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Domestic Abuse

Many people think domestic abuse happens only to women. Although that is very often the case, it does not always play out that way. One in ten men in the United States have experienced abuse from an intimate partner at some point in their lives (Heru, 2008). Domestic abuse is a pattern of coercive, controlling, and often life-threatening behavior that can take the form of physical aggression, sexual abuse, psychological and emotional manipulation, verbal abuse, or economic intimidation, among other things (Villines, 2018). It can happen at the hands of a spouse, boyfriend, girlfriend, or sexual partner, regardless of gender, sexual orientation, age, social class, or education (Smith et al, 2019). Long-term exposure to domestic abuse can lead to devastating consequences, sometimes even as extreme as death. Victims are often reluctant to end the relationship, sometimes because they believe the abuser is too powerful and will prevent them from leaving, sometimes because they idolize the abuser, sometimes because they believe they deserve the abuse, always because they've been manipulated into believing some falsehood that makes them afraid to leave. When they finally do leave, they often find a world that seems like it doesn't care, a world with little support and almost no understanding of what they are going through or how they are feeling. At the same time, they experience a flood of negative emotions that quickly overwhelms them and leaves them feeling desperate and alone. This may cause them to go back to the abuser, and if they do, the manipulation and abuse will be far worse than before and it will be almost impossible for them to leave a second time.

I know this first-hand because I experienced it when I let a guy move in with me as a roommate.

Acknowledgement

The story told on this page describes a traumatic series of events that caused me a great deal of physical, emotional, and psychological pain, and although it was one of the most challenging times of my life, I want to acknowledge that what I went through was nothing compared to what millions of other men and women have had to endure in similar situations. Firstly, it lasted for nine months. Oftentimes, women are stuck in this type of relationship for years or even decades. Some never escape the abuse. Secondly, what I think is an unusual circumstance is that I was the one who brought in the money. He never stole from me, not outright, but he manipulated me out of tens of thousands of dollars. I would hand over money expecting something good was about to happen only to be disappointed once again when he turned against me the moment the money was in his hands. My intent on this page is to bring awareness to the horrific nature of domestic abuse. The nine months with my roommate were the lowest of my life. I can't imagine how one might feel after suffering through years of it.

The Worst Decision of My Life

Before I begin this story, you should know that for most of my life, I have been a very optimistic and trusting person, to the point of that it often made me gullible. No matter the situation, I always wanted to believe it would have a positive outcome. Because of this, I would basically believe whatever anyone told me as long as it didn't conflict with my positive view of the future. I had traveled to faraway places, walked in foreign lands, and had gotten fucked up and fucked in more cities and countries than I could remember, but I really had never met anyone who was altogether different than myself. Sure, they may have been from another country, they may have looked different, they may have had a funny accent, but I've always been drawn to people who are generally like myself. The older I've gotten, the more that has begun to work against my best interest. The point of life is to experience as much of life as possible, whether good or bad. I've always been a good person. I have never fucked anyone over, cheated anyone out of anything, or done anything that wasn't the fair and decent thing to do, and I basically assumed most people were the same way because I had never met anyone who was too different than that. So, when the relationship with my new roommate went bad, I was altogether completely unprepared for it.

I had lived by myself in that apartment for fifteen years. My rent was good by San Francisco standards, but I wanted a roommate who could help me pay the rent so I'd have more money to spend on the things that made life fun. The apartment was large enough for two people, but the configuration left no private space, which made sharing it more than a little tricky. I happened to meet a guy one night. We hit it off immediately. He was intelligent, down to earth, and more than a little attractive. By all accounts, he was downright charming, and he seemed normal enough. He was sharing an apartment with some guy but was looking for a better roommate situation. It seemed to me that the Universe had answered my prayers. He seemed to like me, too. We spent the next few nights together, and on the third or fourth night, he popped the question, "Hey, are you possibly looking for a roommate?" I said, "Why, yes I am." I didn't know it at the time, but that conversation would lead to me making the worst decision of my entire life. I let him move in without asking him any pertinent questions, not even one. I was so optimistic and so trusting that it had never occurred to me that someone would move in to a shared space unless they knew they could pay the rent. After all, roommates see one another all the time and doesn't everyone want a stress free living environment?

On some level, I knew I was making a bad decision. I remember sitting on myself the night before he moved in when the thought occurred to me that there was a great chance that his moving in would not turn out to be a positive thing. I quickly shooed that thought away in my mind, telling myself that he had given me no reason to question his suitability as a reliable roommate. I realized that I'd known him for only a few days and knew nothing about him. I hadn't even asked him if he had a job. A flood of thoughts and emotions raced through my mind making me anxious, and it took only a few seconds to start feeling bad about myself for doubting that he was anything other than honest and trustworthy. This was a very familiar feeling because I felt it whenever my optimism was challenged.

As it turned out, I really should have listened to him.

The Fighting Begins

There was an initial period of peace and tranquility after he moved in that lasted for about twenty-four hours. The day after he moved in, we had our first disagreement, and I got my first dose of the abuse I would become all too familiar with over the next nine months. I don't remember what that disagreement was about. I never quite knew what any of our disagreements were about. We'd be getting along splendidly until all of a sudden we were arguing with each other. We argued a lot over the nine months we lived together in that apartment. It was about 50/50, meaning that about 50% of the time we spent together were positive experiences, and about 50% of the time were negative experiences. Definitely, the biggest trigger was when I told him no. It didn't matter what he wanted. It didn't matter if he was being reasonable in requesting it or if I was even able to do it for him. The moment I would tell him no, all Hell would break loose. I didn't realize until a several months after I finally left and the ordeal was over that the fights were a part of the manipulation. In fact, the fighting was an integral part of it. He is super smart, brilliant even, but he had an over-inflated ego that gave him a false sense of entitlement. He could never be satisfied because he always wanted more. This was not sustainable over the long-term, and it would eventually lead us to the same place, a situation in which I'd grown tired of giving him what he wanted and him being completely unreasonable about not getting it. He told me that his mom died when he was eight and that his father was a meth addict who took no responsibility for him, so he was basically left to raise himself. Looking back on all that happened, I'm sure it's not true because, as I eventually learned, pretty much everything he told me the entire time I knew him was a lie. He used this story as a way to convince me that he had had a rough childhood, and I began to view him exactly how he wanted me to view him, as an overgrown eight year old who needed a break in life. In other words, he was a victim of life, and I should feel sorry for him and excuse his bad behavior because it wasn't really his fault.

Manipulation Capitulation

Over the next several months, he convinced me of many things, such as (1) he couldn't get a job because managers were always threatened by his intelligence and eventually fired him, (2) we were absolutely not a couple but if worse came to worse we could always move in with his brother in Southern California, it would be a tight squeeze but at least we'd be together, or (3) he should control the checking account not because he had contributed even one dollar to it but because I always spent all the money. That part is true, I spent the money on rent, on groceries, on the thousands of dollars of crap he wanted and I bought for him. At the same time, he slowly convinced me that I was a bad person because I couldn't provide him with a stable home. That part is also true. I couldn't provide him with a stable home because he was so unstable. He thrived on chaos. If he wasn't upset with me for this or for that, he constantly reminded me that he was smarter than me, more attractive then me, hotter than me, everything more and better than me and that I was lucky he even hung out with me. Before I knew it, I began to believe him.

His most valuable skill was an ability to present himself as the boyfriend I never had but always wanted. We had long, intimate talks about our ideal mates, the man each of us wanted to spend our lives with, our beloved. To me, these talks were opportunities to get closer to him as my feelings for him grew stronger. To him, they were opportunities to get information from me. As my infatuation with him grew, he began to embody many of the characteristics I'd described in my ideal mate. Although I realized what he was doing, I allowed my feelings to grow. Before I knew it, I was hopelessly in love with him. This came in handy because we had a child together. The day after he moved in, he bought a puppy, an eight-week old Bichon Frise. He was such an adorable little puppy. I could literally hold him in one hand when he joined our household. As we raised our puppy together, he constantly told me I had no say in the dog's upbringing, I was not allowed to punish him, I didn't punish him enough, I needed to play with him more, I play with him too much, and so on and so on. Whatever I did, I did wrong. And that was even before my feelings were strong enough for him to know he could abuse me, and I would take it from him.

There was no physical abuse. He never hit me. He threatened me on many occasions. He got in my face, over and over. He scared me and made me call out for help exactly twelve times in the nine months he lived with me. I know that because that was the number of times the neighbors called the police. That never bothered him. The police could come as often as my neighbors called him. He didn't care. He was exceptionally skilled at manipulating policemen. The moment he realized they were there, he'd run into the bathroom, splash water on his face, collect his thoughts, and calm himself. So when he interacted with the police, he was calm and peaceful. Meanwhile, I was excited and scared. The police took his side every time, on a few occasions, they told ME I had to leave even though MY name was on the lease and I had paid the rent. I quickly realized that policemen are the absolute worse people to assist in that type of situation. A couple of times, the cop acknowledged that he knew I was being abused, then simply walked away, with absolutely no concern for what would happen to me when they left. I'm not bad mouthing cops here. I'm simply acknowledging that they are not trained to be psychologists and don't have the time to get to know both people and help them work out the issues between them. They are there to de-escalate the situation, and as soon as it has been de-escalated, they're off to the next disturbance. Some tried the best they could. Some didn't. Either way, it wasn't their fault if we were still arguing when they left.

Nowhere to Turn

He told me once, very late one night not long after he moved in, that if he wanted to completely control someone's life, all he had to do was break down their social support, scare off their friends, prevent them from making new friends. Eventually, he'd get them to the point where they have no friends left, leaving them nowhere to turn when they needed help. He smiled when said that part, like he was reveling in the idea of doing it, as if it brought him great joy. This was very early in the ordeal, before I admitted to myself that he was a sociopath and that he had someone else's best interest in his mind, his own. He made it sound like it was something that just happened, like there was nothing wrong with it. Over the next several months, he put his plan into action...on me. He always made such a big deal when my friends would come over. He always made an even bigger deal when I wanted to hang out with my friends away from the apartment, without him. He constantly manipulated me out of money, to the point where the rent started to not be paid, yet I was always broke. He, of course, always seemed to have money, my money.

The Solution

A few months after he moved in, I found the solution. I had decided to do it a week before I actually did because I wanted the perfect time, when he'd be away from the house for several hours, in this case overnight. Once he left, I waited another half hour, just in case he had forgotten something and came back for it. When the coast was finally clear, I called the locksmith. I had finally had enough of his antics. The locksmith got there promptly and was able to change the locks quickly and easily. It cost me several hundred dollars, money I didn't really have, but it was worth every penny. For a few wonderful hours, peace and quiet descended on my home, and it became my sanctuary once again. I slept good that night, really good, but that good night's sleep did not help with my decision making the next morning as it should have. Maybe because it was the first good night's sleep I'd had in months. Maybe because he had me so stressed out I did know who was coming and who was going. Maybe because of some other reason. Whatever it was, it prevented me from seeing that I had actually found the solution, and in an instant, the peace and quiet that I cherished so much slipped right through my fingers.

When he returned the next morning and realized his key didn't work, he immediately started yelling at me from the front gate so loud the entire neighborhood could hear him. He didn't even know if I was at home or not. He just started yelling. At the same time, he started calling me and texting me. After a few minutes of that, he called the police. I realized that I was not handling the situation as I had been told was the best way to handle it by everyone I had spoken to about it and everything I'd read about it. The practically universal advice I had received up to that point was that I had to evict him, a very costly solution. In California, anyone being evicted can find pro bono legal support to help them fight the eviction. Meanwhile, the landlord, or in my case the master tenant, had to pay for their legal support. It was never for free. It would have cost me thousands of dollars to evict him properly, and I certainly did not have that kind of money. That morning when he called the police, two cars responded, bringing four police officers to my home. After the back and forth and the further back and forth, three of the police officers told me the same thing, that he had established the right to tenancy and I had to let him into the apartment, but one of them was singing a different tune. He pulled me aside so the other officers couldn't hear him as he told me something that on it's face seemed just like what the other officers told me but with a strange surprise twist at the end. He very deliberately explained to me that I had to let him back in, but they could not order me to give him a key. He told me that the situation was ultimately a civil matter, not a criminal matter. He further explained that if I refused to give him a key, his only recourse would be to sue me in civil court, which would make him the plaintiff, and all of the free help he'd receive as a defendant was safely out of reach for him. In other words, he'd have to pay an attorney if he wanted to continue to live there without my permission simply because he did not have a key. Thinking back on that conversation now, there is only one thought that comes to mind...how the fuck did I completely miss his point? To my defense, his explanation was not nearly that straight-forward. There were stops and starts, lapses in conversation as he thought about how to say something, and other conversational glitches that are not present in my description of the conversation above. In the end, I had no idea why he was telling me those things. Ultimately, my mind led me to believe that he was telling me the same thing the other three cops were telling me, that I had to let him back in. And just like that, I was right back where I started.

The End

Nine months after it all began, it suddenly ended, but although I ended it, I wasn't quite ready for it. Our fighting had gotten so bad that if we could see or hear one another, we were fighting. It had become a constant problem. At the same time, the constant strain on my finances had taken its toll. I could no longer pay the rent, at least not all of it, and each month, I got further and further behind. The landlord had just served me with an eviction notice, and although I knew the process would take a few weeks to play out, I had had enough. So, one quiet Saturday afternoon, I moved everything I owned into a storage unit, and I left. I didn't even tell him I was leaving, just packed up my shit and left. I felt liberated, finally free from the constant stress, from the abuse, free from him. The problem was that I had nowhere to go. I could probably make it a couple of weeks by sofa surfing, but I wasn't even sure about that. On any given day, it was all I could do to make sure I was able to eat that day and had a place to sleep that night. This left me feeling like my entire world was about to collapse any day and I could do nothing about it. As each day passed, I grew more and more afraid that I would even up without food and without shelter, and after a week, I was absolutely terrified. It seemed like everywhere I went to ask for help, nobody wanted to help me. This just intensified my fear. I felt like it was me against the world, and this made me feel completely alone. I had starting telling myself that it would be better to go back, even if only until the eviction was finalized, that anywhere was better than nowhere. I told myself it would be miserable but at least it was the miserable I was used to. I knew the abuse would have gotten worse, the difficulty to leave would have grown greater, and my sense of self-worth would have been absolutely non-existent, yet those thoughts still lingered.

Then, out of nowhere, Pet Shop Boys released a new album. I had been so caught up in the drama of my life that I had missed this news. I was able to download the album on the cheap, and I settled in ready to be uplifted by the optimism of my favorite band. That is not what happened. The first song on the album is "Leaving", a melancholy little song about the pain of breaking up. Within seconds, the first tear rolled down my cheek, then another, then another. Once it started, I couldn't stop it. I cried, and cried, and cried, and cried. I was desperate to gain control of my composure, but I couldn't. I cried longer than I've ever cried, ever. I cried for so long I ran out of tears. If you don't know how that feels, let me tell you, it hurts. It hurts like hell. But I still couldn't stop crying. All of the pain from the last nine months of my life came rushing to the surface. All the negativity swirled around in my head. I don't know how long I cried, a few hours, a few days, a month. I really don't know. What I do know is that when the crying stopped, when all the negative thoughts quieted down, my mind cleared, and a feeling of calmness came over me. I felt at peace. Suddenly, there was only one thought going through my mind, repeating itself over and over, insisting that I acknowledge it. I knew I had made the right decision to leave, and I knew going back was not what I should be doing. I knew that no matter how difficult it would get, it would still be easier than going back to him. It was because of this experience that I decided to stay on course.

A Decade Since

It wasn't until about a year later, several months after the situation ended that I thought back on the conversation with the fourth police officer and realized what he had actually told me. It's been a decade since all of that played out. Walking away from that relationship took a great deal of courage on my part, and when I finally did, my life completely fell apart. Nobody helped me. I was left by myself to fight a fight many people can't win, even with the help of friends. I lost everything. I was literally down to the clothes I was wearing. I had no money, no place to live, nowhere to go, and I was absolutely terrified. The months that followed were the darkest time of my life. Every day was a struggle. I was incredibly vulnerable, and everywhere I went seeking help I was taken advantage of in one way or another. Help always cost me something, whether it was money, sex, dignity. Everybody always wanted something, and it was never cheap.

But I slowly began to put my life together and regain what I had lost. Everything about my life is different today: my job, my home, my friends, my worldview. Before it happened, I was optimistic, positive, trusting, relaxed, friendly. One might think the process of rebuilding my life would leave me more optimistic, more positive, more trusting, more relaxed, friendlier, but instead, it has left me feeling sad, lonely, cynical, and very very angry. I'm almost always by myself, having lost the desire to socialize or even be around other people for any length of time. I've looked back on that experience too many times to count. There are so many unresolved emotions. I know what I need to do. I've always known what I've needed to do. I just don't want to do it. I know that, for me to move on, I need to forgive him. After a decade, I am no closer to forgiving than I was the day I left. This is having a detrimental effect on my life. My emotions are exposed and raw. If anyone even comes close to me emotionally, I become angry and defensive.

When Optimism Dies

I was born into a life of optimism. For as far back as I can remember, even when I was a little kid, all the way back to the earliest memories of my life, I remember being optimistic about life. Optimism is something most humans learn, but in me, it was natural born. I entered the world with my eyes already looking for the silver lining in every cloud. No matter the problem, no matter the challenge, no matter how unlikely it might have seemed that I would succeed, I always thought that I would, that I'd be able to bring about a positive outcome from whatever situation I found myself in. I admit, I was happy as an optimist. Yeah, my friends all laughed at me, the pie-eyed optimist who refused to see reality. They basically thought I was delusional. What they didn't understand was that I did see reality, and when I didn't like what I saw, I chose to see something good about it; you know, the silver lining. I didn't ignore the bad things that happened in life. I just focused on the positive things. I didn't let the bad things get me down or hold me back in anyway. Nothing ever defeated my optimism. If a situation didn't end up the way I expected it to, I simply believed it would get better. It was simple. I was happy living my life of optimism until one day I wasn't. I'm not saying that I stopped being happy to be an optimist. No, that's not what I'm saying at all. I'm saying one day, out of nowhere, with no warning what so ever, I was no longer optimistic about the future. It all came crashing down at once. It happened so fast, I didn't even realize my entire worldview was in a nose dive, spinning out of control, taking me to depths I'd never experienced before. As pie-eyed as I was, the happy, delusional man I had become, almost overnight began to see the negative side of life...and I was not ready for it.

Of all things he took from me, my optimism is what hurt the most because along with that eternal hope for a better future, when he took that, he also took my happiness from me.

Works Cited

Heru, A. M. (2008). "Intimate Partner Violence: Practical Issues for Psychiatrists" Retrieved from https://www.psychiatrictimes.com/view/intimate-partner-violence-practical-issues-psychiatrists

Patra P, Prakash J, Patra B, & Khanna P. (2018). Intimate partner violence: Wounds are deeper. Indian Journal of Psychiatry, 40(4), 494-498.

Smith, S., Zhang, X., Basile, K., Merrick, M., Wang, J., Kresnow, M., and Chen, J. (2018). The National Intimate Partner and Sexual Violence Survey (NISVS): 2015 Data brief—updated release. Retrieved from https://www.cdc.gov/violenceprevention/datasources/nisvs/summaryreports.html

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