. It’s textbook abuse, and increasingly hiding in plain sight as Trump, whether through genuine mental decline or simply because he’s confident he can get away with it, continues to bluster and threaten with impunity.

Suddenly I’m back in 1985. The fire’s burning low in the grate and there’s a distinct chill in my living room as four men attempt to manipulate me into submission to my husband. 

The Bible says …

This is evangelical Christian marriage counselling, and it’s not a form of therapy I’d recommend. Small wonder that watching successive evangelical Trumpians insist their wives have no right to decide for themselves how to vote in the upcoming election has triggered the memory. The greater wonder is that I emerged from the experience unbowed, even though considerably sadder and wiser.

Abusive relationships, whether between couples, institutions and their members, or nations and rulers are invariably about someone demanding a level of control to which they have no right. This may begin with the addictive magic of love-bombing, a sense of deep emotional connection or perhaps the fervent worship experience of a Trump rally. However, the bubble will burst at a time largely determined by the abuser. From there the abuser will feed their chosen prey just enough of the original magic to keep them in thrall, whilst gradually ratcheting up the level of control. 

Short of a miracle, the abuser has no interest in breaking a cycle that works wholly to their advantage. It’s a depressing statistic that the most dangerous point in any abusive relationship is when the victim makes a break for freedom. In the UK alone, two women every week die in the attempt. With this as context, Trump’s threat to protects women ‘whether they like it or not’ hits at a visceral level.

Doing anything to another human being ‘whether they like it or not’ is abuse. My Facebook feed yesterday included a sponsored post from Womankind Worldwide reminding me of the plight of women in Afghanistan. Under the guise of religion, the Taliban claims to protect women from predatory men who might become inflamed with uncontrollable lust. More than half the population – human beings created in the image of God, with hopes, dreams and aspirations of their own – are no longer allowed to sing, to dance, to have access to education, or even so much as to speak outside the confines of their own homes. The disciples of Trump want to take America in the same direction, because when push comes to shove there’s no real difference but the label between one religious fundamentalist and another. All of them are out for control, whether they abuse the name of Jesus, Mohammed or even Donald Trump to achieve it. 

In keeping with the example of their leader, Trumpians view serial cheating on the part of men as wholly acceptable. However, for a woman so much as to hold a different view of the world from her husband is cast as disloyalty. For her to vote for the wrong presidential candidate is outright infidelity, and just ground for divorce. The double standard is breathtaking, and exposes as pure deceit any pretence that these people regard women as human beings. It also exposes the smallness, meanness and utter narcissism of the ‘god’ they’ve made in their own image.

It may sound as if I’m suggesting that America’s case is hopeless, but ultimately, there’s a flip side to all this. Abuse addiction is tough, but it’s not impossible to break, and often the decisive moment comes when the abuser gets overconfident and displays too much of their intent. Last week’s appalling rally in Madison Square Gardens may have revealed MAGA’s hand in the nick of time. The current scramble to get conservative women back on board certainly suggests a level of panic amongst Trumpians. We can only hope and pray that the backlash from the abuser will be minimal when he’s finally spurned.

In my last post I spoke of the way their campaign of hatred and vilification contrasts with Kamala Harris’ joyfulness and inclusivity. To quote Rebecca Solnit, writing on LitHub

So many powerful forces conspire to try to convince us that we are basically selfish …That’s the story of human nature we get told the most. But in fact most human beings are altruists and idealists, which is to say we need a lot more to feel right in the world. We want justice and peace, want to live in a society that supports these things, want a relationship with nature, and we want that nature to be protected and thriving”

I believe it’s imperative to understand that opting for control is to kill all that’s good and beautiful in humanity. To attempt to strangle the wild and complex magic of human spirituality and to set up a false god in its place is invariably the road to hell.

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Honesty

The flower bed in the lee of the wall on the beach road has flourished in the year since it was replanted. Amongst the tangle of oxeye daisies and fading thrift, a glimpse of honesty takes me to a time when those papery seed heads grew alongside carrots and sweet peas in the garden of my childish dreams.
“Why is it called honesty?”
“Because you can see right through it,” my mother said, as we patted the earth over the seeds together.
You don’t see it so much these days, my companion and I agree as we cross the road with the dogs. The BBC website declares honesty to be ‘an old-fashioned dual purpose plant’, which seems a good description for a virtue nobody prizes any more. Indeed, in these days of instant gratification and winner-takes-all, it seems to serve no useful purpose at all. Why would it? You can persuade turkeys to vote for your kind of Christmas by painting a bus with three-hundred-and-fifty-million-pound untruths, or become leader of the free world by lying through your teeth. Why bother with honesty?
It’s tempting to become nostalgic for old-fashioned values, but that way lies Brexit, amongst other horrors. I grew up in what seems to have become a golden age for nostalgia – post-war Britain. I was brought up to value honesty above all else by parents whose mantra was ‘what will the neighbours think?’ It was a difficult dance, and for an over-dramatic child such as myself it sometimes brought unexpected consequences.

 

Despite fierce parental disapproval, I lived much of my childhood in a solitary fantasy world, acting out for myself the stories rooted in my fertile imagination. I wore a yellow scarf on my head in lieu of golden ringlets. I rode horses constructed from garden canes stuffed into my father’s old socks. I became the entire crew of Swallows and Amazons, using oars made from old broom handles, and I hid my pet rock in a pile of rubble to stop my parents taking it away after my brother dropped it on his toe. Well, how was I to know the pile was destined to form the base for the hard standing for Dad’s first car? I still remember the day I came home from school to find my imaginary companion had disappeared beneath several inches of rapidly-setting concrete. On another memorable afternoon, I flounced across the patio and buried my head in my arms against the wall of the coal shed. I think I was a distraught princess at the time.
“Whatever’s the matter with you now?”
I hadn’t seen my mother watching at the French window. A split second of pure panic ensued, as I pulled out of my dream world at warp speed. My play acting was so much frowned upon that I knew telling the truth would lead to Consequences. I was obliged to cast round for a hasty excuse, in the hope of minimising the inevitable.
“I’m hungry.”
We’d finished lunch not ten minutes previously. All hell broke loose. What will the neighbours say? Do you want them to think we’re not feeding you properly? I was dragged indoors and forced to eat a banana. All in all it was one of the odder outcomes of dishonesty I’ve experienced.
But don’t we all do it? The tweaked image. The white lie. Compromising a principle to avoid offence. Our myriad minuscule deceptions oil the wheels of social interaction, primarily by ensuring we don’t spend our entire lives at each other’s throats. One of my guilty pleasures is the film Liar, Liar. A hapless father has absolute truthfulness thrust upon him for twenty-hour hours. The social consequences of being unable to lie are excruciating, but any Hollywood morality tale has to have a happy ending, and I’m yet to be convinced things would work out so well in the real world.
Charlie lied as naturally as he breathed. I took that as a given, and always felt a frisson of surprise if anything he told me turned out to be true. He was a fully-formed fantasist, and after a while it became a game for me to catch him and string him along. The Africa fantasy was my favourite. He’d read about a major civil war in a book once, and tried to convince me he’d been a mercenary in the thick of it. His story was so full of holes. He didn’t even know when he’d been there, or which side he’d fought on. The other thing he didn’t know was that his predecessor had lied to me for more than thirty years, even though I knew he was lying, and he knew that I knew. I could spot mendacity at twenty paces. In fact I’d grown so adept at living with deception that it had become second nature – a poison that had permeated my psyche so deeply I’d long ceased to be able to trust, or even to expect honesty.
My first conscious encounter with gaslighting was when a friend confided that she thought her husband was changing the clocks in the house in order to confuse her. For anyone unfamiliar with the term, gaslighting is attempting to alter someone else’s perception of the world in order to manipulate them. My friend was suffering severe postnatal depression and I feared she was delusional, so it wasn’t until some years later that I realised she’d almost certainly been telling the truth.
In a dubious defence of gaslighters I realise everyone’s perception of reality is different. A few years ago a friend and I had taken refuge from a downpour. We were sitting together over a pot of tea and some rather good scones. I was watching a man struggle through the deluge with a broken umbrella when my friend asked whether I thought it might have stopped raining yet. It seemed pretty obvious to me that it hadn’t, but he couldn’t see what I was seeing, despite the fact we were less than two feet apart.
Of course, in that situation neither of us had any vested interest in controlling the other’s perceptions. Gaslighting, on the other hand, is an active attempt to manipulate another’s view for your own ends. Gaslighting is making a three-year-old believe she’s a big girl because you don’t want to deal with her emotional distress. Gaslighting is shutting down an argument you’re losing by telling someone her gender makes her point of view invalid. Gaslighting is changing the clocks to disorientate your already-distressed wife. Gaslighting is telling your partner you’re a trained killer. It’s what an old friend bought into when her husband told her it was normal for men to have affairs, and what a newer friend refused to swallow when her partner called her unreasonable for objecting to his ongoing relationship with his ex wife. Gaslighting is one hundred and one ways to get someone to believe they’re the irrational one, not you. It’s constructing the world to your own specifications, then forcing someone else to live in it. If you ever have to check in with a friend to make sure what you’re feeling is reasonable, chances are someone’s been gaslighting you.
I once knew a man who told me he was one hundred percent honest. What you see is what you get, he used to say. The ultimate in gaslighting. Somehow I always picture him thumping his chest as he said it, although I’m fairly sure it never happened. My ability to see right through him had nothing to do with his honesty though. Far from it. Instead, my time in his company taught me that the least transparent among us are often easiest to see through, because once you’ve caught the first lie, you’ll be ready for the next one … and the next … ad nauseam. And when you’ve once seen through the WYSYWYG lie, it’s going to be that much harder for anyone to gaslight you again, unless you choose to allow them to do so, of course. Truth is, there’s nobody has honesty one hundred percent nailed. My mother was mistaken about those seed heads, you can’t see right through them. They’re no more than translucent, and that’s only after the muddy residue of the flower’s been removed. Ah, have to love a good metaphor … The fact is honesty’s inconvenient, painful and doesn’t often get us what we think we want. My mind games with Charlie and his predecessor were no more honest than their outright lies, but all the same I can’t help longing for honesty, after so many years of deceit. Yes, I know I’m not even honest with myself some of the time, so there’s a good way to go, but I’m kind of looking forward to the journey. And how honest have I been here? I’ll leave it to you to decide.

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Fear is a liar

It’s not every day you find out you’re dead. A quiet, family evening at my brother’s house. We’re sorting out an Indian takeaway. Negotiating portions of rice. Extra poppadoms. Anyone want to share a naan? Don’t suppose there’s any mango chutney, is there? I notice a missed call on my mobile. Gary doesn’t phone often. When he does, it’s usually about Charlie. I don’t think I’m going to like the voicemail he’s left. Please call Mike as soon as you get this. I was right. I don’t like it.

Mike’s the Community Police Officer. He sounds surprised to hear my voice.

You’re OK then?

I’m fine.

Only Charlie told me you were dead.

Dead?

He said you died last week. Of a heart attack.

Not that I noticed …

I hear disbelief. Then anger.

But he was sobbing his heart out. How can anyone lie like that?

It doesn’t seem a good time to tell him how rich I’d be if I had a fiver for every convincing lie Charlie’s told me. With tears. Snot. Anguish of the soul. The whole nine yards.

Maybe Reeva Steenkamp was less surprised by her demise than I was by mine. After all, she’d already told her lover she was scared of him. Only a few days before he shot her. Through the locked door of the toilet. At three in the morning. Four times. Just to make sure. She’d known he had a gun. A previous girlfriend once hid it because of his insane rages.

If Charlie’d ever had access to a firearm my death might have been more than a figment of his imagination. Over 70% of domestic violence murders happen after the victim has left the relationship. I left Charlie five times. He’s one reason why I’ve followed the media circus surrounding Reeva’s killer with such interest. There’s a photo that stands out for me from all those Oscar-winning performances in the witness box. The man’s in tears. Again. A single drip hanging from the end of his nose. Puts me in mind of Charlie whenever I see it. He could have won awards for acting too.

Reeva’s killer. Charlie. Nigella Lawson’s ex. Rosemary Gill’s murderer. They think they’re the victims somehow. If Reeva had behaved the way he wanted her to, everything would have been fine. It was all her fault. Charlie’s predecessor spelled that one out for me. Loudly. And often. The average abuser is utterly convinced of his own rightness. When the solids hit the fan it’s only reasonable for him to lie his way out of trouble. After all, he’s intelligent enough to know the truth might not garner much sympathy. I didn’t like what she did / said / the way she looked at someone. I threatened her. Smothered her. Shot her. Throttled her. Beat her to death. I couldn’t help it. Not going to go down well in a court of law. I thought she was a burglar. Much better. No matter how implausible. Tears are just the icing on the cake. It can’t be hard to squeeze out a few if you’re staring life imprisonment in the face. Poor me. Look what she did to me.

I once knew a man who’d been bullied in school. He was fifteen when it dawned on him he didn’t have to take this any more. He punched the bully. Knocked him out cold. Or so he told me. A light bulb moment. He’d never been bullied since. Instead he’d gone through life fists up. Always first to throw a metaphorical punch. Never letting anyone get close enough to hurt him. But he’d never stopped seeing himself as a victim. A frightened child. And a frightened child who’s six foot and eighteen stone is someone you don’t want to mess with.

Fear tells horrible lies. It told Reeva Steenkamp she’d be safe behind the locked door of the bathroom. It told her killer that Reeva wasn’t to be trusted. He had to subjugate her. And if she died in the process? Collateral damage. That’s what they call it in Gaza isn’t it? Once fear’s in the driving seat, empathy goes out of the window. Compassion. Humanity. We revert to blind animal instinct. Fight or flight. Not a good way to conduct intimate partnerships. Interactions with neighbours. International negotiations. Fear’s a liar. Fear’s a killer.

A couple of paragraphs back I snuck in the words I left Charlie five times. Five times. Stands to reason I’ve been interested in the hashtag trending on Twitter this week #WhyIStayed. Anyone who’s been abused will recognise the rollercoaster. The decision to stay, or to return to an abuser, is rooted in fear. It also flows from an optimism just as insane as the fear. I refused to believe there was nothing to Charlie but the monster. I knew there was more. I’d seen the good. I didn’t want to believe the evil would win the day. I don’t think he did either.

One evening in the kitchen. Roast lamb. Charlie was always a good cook. We worked well together. Pans clattered as I rooted through the cupboard. I finally found what I wanted. Stood up. Charlie wasn’t there. My stomach knotted. If you’ve ever lived with a hardcore abuser you’ll know about The Silence. I found him in the bedroom. Tears pouring down his face. Instead of the usual rebuff, he looked up. Helpless.

I can’t trust you.

Of course you can.

No. You don’t understand. It’s me. I can’t trust you.

He was right. No matter how hard I loved him. No matter how much he wanted to. He couldn’t do it. He wasn’t capable of trust. Fear’s a thief too.

I wish I could paint a fairytale ending. The moment of truth that set us free. We walked off into the sunset hand in hand … We didn’t of course. I cooked the lamb. He refused to eat it. The rest was messy. Because where domestic abuse is concerned, happy ever after is just another lie.

All the names in this piece have been changed or omitted, except those of the victims of domestic abuse. I see no reason why our abusers should steal the limelight as well as our lives.

Fear is a Liar

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