Insidious in·sid·i·ous/inˈsidēəs/Adjective 1. Proceeding in a gradual, subtle way, but with harmful effects
Years ago, while talking with a very good friend of mine, we discovered that the word insidious best described the marriage relationships we were both in. She's blogged about it, and I feel compelled to do the same.
When I look back at the dynamics of my marriage relationship I realize, retrospectively, that while he and I are both to blame for the outcome (especially its effects on the children), the origin and progression of the dysfunction was so insidious that I was blind to the depth of its effects on me and my kids.
Losing my sense of self was the first and foundational insidious effect of our relationship upon myself and it set the tone for everything that followed, year after year. From the very start, I was stripped of my identity, and although my gut told me, right from the start, that something was wrong, I did not know to trust my instincts and so I told my gut to shut up.
The night I moved in with him, as I was hanging my clothes in his closet, he would tell me, "throw THAT one out" because, according to him, in was inappropriate, too revealing, sleazy, or "whore clothes." He assured me that he would replace all of it. By the end of the night, most of my wardrobe was in a Hefty bag, along with a chunk of my identity.
The first of many regrets formed that night. That was the night that I began to shove things into the basement of my soul. Yet, I justified it. I had to. I was young. That's the typical response. And I was young; I was only nineteen. So I forgive myself...to some degree. But it set the tone. It set the foundation for all that followed. He assured me that if he didn't love me so much, he would not tell me that I looked "cheap" in my clothes. It never occured to me then to point out that he seemed to like how I looked in my wardrobe while he was pursuing me. It never occured to me to simply say, "I'm sorry that you suddenly don't like my clothes, but I like my clothes and I intend to keep them!"
He never replaced my wardrobe. I took to wearing his clothes and lost my femininity, my sense of style, and did not realize at the time that my identity had been assaulted. In fact, I allowed my identity to be assaulted because his methods were so...insidious.
The night I moved in with him, as I was hanging my clothes in his closet, he would tell me, "throw THAT one out" because, according to him, in was inappropriate, too revealing, sleazy, or "whore clothes." He assured me that he would replace all of it. By the end of the night, most of my wardrobe was in a Hefty bag, along with a chunk of my identity.
The first of many regrets formed that night. That was the night that I began to shove things into the basement of my soul. Yet, I justified it. I had to. I was young. That's the typical response. And I was young; I was only nineteen. So I forgive myself...to some degree. But it set the tone. It set the foundation for all that followed. He assured me that if he didn't love me so much, he would not tell me that I looked "cheap" in my clothes. It never occured to me then to point out that he seemed to like how I looked in my wardrobe while he was pursuing me. It never occured to me to simply say, "I'm sorry that you suddenly don't like my clothes, but I like my clothes and I intend to keep them!"
He never replaced my wardrobe. I took to wearing his clothes and lost my femininity, my sense of style, and did not realize at the time that my identity had been assaulted. In fact, I allowed my identity to be assaulted because his methods were so...insidious.
Little by little, day by day, my identity continued to be assaulted. I was criticized for the way I mothered my daughter (I was too lenient, I didn't spank, and I played too much with my daughter who was then only three years old). I was degraded because of my spiritual beliefs (told I was stupid because I was agnostic). I was ridiculed for the music I liked to listen to (because it wasn't identical to his musical preferences). I was overpowered, little by little, piece by piece, ever so...insidiously.
It would be years before I was finally able to see the big picture. It was at least a decade before the pattern of emotional assault became vividly apparent. What was insidious in the moment, became blatant with hindsight. Whether it was my clothes, my music, my choice in friends, my vocational desires, my parenting methods, or the way I cooked lasagna, if it was innately mine, it was wrong.
Sure, that all seems so obviously wrong, so how did I not see it? Because it was insidious. Because each individual assault could be rationalized - either by me or him - to make it seem like love and concern. I had to believe that his motives were pure. And on the rare occasion that I would accuse him of being malicious, he would turn it around: How could I be so untrusting, so hateful, as to accuse him of being mean or purposely hurtful?!
And so the cycle of emotional abuse persisted, year after year, gradually and subtly eating away at my sense of self, diminishing my inner stregth, and destroying my confidence until finally, one day, there was nothing left of me but a crying puddle on the floor who wanted nothing more than to close my eyes and go to sleep and never wake up again...except for one thing: my kids. I could not walk away from them.
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