Lost in His Life

I found Waldo but where's Gina?

This is Part 3 of a series of personal stories on the topic of my voice - how the theme of my voice - or lack thereof - has woven itself throughout my life. I’m currently in the process of claiming it in all its glory by embracing a new and completely unexpected way to voice my voice into the world…

Read Part 1 of this series here.

Read Part 2 of this series here.

Once a time a time, I began attending a local university, studying Human Development. Maybe I could learn how people tick and the world would make more sense to me…

I initially met this new collegiate situation with a mix of eagerness and terror. I was not one who enjoyed unfamiliar situations, yet I quickly settled into an easy rhythm and actually found myself walking to class one brisk, sunny early autumn day awash with a sense of contentment and comfort in my role as college student. I felt - dare I say - free to reinvent myself. I could be anyone I wanted to be here; no one here knew me as “Quietest Student.” And there was so much diversity among the student body that, even if I did - god forbid - slip back into my Jersey accent, no one would notice. I enjoyed my classes and initially excelled at them, even while acknowledging some were considerably more challenging than high school. I was used to acing everything with hardly any effort; now, real effort was necessary but I felt eager to take on the challenge.

Monday, Wednesday and Friday at 8:00 AM my first semester was my Intro to Psychology class. The subject fascinated me and was already opening my mind with different ways of thinking about and understanding human behavior. It seemed important to me, in this first class of my college experience, to find a regular seat - or at least area of the lecture hall where I could feel connected and studious. The large hall was nowhere near full to capacity, so I had lots of seating choices. After several unsuccessful attempts at finding “my space,” I settled comfortably into the third seat from the aisle adjacent to the doors nearest the front of the classroom. Over the course of the next few weeks, it seemed the whole class had settled into their habitual seats with the same people occupying the same seats class after class.

There was a guy who sat two seats to my right who appeared a little older than the majority of students in this 100-level class. As seat-neighbors, we had adopted the routine of smiling and nodding a greeting every morning. I was pleased to discover that - contrary to what I was led to believe in high school - I was not invisible to the opposite sex…

One Monday morning in late October as I settled into my seat he asked me if I’d had a nice weekend. I told him I did; that my brother and I had taken a drive into the mountains to take in the fall foliage. On Friday of the same week, after the professor had assigned dozens of pages of reading over the weekend, I mumbled, “Well, there goes my weekend.” Overhearing me, he replied, “How about a study break?” He went on to invite me to dinner the following night. I was shocked! I mean, it was nice that we chatted from time to time but I certainly didn’t expect that he would want to take me out. Of course I said, “Yes” to the “suave” 26 year old; it was my very first date.

And the rest, as they say, would be history…

The next 12 years of my life, I would come to be dominated by this man. After a couple weeks of love-bombing me (something he was VERY adept at), things began to change. Reality became twisted, skewed, as he systematically exerted his manipulation on me. His playbook read like this:

Step 1 - Convince me that I need him, lest I be eaten alive because I’m too sensitive, inexperienced and naive. Tell me I ought to toughen up - or let him “protect” me from the big bad world out there. Make me doubt reality by keeping me constantly off-kilter, displaying wildly dramatic and erratic behaviors and reactions.

Step 2 - Convince me I’m lucky to be with him because, well, my looks don’t measure up to “traditionally” pretty girls. But with his help, I can learn to “overcome” my flaws. I should feel lucky that he’s willing to overlook the parts of me that fall short of “perfection.” Let him decide my clothes, hair and makeup because he can make me “presentable,” “acceptable,” “attractive” - his “work in progress.” What he likes is what matters because, after all, it’s him I need to be attractive to.

Step 3 - Have no appreciation for how I naturally present myself in the world: my personality, opinions, natural proclivities or how I show love and caring. Seeing I was eager to please, he considered me a shapeless blob of clay in which to painstakingly mold his ideal mate’s behavior. The authentic me was discarded and buried very early on, may she rest very quietly in peace. I lived every day out of my comfort zone because I never knew which version of the me he was molding would be required in whatever situation arose. I needed to be what he needed me to be at every moment - and what I needed or wanted never, ever, entered the equation.

Step 4 - Malign my family as too “toxic,” “old fashioned” and “out of touch” to support my growth as an adult; isolate me from my support system. Convince me that following his lead was my best bet because, “Baby, we’re destined to be together; nobody else understands what we’ve got! By spring I had moved in with him…

Step 5 - Normalize violence. Not only physical violence against me, (which there was much) but weaponry. One of our first Saturday morning “dates” started with him going into a gun shop while I waited for over an hour in the car for him to come out to show off his brand-spanking new .357 magnum. I was unimpressed to say the least. There were the switchblades he got when we visited Mexico and the brass knuckles he kept in his toolbox. Then there was the katana his dad had brought home from WWII that he was ever so proud to have been given. And the “decorative”mace and battle ax… (Insert retroactive “OY” here…)

Step 6 - Normalize bad behavior. He was rude, inconsiderate, cantankerous. Opinionated, arrogant and belligerent. Are you in love yet? He would fly into a rage at the drop of a hat - as if it was what he lived for - and you know what? He did. Without the drama, he was dead inside. Cue the drugs he used freely. Pot, alcohol and cocaine ruled his life the first couple years. I rarely had a drink and had no taste for the other drugs. Once we were married and he was a student it was all about the booze for him, and whatever he could score with his classmates that I know he didn’t always tell me about. Oh, and pain pills for a “back injury” that came and went…

Step 7 - Make - and keep - me dependent and powerless. This way, even when and if I wisen up and see his fuckery for what it is, there was no where to go and nothing I could do to empower myself or get out from under his treacherous thumb. Frequent moves (reminiscent of his experience as a child) was an easy way to keep me from making connections with people. Then there was the economic overwhelm - no matter how much disposable income we had - or didn’t have - he was sure to spend it recklessly on n bad habits, bad decisions and bad taste. I never felt a sense of having a solid footing under our life - or a sense of autonomy within that life.

Notice how these steps coincide with the existing low self-esteem and lack of confidence that haunted me from childhood? Narcissists like him have radar for those qualities in their prey; and they exploit them with great aplomb. I was officially trapped in his web, all the while believing it was all for the best; that these were merely the trials of young adulthood and learning to be in a relationship with an - albeit complicated - grown man.

What had started out as positive steps toward a bright young adulthood that autumn were cruelly hijacked by a needy, manipulative psychopath. I quit college after two years, buying into the dutiful wife role. A convergence of forces (embodied by him whom I’ve dubbed for the purposes of writing “Self-Righteous, Rigid Rick” - which I must say sums him up quite well) conspired against me, quashing any voice I may have begun to culture in my nascent years of adulthood.

My voice that could have been, for a decade, remained dormant; stuck inside an overwhelmed, frightened, confused young me. I’d been duped into believing it was my job to help, fix and fulfill this man - and if I did that, my life, in turn, would have meaning. That turned out to big a big, fat lie.

It seemed my fate was sealed and that I had nothing to say; or if I did, no outlet to express it… or did I?