By Kristen MacFarlane

Last fall, a well-known pastor infamously blamed Haitians for the devastating earthquake that slaughtered thousands. I remember thinking at the time that this was ridiculous—who would blame a victim and to what end? Older and wiser now, I can answer both questions: all of us and for many reasons. Most obviously, blaming the victim lets us off the moral hook; we need not get involved. More subtly, it strokes our pride—I have done as I ought to have done, and not done that which I ought not to have done, therefore I am well. Subtler still, and even more powerful, blaming the victim gives us the assurance that we are safe from the victim’s plight, that we’ve made no pact with the devil and therefore no earthquake will destroy us. We’ve raised our children well, therefore they will not use drugs. We are intelligent people with proper self-esteem and a good grasp of healthy human interactions, therefore we are not the victims of domestic violence. That was me, twenty years ago.

      The loss of my only son’s teen years has been, perhaps, the bitterest blow of the multitude that followed my former husband’s decline into abuse and mental illness. My thoughts went back to Scott’s eighth birthday party. As with all my kids’ birthdays, I’d planned it with him for weeks in advance—he’d chosen a theme, we’d made invitations, a piñata, and a dinosaur cake. We’d spent what to us was a good chunk of money, and I’d spent hours arranging the day—food, party games, guests. On the big day, I was running frantic as always and my husband Pete had come to be worse than no help.

      Pete had brought the balloons and the children, including the two birthday girls, home a half an hour late for their two-hour party. We’d had to start without them, and I was whirling about, trying to make sure my four girls and their brother and his guests had fun. I was inside getting cake and ice cream together, and the boys were outside playing. All of a sudden, a little friend came running in crying that Scott had hurt him with a stick in a game they were playing. Pete charged out the door and yelled with fury at the birthday boy, in front of his friends: “You stupid s—!”

That moment haunts me. Why didn’t I humiliate Pete for his outburst, exile him from the party, and try to salvage the day for my son? I’m sure the reader is clear in her mind that she’d handle this just so—give the man an ultimatum, tell the kids that he was the stupid s—, file for divorce. I know I would have been sure I’d do that. I despise myself for it now. I called Pete aside, told him not to speak that way to our son, and went out and comforted and reassured Scott. All quietly, as if not much had happened, and then I went on as if this were normal.

The party, of course, was ruined. Looking back, I believe this was Pete’s intent. But I was thinking about my reaction and how people view women whose husbands terrorize them and their family. So often there’s anger and blame directed at the abused wife or a condescending wish to instruct her in proper thinking and behavior. And sometimes she merits these reactions. There are women who, for whatever reasons, are part of a two-part codependency with an abuser. But what if this is not your typical case? What if the typical abused woman looks more like you?  I remember, having rid the home of my husband, telling people this wasn’t the “typical” abusive household. After all, my kids and I weren’t battered, and I lacked neither the conviction nor the courage to stand up, ultimately, to their father. (I now wonder how much longer it would have taken Pete to expunge the last of those from my spirit. I was amazed, by the end, at how crushed I’d become without recognizing it).

Then I went to court to fight for full custody and read the domestic violence literature I found there. I was stunned, reading the list of typical abusive tactics: 

Blocks doorway. When Pete was acting up and I went to call someone to whom he was accountable—a therapist, pastor, his family, or a friend—it was not unusual for him to block my way. I’d never seen a list of classic abusive behavior. I knew this was obnoxious, but since my husband was often gone and I had the phone then, I didn’t take this as seriously as I ought to have done.

Hurts pets. When Pete tossed the kitten over the child-gate at the head of the stairs, and again when he tossed it down the back stairs, the poor thing landed on its feet and ran, uninjured. But it was certainly scared. Why had Pete done this? Both times I was shocked and angry and read him the riot act. Again, two typical abuser tactics were helpful to him: he minimized what he’d done, and he pushed the envelope only so far and no farther by not actually injuring the pet. Yet. 

Drives recklessly. It was not until long afterwards that my son told me that on an occasion when I’d pushed him to spend some time with his dad doing errands, Pete had driven eighty miles an hour down local roads. I hadn’t understood why Scott was so reluctant to be alone with his father, because Pete’s behavior toward the children when I was absent was different from his behavior when I was present.  Young children assume the other parent knows what is happening, but there were many things I never learned until years after I kicked Pete out. 

Throws or breaks things. Why, in the middle of a discussion in his office, did Pete suddenly become angry beyond the magnitude of the disagreement and smash the ice bucket into the wall? Again, I didn’t connect the dots. Abuse at first appears as a series of seemingly random incidents, none of which in itself would be cause for serious alarm. I took him to task for ruining my family hand-me-down, a small luxury I could not replace. I also was upset at the softball-sized dent in the wall, which, again minimizing, he said would be a snap to fix. I didn’t realize then that the message was, “I may well lose my temper and do this to you or our children.” That message comes, subconsciously, with time, when you realize that you feel threatened, that you’ve felt threatened for some time, but that you can’t put your finger on just why or when it started.

Withholds money.  It was literally years after our divorce that I put this one together—my husband’s inability to earn even a poverty-level income in his business yet his refusal to take a job was more than unintended failure on his part. Keeping us poor was an excellent control mechanism, which he did without doing the more obvious tactics that other abusers do—allowances, separate checking accounts (as in the account an acquaintance could never access, and so she and her children went hungry when “her” money ran out, while the main family breadwinner retained  “his” money), living well while insisting that the family lives poorly (as in the acquaintance whose husband breakfasted every morning on fresh orange juice and waffles while his wife and sons had Tang and instant oatmeal). Our family ended up suffering the stresses and indignities of poverty without the ability to point the finger at him; after all, he was living meagerly along with us and was doing his “best” to work hard for us.       

    On the list went, with item after item jogging my memory of another incident—most minor, some major. Most of the abuse characteristics the court listed applied to my family. I was the “typical” abused woman. It wasn’t until years later that a counselor shed light on this for me: there is no “typical” abused woman, but there are typical abusers. The characteristics of abusive people and the dynamics they produce are chillingly similar. When you, looking on, blame the victim, you join her abuser—he has been blaming her, too.

      But back to my premise: Am I so unlike you, reader? Could you have seen the end from the beginning? At what point would you, unlike the proverbial frog in heated water, have leapt from the pot? Would you divorce your spouse because he tossed the family pet, threw an ice bucket at the wall, failed to earn enough money? Even with major incidents, such as the unforgivable humiliation of a child on his birthday, can you see yourself before a judge, citing this as the reason for divorce? Would your pastor give you his blessing? Would your parents understand and offer sacrificial financial support? Would you deprive your children of growing up with a father they all loved, despite such despicable outbursts—who made beautiful sandcastles with them on the beach, all of them so happy to bask in Daddy’s love and attention? And where would you go? Would your children lose their home, their school, their friends, your presence in the home as you worked multiple jobs? And what would be the terms of this divorce anyway? Would you be forced to give your children into this man’s unsupervised care for weekend visitations? And without your presence as a restraining force, what might he say or do to them? Sometimes this very reason keeps us in the same house as the abuser—we know there may be no way to protect our children in the event of a divorce.  I can remember often having this perverse thought: “If he were anyone but their father, I would never allow him to speak to them like that!” Of course, Pete’s being their father was what made speaking to his children like that so much more damaging. But it was also the very thing that made it so hard to prevent. Friends or even family can be cut off (I’ve done both), but a parent can’t be stopped, short of divorce with full custody and no visitation rights—quite the trick for anyone to obtain, even if she wanted it. Never mind how the children react to such a thing.       When I sent money to Haiti for aid in the earthquake aftermath, it went through a wonderful Christian relief and development organization. They recognize that all people are created in God’s image but that we also all are fallen creatures. I can count on this Christian agency to sort out how best to help and to do it in a way that acknowledges Haitians’ ability, given that help, to govern their lives well.