Weapons of War - and Other Conjugal Tools
[archived Journal-entry - revived]
The day of infamy, the day I flooded half the house. Carpets are sodden? And the linoleum? Curled ponds. I did it in solitary, all by my very own self. I never cease to amaze myself. Not “amused”? I was in such a state of furor and frustration – honestly? Self-directed rage. And sheer terror, sheer as a perpendicular cliff with not a fissure.
Mr. M, or “Mike” as he called himself at the discos, “shared” my anger and disappointment. Using that appealing feminine quality I have practiced with greater rigor then I did coloring inside the lines the way my Mama practiced and my Papa dictated, I gathered my forces labeled under a term as old as “woman”: submissiveness.
Submissiveness has its tactics and weaponry as militant in nature as that I have found deployed b y my Father, male “best-buddies”, bosses, husbands, bosses, and Male Authoritarian Bosses. I once thought boys were born under rocks. Sometimes I still think men/boys crawled out from them, like those, well – a head of steam – the stoking argument is all the hotter when it has a chance to build. The instructions of these anti-brute tactical forces are multigenerational, passed on faithfully from mother to daughter. Let us take a look at a few:
TACTIC #1: When interrogated about the nature of your transgression, real or imagined, assume “The Stance of The Hunchback of Notre Dame”, shrugging shoulders, eyes staring unfocused at His shoes throughout the lecture/tantrum, peppering your humble mumblings with, “I dunno”; these are considered “Standard Operational Procedures”.
TACTIC #2: Regular derogation may apply to any subject and it may be camouflaged, but it as old as the hills, universal as the world is round:
TACTIC #3: Restrict communications to Name, Rank, and Serial Number to guard your skin and anybody else’s under your care. This is standard procedure for Prisoners of War. One would think this might antagonize The Oppressor even more, but no. Assume passivity in order to deflect fury and further blows. Attempts to reason with a maniacal Uniform, to use constructive assertiveness, or to initiate2-way “punch’em-out-and-drag’em-out” aggression are futile, not to mention costly.
TACTIC #4: The Logistics of The Man of Your Dreams may not be the “kill-the-bitch-with-you-bare-hands” approach but, alternately, the sophistication of Guerilla Warfare. It’s the cursin’ and blamin’, the cheap shots and such like, the “You scum, low-life, just like your Mother” invectives followed by full-frontal expletives. Any woman knows Passive Aggression is the feminine approach, her Swiss knife. It’s the blows to his Emotional Gotchas bruisin’ and painin’ and explainin’-to-the-doctor’s crap that packs with targeted force.
When engaged in domestic combat it furthers you to not return volleys of equal ilk – he may sustain surface dents to his armor but you will hurt in a way that won’t soon heal. Truly, why bother? It’s beneath you. You do have a couple of things on your side, like fortitude and character that grows with the blows like weeds, undetectable to the senseless. That sounds like sour grapes but whatever gets you through the night.
TACTIC #5: Most importantly, you must perfect the habit of keeping your eyes averted, not even a momentary glance. Never let his crazed glare fool you – a lifesaving defense when your significant other has a penchant for getting “Black Drunk”. Those alcoholic crossed-eyes may say, “Nobody’s home” when an eye-flicker on your part may translate to Red Flag and on a dime he sobers into a merciless sharpshooter.
Never fool with body language when your guy comes home before dawn and you don’t know if he’s partied with a blonde or a bottle. I dared to eye-ball my drunk – once upon a time. Eye-to-eye contact would drive him clean off the deep end. In hindsight it may have been my contrasting control coupled with, ultimately, his knowing that my rage was so much greater, which drove him ultimately Blotto.
It’s a theory that remains unproved. There are family members that live to tell the tale but would have to resort to the Witness Protection Program.
TACTIC #6: Mohammed Ali’s “rope-a-dope” style, i.e., gloves to face and back to rope, was an enervating stance meant to tire his opponent a few rounds. Once his opponent had become too fatigued to defend himself, Ali would make one or two well-placed flicks and watch the guy drop to the tarp. However, unlike Ali you are not the Aggressor and you certainly not the designated bought-out winner in this Match, Set, Game. Your Oppressor’s unchecked wrath has nothing to do with “Fighting Style” and abides by no rules other than the laws of Physics to do with Force. Besides, isn’t it an unwritten universal law that the spirit of sportsmanship is alien to the arena of The Bedroom – something all’s fair or like that?
TACTIC #7: It is crucial to approach ire-diffusion, or victimization-dissipation by eating profuse Crow, that is, take the humiliation and “Shut-up!” For every invective, retort with the words of The Victim. Practice the following degrading confessions with the practiced look of contrition as genuinely:
He sure must’ve “wanted me bad”. For love and affection? I don’t think so. Think, if the door was so violated….Dogs chase bicycles and buses. What would happen if dogs successfully caught their prey – chew their tires to smithereens? It’s different for me. Man-Predator knows he has an encaged Wife-Prey to use as he chooses, whenever he chooses – except when there’s a locked door between us.
I guess that’s why it drives Man-Predators so crazy. “So near and yet so far….”
TACTIC #9: Throughout the dirty episode, you’re listening to the pounding on the other side of the door, your crouched in the corner of the living room next to a palm tipped over, or you’re thrown on The Marital Bed with Him….Believe it or not, you have some recourse of Sanity Defense. Keep positive thoughts. Such affirmations as, “But I stayed a virgin for Him”, “He’s always been my one true love”, and “with my patience and good example, I’ll make Him a happy Man!”
Survival-assertions such as these are the gauze and antiseptic – they may not last long but mentally they go a long, long way. “Keeping the old chin up” is the panacea to freedom, yeah, freedom to intellectualize your fantasies and romantic dreams you dwell on, gazing through your greasy kitchen window in moments of safe solitude. Yet, your sodden dishrag drags forgotten. It was once a Shower Gift, a set of three….
TACTIC #10: Remember the lesson you were taught in kindergarten – to share your toys, your recess snack and any precious belongings your best friends and the class bully, without discrimination? Well, remember how it felt when your stuff got destroyed and learn not to buy into that lie again. Safeguard what precious little integrity, trust, self-esteem and privacy you have left – survival is at stake here, not the sensibilities of “The Class Bully”.
TACTIC #11: And The Saga continues, day after day, trigger after unpredictable trigger out of “the deep” of your victimizer’s grey matter. Today it’s yet another breath-of-life crisis – is beloved thread-bare thermal underwear has finally shredded within Washing Machine Wasteland. Look out…
In the event that His argumentative rage escalates into a blow-out physical attack, do what we were taught in the dark of the school hall to prepare for the onslaught of The Bomb, namely, “Duck-and-Cover”. Trust me, I’ve used it on many an occasion. To what avail is the magical question.
The verbal volleys are seriously insidious in their effects. As the cornered one my perfectly-honed course of action, one developed since before memory, is the “at-my-fingertips” relief of Numb-Psyche Distancing. I retreat into a self-devised Twilight Zone. This two-tiered presence involves a split with-Him/void-of-Him personality. The paradox lies in the fact that I am in nobody’s presence, not even my own – a serious blunder on my part in retrospect, and so ingrained it is not easily rectified.
This withdrawal experience is not to be confused with “brain-numbed-by-sexual-preoccupation” experience most, correction, all of our “male counterparts” live by 100% of the time. Oops, did I just sin the Mortal Sin of Male Bashing? Did I make it any less scathing by generously calling?
Them “counterparts”? Good Heavens, I hope so.
TACTIC #12: If impending doom hovers, and I mean brutality with intent to kill, take your skin and those who need you for their macaroni-and-cheese-product-dinner, and get the Hell out the door. Pretend you’re the fireman and it’s a “3-Alarmer”.
You do know how to pretend, don’t you? Think back,”…Hey, Joey, let’s play house. I’ll pretend I’m the Mommy and you’ll be…No, Joey, don’t tear the leg off Becky – she’s my best doll! Hey, Joey! C’mere with Becky’s leg!”
Once in the safety of the streets, usually within the cloak of night, make like a bag lady, babes-in-arms, and hit the local shelter. Don’t have a clue where? Buses aren’t running? Are you about to return to the scene of His crime? Get a grip: head for a phone. Anyone in your position is likely to be prepared enough to have the quarter to dial “911”. Once the Emergency Operator comes on the line, don’t clam up the way your Closet Mentality tells you. Disclose your location and don’t be afraid to admit, “It’s an emergency!”
Looking back, I abandoned the marital home of my youth with such regularity that my friends listed two phone numbers in their address books:
Sensitivities safely tucked in Netherworld ever deeper, and with your upgraded Smile Mask you return to the scene of the crime with bigger and better Intentions of Love. Or, if Luck is in your camp and you’ve replaced your Perp – domestic violence jargon for Perpetrator – for a promising replacement “what rage like wild bull”.
Theoretical Tactic: Upgrade the universal “Battle of the Sexes” to “Battle of the Brains” with the following strategies:
How unbecoming that would be for a woman, how brazen of her to display her intellectual, let alone spiritual wares, as a prostitute bares her breasts and tush for her John. It remains the feminine to use prayer beads and hope for the Beatitude of Mercy, “Poverty of Spirit”.
Back to the gravity of the issue, The Self-Humiliation Rap is not truth, granted. It is a matter of survival. Survivals on the outside, but a seized-up chest, a throbbing head, ad nauseam, on the inside are telling the tale. Still, when you’ve rendered him too tuckered out or plainly bored to do “combat duty”, actual victory remains yours. Feel free to indulge in silent, “Checkmate.”
Check it out: Your spirit and strength to survive are intact.
FACT: Members of the male species who rave unreservedly, unpredictably – and there are more than statisticians care to admit – generally do not dress in standard issue Army Fatigues when they spend their alpha-aggression for “the open hand”, “the closed hand”, “the fisted hand”, or the more sophisticated intimidation tactics like verbal assault, negligence or financial abuse.
Their headspace, predominantly Reptilian Brain is void of would-be satisfying passions. You know, playing Catch with the kids, going to a Ball Game with the guys, keeping his blood-alcohol level within legal driving-limits or offering you Gourmet Sex on Valentine’s Day instead of the McDonalds fare. “Rotsa Ruck, Babe!”
FACT: Chances are you’ll throw caution to the wind sooner than later, and return to your Conjugal Battle Zone. Know that you can cover scars with long sleeves ‘til the cows come home but, they will be there like holocaust tattoos, forever.
FACT: Know you are in a vicious cycle that sucks you away, inch-by-inch from your Self, your dyed-in-the-wool friends the Real World, and ever closer to the realms of Bellevue.
Say you’ve blown on the dice and tossed your cash on the table to play the whole crap shoot. Be prepared to sublimate thoughts of the following nature:
Pity party, pity party!
Your path is veering dangerously close to His Assigned Boundary for you – Come, come, now, it can’t be as bad as all that. Look on the bright side. Think Positive and R-e-l-a-x. Your relationship has never really been life-threatening. You’re imagining the worst. He’s merely a little ego-threatening, an innocent mischievous monkey – like he was as a youngster skinning cats and setting them on fire. Here, take some of these with some water – it’ll settle your stomach.
Well, then, let’s get on with it. Preparations for emotional combat, crucial reminders, instructions not to indulge in self-pitying illusions, and a prescription for perpetual PMS in tow, you may be pieced together enough – or, more likely, be sufficiently absent of mind – to return to the marital domicile, that is, The Oppressor’s Domain. In exchange for hard work and consummate obedience, you glean the following:
IF you actually did “get a life” it may be low on the creature-comfort scale, at first granted, but delightfully peaceful almost immediately.
Face it – you’re scared as Hell of genuine freedom, the unknown of normalcy and moderate success. For most lily-livered-through-bondage females, authentic living connotes Absolute Crazy-making ABSOLUTELY. Abused women will memorize this vow to premature death:
“Forget ‘A Life’. Shell-shocked I may be but I’d rather die a Mrs. with my combat boots on than a Ms. with suede pumps. Give me body-and-soul subservience and hands-on-neck manhandling. It’s my life; it’s all I know. It’s “he and me as us”. Decision made, my aim is Truce all costs. Battle-quelling techniques and grenade shielding come with the job description.”
Your focus is three-fold within the camp of war:
Forego personal health and sanity, completely. Master “Slave Mentality” as seriously as political prisoners interred in enemy camp. Learn about this phenomenon from Vietnam POW’s, deprogrammed former cult-members, Patty Hearst, or the Nordic hostages taken in a bank-robbery gone awry after whom this phenomenon was named, “Stockholm Syndrome”.
Women’s Masters take on the role of prison guards only they wear the civilian clothes of fathers, uncles, step-fathers, schoolyard bullies – anything owning the family jewels. You get the picture.
Although significantly proven in statistics, the domestic minefield is common as sewer rats, and as ubiquitous – equally common on snowy Canadian tundra, cultured Swiss slopes and swampland in Bangladesh. Equal opportunity is not a blessing but apparently a right when it refers to verbal terrorism, domestic guerilla tactics and closet bondage.
Equally universal is the retort, “Over my dead body will I ever divulge my crippling Secret, not even to my best friend!”, said every day in every language.
The predator’s MO smells like fresh road-kill across-the-board as well. Sick spouses stick to signature styles – Perp keeps Vic in bondage until Vic enjoys nothing more than pleasing her Perp-of-choice.
The day of infamy, the day I flooded half the house. Carpets are sodden? And the linoleum? Curled ponds. I did it in solitary, all by my very own self. I never cease to amaze myself. Not “amused”? I was in such a state of furor and frustration – honestly? Self-directed rage. And sheer terror, sheer as a perpendicular cliff with not a fissure.
Mr. M, or “Mike” as he called himself at the discos, “shared” my anger and disappointment. Using that appealing feminine quality I have practiced with greater rigor then I did coloring inside the lines the way my Mama practiced and my Papa dictated, I gathered my forces labeled under a term as old as “woman”: submissiveness.
Submissiveness has its tactics and weaponry as militant in nature as that I have found deployed b y my Father, male “best-buddies”, bosses, husbands, bosses, and Male Authoritarian Bosses. I once thought boys were born under rocks. Sometimes I still think men/boys crawled out from them, like those, well – a head of steam – the stoking argument is all the hotter when it has a chance to build. The instructions of these anti-brute tactical forces are multigenerational, passed on faithfully from mother to daughter. Let us take a look at a few:
TACTIC #1: When interrogated about the nature of your transgression, real or imagined, assume “The Stance of The Hunchback of Notre Dame”, shrugging shoulders, eyes staring unfocused at His shoes throughout the lecture/tantrum, peppering your humble mumblings with, “I dunno”; these are considered “Standard Operational Procedures”.
TACTIC #2: Regular derogation may apply to any subject and it may be camouflaged, but it as old as the hills, universal as the world is round:
- “Why didn’t you have the sense to…?
- “Are you dumb, or are you just stupid?”
- And my personal favorite: “How many times have I told you, you should have (name your assigned poison here)?”
TACTIC #3: Restrict communications to Name, Rank, and Serial Number to guard your skin and anybody else’s under your care. This is standard procedure for Prisoners of War. One would think this might antagonize The Oppressor even more, but no. Assume passivity in order to deflect fury and further blows. Attempts to reason with a maniacal Uniform, to use constructive assertiveness, or to initiate2-way “punch’em-out-and-drag’em-out” aggression are futile, not to mention costly.
TACTIC #4: The Logistics of The Man of Your Dreams may not be the “kill-the-bitch-with-you-bare-hands” approach but, alternately, the sophistication of Guerilla Warfare. It’s the cursin’ and blamin’, the cheap shots and such like, the “You scum, low-life, just like your Mother” invectives followed by full-frontal expletives. Any woman knows Passive Aggression is the feminine approach, her Swiss knife. It’s the blows to his Emotional Gotchas bruisin’ and painin’ and explainin’-to-the-doctor’s crap that packs with targeted force.
When engaged in domestic combat it furthers you to not return volleys of equal ilk – he may sustain surface dents to his armor but you will hurt in a way that won’t soon heal. Truly, why bother? It’s beneath you. You do have a couple of things on your side, like fortitude and character that grows with the blows like weeds, undetectable to the senseless. That sounds like sour grapes but whatever gets you through the night.
TACTIC #5: Most importantly, you must perfect the habit of keeping your eyes averted, not even a momentary glance. Never let his crazed glare fool you – a lifesaving defense when your significant other has a penchant for getting “Black Drunk”. Those alcoholic crossed-eyes may say, “Nobody’s home” when an eye-flicker on your part may translate to Red Flag and on a dime he sobers into a merciless sharpshooter.
Never fool with body language when your guy comes home before dawn and you don’t know if he’s partied with a blonde or a bottle. I dared to eye-ball my drunk – once upon a time. Eye-to-eye contact would drive him clean off the deep end. In hindsight it may have been my contrasting control coupled with, ultimately, his knowing that my rage was so much greater, which drove him ultimately Blotto.
It’s a theory that remains unproved. There are family members that live to tell the tale but would have to resort to the Witness Protection Program.
TACTIC #6: Mohammed Ali’s “rope-a-dope” style, i.e., gloves to face and back to rope, was an enervating stance meant to tire his opponent a few rounds. Once his opponent had become too fatigued to defend himself, Ali would make one or two well-placed flicks and watch the guy drop to the tarp. However, unlike Ali you are not the Aggressor and you certainly not the designated bought-out winner in this Match, Set, Game. Your Oppressor’s unchecked wrath has nothing to do with “Fighting Style” and abides by no rules other than the laws of Physics to do with Force. Besides, isn’t it an unwritten universal law that the spirit of sportsmanship is alien to the arena of The Bedroom – something all’s fair or like that?
TACTIC #7: It is crucial to approach ire-diffusion, or victimization-dissipation by eating profuse Crow, that is, take the humiliation and “Shut-up!” For every invective, retort with the words of The Victim. Practice the following degrading confessions with the practiced look of contrition as genuinely:
- “I don’t know what came over me, Honey. I’m so very sorry. Please, can you forgive me somehow?”
- “Honest, I didn’t mean it, and I promise not ever to do it again!
- “Sweetheart, have mercy, I’m so sorry, believe me…Dear-Heart!”
- My tried-and-true ploy? Pleading wide-eyed innocence: “Holy Man, Gabe, I can’t understand it ‘cause it wasn’t me. I never did it but I feel real bad.” Gabe knows me long enough to know better than to take my lame excuse and I’m getting too old to fake naiveté. It’s about time I should cease and desist, but my barefaced lie still sticks as I work under the radar. Nobody bother with me much, so nobody questions me.
- A hide-away, i.e., food and shelter other than begging by day and a park bench by night
- Pamphlets about shelters, United Way Agencies and such like
- A plan and an emergency bag to make The Move, as in fly the coop, because you don’t have your mental shit together or worse, you believe in “Romancing the Stone” when all else fails, lock yourself in the bathroom. “Retreat to the Bathroom”.
He sure must’ve “wanted me bad”. For love and affection? I don’t think so. Think, if the door was so violated….Dogs chase bicycles and buses. What would happen if dogs successfully caught their prey – chew their tires to smithereens? It’s different for me. Man-Predator knows he has an encaged Wife-Prey to use as he chooses, whenever he chooses – except when there’s a locked door between us.
I guess that’s why it drives Man-Predators so crazy. “So near and yet so far….”
TACTIC #9: Throughout the dirty episode, you’re listening to the pounding on the other side of the door, your crouched in the corner of the living room next to a palm tipped over, or you’re thrown on The Marital Bed with Him….Believe it or not, you have some recourse of Sanity Defense. Keep positive thoughts. Such affirmations as, “But I stayed a virgin for Him”, “He’s always been my one true love”, and “with my patience and good example, I’ll make Him a happy Man!”
Survival-assertions such as these are the gauze and antiseptic – they may not last long but mentally they go a long, long way. “Keeping the old chin up” is the panacea to freedom, yeah, freedom to intellectualize your fantasies and romantic dreams you dwell on, gazing through your greasy kitchen window in moments of safe solitude. Yet, your sodden dishrag drags forgotten. It was once a Shower Gift, a set of three….
TACTIC #10: Remember the lesson you were taught in kindergarten – to share your toys, your recess snack and any precious belongings your best friends and the class bully, without discrimination? Well, remember how it felt when your stuff got destroyed and learn not to buy into that lie again. Safeguard what precious little integrity, trust, self-esteem and privacy you have left – survival is at stake here, not the sensibilities of “The Class Bully”.
TACTIC #11: And The Saga continues, day after day, trigger after unpredictable trigger out of “the deep” of your victimizer’s grey matter. Today it’s yet another breath-of-life crisis – is beloved thread-bare thermal underwear has finally shredded within Washing Machine Wasteland. Look out…
In the event that His argumentative rage escalates into a blow-out physical attack, do what we were taught in the dark of the school hall to prepare for the onslaught of The Bomb, namely, “Duck-and-Cover”. Trust me, I’ve used it on many an occasion. To what avail is the magical question.
The verbal volleys are seriously insidious in their effects. As the cornered one my perfectly-honed course of action, one developed since before memory, is the “at-my-fingertips” relief of Numb-Psyche Distancing. I retreat into a self-devised Twilight Zone. This two-tiered presence involves a split with-Him/void-of-Him personality. The paradox lies in the fact that I am in nobody’s presence, not even my own – a serious blunder on my part in retrospect, and so ingrained it is not easily rectified.
This withdrawal experience is not to be confused with “brain-numbed-by-sexual-preoccupation” experience most, correction, all of our “male counterparts” live by 100% of the time. Oops, did I just sin the Mortal Sin of Male Bashing? Did I make it any less scathing by generously calling?
Them “counterparts”? Good Heavens, I hope so.
TACTIC #12: If impending doom hovers, and I mean brutality with intent to kill, take your skin and those who need you for their macaroni-and-cheese-product-dinner, and get the Hell out the door. Pretend you’re the fireman and it’s a “3-Alarmer”.
You do know how to pretend, don’t you? Think back,”…Hey, Joey, let’s play house. I’ll pretend I’m the Mommy and you’ll be…No, Joey, don’t tear the leg off Becky – she’s my best doll! Hey, Joey! C’mere with Becky’s leg!”
Once in the safety of the streets, usually within the cloak of night, make like a bag lady, babes-in-arms, and hit the local shelter. Don’t have a clue where? Buses aren’t running? Are you about to return to the scene of His crime? Get a grip: head for a phone. Anyone in your position is likely to be prepared enough to have the quarter to dial “911”. Once the Emergency Operator comes on the line, don’t clam up the way your Closet Mentality tells you. Disclose your location and don’t be afraid to admit, “It’s an emergency!”
Looking back, I abandoned the marital home of my youth with such regularity that my friends listed two phone numbers in their address books:
- my parents’ home
- my husband's domicile.
Sensitivities safely tucked in Netherworld ever deeper, and with your upgraded Smile Mask you return to the scene of the crime with bigger and better Intentions of Love. Or, if Luck is in your camp and you’ve replaced your Perp – domestic violence jargon for Perpetrator – for a promising replacement “what rage like wild bull”.
Theoretical Tactic: Upgrade the universal “Battle of the Sexes” to “Battle of the Brains” with the following strategies:
- A war based on skill rather than might
- An authentic exchange of wisdom and experiential knowledge, simulating dialogue even
- Competition based on such qualities as creativity, innate abilities, vision
- Even a contest - a dare of raw nerve
How unbecoming that would be for a woman, how brazen of her to display her intellectual, let alone spiritual wares, as a prostitute bares her breasts and tush for her John. It remains the feminine to use prayer beads and hope for the Beatitude of Mercy, “Poverty of Spirit”.
Back to the gravity of the issue, The Self-Humiliation Rap is not truth, granted. It is a matter of survival. Survivals on the outside, but a seized-up chest, a throbbing head, ad nauseam, on the inside are telling the tale. Still, when you’ve rendered him too tuckered out or plainly bored to do “combat duty”, actual victory remains yours. Feel free to indulge in silent, “Checkmate.”
Check it out: Your spirit and strength to survive are intact.
FACT: Members of the male species who rave unreservedly, unpredictably – and there are more than statisticians care to admit – generally do not dress in standard issue Army Fatigues when they spend their alpha-aggression for “the open hand”, “the closed hand”, “the fisted hand”, or the more sophisticated intimidation tactics like verbal assault, negligence or financial abuse.
Their headspace, predominantly Reptilian Brain is void of would-be satisfying passions. You know, playing Catch with the kids, going to a Ball Game with the guys, keeping his blood-alcohol level within legal driving-limits or offering you Gourmet Sex on Valentine’s Day instead of the McDonalds fare. “Rotsa Ruck, Babe!”
FACT: Chances are you’ll throw caution to the wind sooner than later, and return to your Conjugal Battle Zone. Know that you can cover scars with long sleeves ‘til the cows come home but, they will be there like holocaust tattoos, forever.
FACT: Know you are in a vicious cycle that sucks you away, inch-by-inch from your Self, your dyed-in-the-wool friends the Real World, and ever closer to the realms of Bellevue.
Say you’ve blown on the dice and tossed your cash on the table to play the whole crap shoot. Be prepared to sublimate thoughts of the following nature:
- “I must be crazy. I don’t have to put up with this Bullshit!”
- “When’s the last time I was migraine-, ulcer-, grief-, panic-, anger-, (name your poison)-FREE?”
- “I don’t remember when I had authentic, unadulterated fun, a good night’s sleep, rest, peace and quiet….”
- “I know I’ve never truly experienced love, approval or kudos people talk about. I don’t think I’d recognize affection if I tripped over it!”
Replace those with the following “reality checks”: - “The whole stinking dung heap has taught me some hard lessons about the real me, that I’m nothing but stepped-on dog turd in this life”
- “I do not deserve love, humane treatment, nice things, a life.”
- “My mission in life is to under-function at a futile job for pittance or as volunteer.”
- Bottom line: “My tacky blood is good for sign the sales-contract of my soul to Satan.”
Soon enough you’ll have crossed the psycho-line and refer to yourself in the third-person as if you were watching your body move from the fly-on-the-wall viewpoint:
- “You know you aren’t worth a plug nickel.
- “When I see you in the mirror, I want to puke.”
- “I can’t stand what you stand for.”
- “I’m so sick of you that I have come to HATE you. In fact, I loathe you so much that if it weren’t for – choose one or more – the kids, my family, my religion, I’m obsessed with killing you.”
- “You’re such a Wimp he has full rights to call you, Wussy.”
- “Ha! You’re making cheap excuses to blow this Pop Stand because you don’t even have the nerve to get off your butt and sober up long enough to face the music.”
- “You are a poor excuse for a human being. I don’t know what you are. You’re nothing is what you are…”
Pity party, pity party!
Your path is veering dangerously close to His Assigned Boundary for you – Come, come, now, it can’t be as bad as all that. Look on the bright side. Think Positive and R-e-l-a-x. Your relationship has never really been life-threatening. You’re imagining the worst. He’s merely a little ego-threatening, an innocent mischievous monkey – like he was as a youngster skinning cats and setting them on fire. Here, take some of these with some water – it’ll settle your stomach.
Well, then, let’s get on with it. Preparations for emotional combat, crucial reminders, instructions not to indulge in self-pitying illusions, and a prescription for perpetual PMS in tow, you may be pieced together enough – or, more likely, be sufficiently absent of mind – to return to the marital domicile, that is, The Oppressor’s Domain. In exchange for hard work and consummate obedience, you glean the following:
- Food
- Shelter
- Pocket change, and, if you’re so graced,
- A rare moment of companionship for you to lap up gratefully, that is if The Man permits you to watch the football game on TV with Him.
IF you actually did “get a life” it may be low on the creature-comfort scale, at first granted, but delightfully peaceful almost immediately.
Face it – you’re scared as Hell of genuine freedom, the unknown of normalcy and moderate success. For most lily-livered-through-bondage females, authentic living connotes Absolute Crazy-making ABSOLUTELY. Abused women will memorize this vow to premature death:
“Forget ‘A Life’. Shell-shocked I may be but I’d rather die a Mrs. with my combat boots on than a Ms. with suede pumps. Give me body-and-soul subservience and hands-on-neck manhandling. It’s my life; it’s all I know. It’s “he and me as us”. Decision made, my aim is Truce all costs. Battle-quelling techniques and grenade shielding come with the job description.”
Your focus is three-fold within the camp of war:
- Preserve cease-fire with as few uprisings as possible.
- Ceasefire under Martial Law, or Neutral Battle-zone of safe, mutually-beneficial exchange developed to replace the theater of abusive operations in order to reach the long-range objective of…?
- A Tentative Peace Agreement for the marital home – the location of meteorite-size emotional craters, housing for the shells of family members whose personalities are compartmentalized and dissociated, for bloodstained tiling and psyches, a field of forgotten landmines in the form of raging hearts.
Forego personal health and sanity, completely. Master “Slave Mentality” as seriously as political prisoners interred in enemy camp. Learn about this phenomenon from Vietnam POW’s, deprogrammed former cult-members, Patty Hearst, or the Nordic hostages taken in a bank-robbery gone awry after whom this phenomenon was named, “Stockholm Syndrome”.
Women’s Masters take on the role of prison guards only they wear the civilian clothes of fathers, uncles, step-fathers, schoolyard bullies – anything owning the family jewels. You get the picture.
Although significantly proven in statistics, the domestic minefield is common as sewer rats, and as ubiquitous – equally common on snowy Canadian tundra, cultured Swiss slopes and swampland in Bangladesh. Equal opportunity is not a blessing but apparently a right when it refers to verbal terrorism, domestic guerilla tactics and closet bondage.
Equally universal is the retort, “Over my dead body will I ever divulge my crippling Secret, not even to my best friend!”, said every day in every language.
The predator’s MO smells like fresh road-kill across-the-board as well. Sick spouses stick to signature styles – Perp keeps Vic in bondage until Vic enjoys nothing more than pleasing her Perp-of-choice.
posted by amiCreative at 1/03/2005 02:00:00 AM
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