Marriage Stories: Abortion, covert misogyny, and the battle cry of the surly teenage boy
Hello! It’s been a long time since I’ve written on here. It can be hard to know how to navigate the waters of vulnerability. At the end of the day, it is most important to me to be a full person- to avoid compartmentalizing as much as possible and to be brave and bold and above all- honest.
Since this spring, I’ve been deep diving into a serious effort to improve my mental health. Out of all of the unpleasant and difficult work, processing my abusive marriage is one of the hardest. On the morning of the news of another Trump presidency, I’ve decided to publicly post an essay I wrote this past week. My story is really, really common. I have no expectations that this will soften the hearts of misogynistic abusers. I do hope it helps someone to feel less alone.
After we had been dating for about 3 months I discovered I was pregnant. I figured it out fairly quickly and also fairly quickly knew I was going to have an abortion. This was the easy part.
There’s a lot more I could say here. There are all of the practical things- I had just started my own massage business. I had dreams of saving up and buying a house. I was in the middle of a big dance project and had touring scheduled. There were all of the serious economic realities- I had very little money saved up, no sick leave, no parental leave, absolutely no structural support.
Then there’s all the other stuff. I was horrifically sick- “morning sickness” was all day vomiting. I vomited in the shower. I woke up in the middle of the night vomiting. I had to run out of the room while massaging people to vomit. I could barely eat anything. I was non-functional and it was still so early. High risk pregnancies are very much the rule in my immediate family and that was scary.
Then there’s all the other stuff. How do I describe the absolute disgust-revulsion-panic of what felt like a hostile takeover of my body? I had never been pregnant before, but that was lucky. When I was in high school I was sexually assaulted by my then-boyfriend in the middle of the night. By his own admission it was an attempt to get me pregnant so that I “couldn’t leave him.” If you’ve ever wondered what this kind of violence does to a person I could tell you. I was a shell of myself for most of my senior year of high school. I had a friend who had to coerce me to eat. I didn’t sleep. I didn’t know or recognize myself. I didn’t talk about it until much later.
So pregnancy. I kind of figured that due to my experiences, it would be terribly hard under even the best circumstances. These were far from that.
My body only signaled great danger.
And then there’s all the other stuff. There was you- a sullen 34 year old, living in a dilapidated rental house set for demolition. You were already so hard to reach. I figured that maybe our relationship would be a slow burn but you were not a vetted person to be trusted with anything hard or serious.
In these early days of us dating I found a public blog entry that your ex-girlfriend before me had written. I went looking for “evidence” that you were capable of having a relationship. I knew she had broken up with you. I knew the relationship moved quickly and explosively, an all consuming kind of love. I knew you had negative things to say about her but from my social media information gathering, I knew that I liked her. She said:
“Looking back I can see that my idea of him, was really just my dreams rolled up in a ball and stabbed by a toothpick flag with his name written on it in sharpie. I thought he was responsible, capable and rich. I thought he was inexperienced and therefore unjaded by love, unlike most people his or my age... I was wrong about everything, except he is responsible in the most minimal sense of the word.”
So there you have it. I really should have listened.
But here I was, pregnant. I told him and he tried to act appropriately “supportive.” He always had a knack for doing the bare minimum to have plausible deniability, to be a Nice Guy.
He met me at the clinic. The abortion itself was the easy part. He left me afterwards in the hands of a friend to drive me home. We split the cost. It had all of the emotional depth of meeting someone in a parking lot to sell a coffee table.
When I got home some of my close friends had arranged a party for me, with cupcakes and deep dish pizza and an incredible sense of humor and merriment about the whole thing. Suddenly I COULD EAT and I filled myself with food. These absolute rock stars also built me an entire new bed while I was having the procedure. That evening was the first time I laid down on it. I had a very clear thought that this- THIS is how people show up when they care. I passed out quickly after eating, exhausted.
I didn’t realize that I would have complications afterwards. Two days after the procedure I woke up with a high fever. The first thing you think of in these situations is that you might have some sort of infection. I waited as long as I could until what felt like a reasonable hour and I called him. No answer. I texted- “I have a high fever and I’m worried. Can you take me back to Planned Parenthood?”
He showed up a little while later with a scowl and- a coffee. In retellings of this story over the years, this is the most pivotal and insulting moment. He was so unhurried, so unbothered by my distress- that he stopped to get himself a bougie coffee and DID NOT GET ME ONE. I laugh about it- don’t get between a caffeine addict and their coffee, I suppose. I thought- wow, okay. Not only do I not factor into your calculations at all but you obviously don’t know me if you don’t understand that I will want coffee even when I’m significantly physically suffering. Anyway.
The attitude. The sullenness. He greeted me with all the care and enthusiasm of a teenager being asked to pick up their stinking socks off the living room floor. I was way too vulnerable to address this or process it at the time. We went to the clinic. No signs of infection- it was likely I was reacting sensitively to the massive dose of antibiotics they had given me before the procedure.
He took me home and went to work. Duty done. I think it was a few days later (I remember it was a Wednesday) I woke up again in the middle of the night in searing pain. I was passing massive amounts of blood clots. I called the night nursing line and was told to take the max dose of ibuprofen. I was told that this was my body expelling the rest of the pregnancy tissue and normal. (Duh- I should have thought of that). The pain was unbearable. I called him, over and over again- in the middle of the night. Pleading to answer and come over. I didn’t want to be alone. Nothing. And while I don’t fault someone for not answering their phone in the middle of the night, being awake did nothing to bolster his feelings of concern. I didn’t see him again for at least another week- during this time concerned friends (and their visiting mothers!) came in and out of my apartment as I recovered from the blood loss and the stress and the hormone dump.
Not too long after I relayed this entire story to a friend. I was basically like- “I should dump this guy, right?” I then let her convince me that his behavior was normal, that he just felt insecure because my ex-boyfriend turned close friend happened to be visiting during the whole pregnancy fiasco. It was the most blatant social conditioning nightmare of “won’t someone think of the men” bullshit that I think I’ve ever experienced.
I didn’t leave him. I thought I had done my due diligence communicating to him how all of this made me feel. I told him exactly what I wanted from a relationship. I laid all my cards on the table and waited for him to either show up or get lost. Why I put this decision in his hands is a really, really good question.
He convinced me for nearly a year that he wanted the same things. That he was going to show up. We had a lot of fun. Of course there were ongoing red flags that I ignored. For the purposes of this story, I am going to jump to election night: 2016.
I don’t think I need to elaborate on how distressing this time was for anyone who values democracy, who has suffered sexual violence, who has any kind of empathy for others. I *knew* reproductive rights were on the chopping block if this shitstain got elected. I didn’t want to be alone that night. I asked him- “Please can we hang out? I don’t want to be alone.” He refused. I don’t remember why. He just didn’t want to. Eventually I started to put together that just me needing support was enough for him to flat out refuse. That night was a comedy of errors trying to find community and camaraderie. I wandered the ghost town of Capitol Hill, trying to find friends where they said they would be and finding empty bars. I ended up at a friend’s apartment. I left when Pennsylvania went to Trump. The last thing I saw on my phone before I passed out was that he won.
Three years later, he would bring up this night. “That was a hard time for us!” he declared, almost mystified. I said something to the effect of “Yeah. I really needed you to be there for me and instead I spent the night alone.” Instead of apologizing or having a hard conversation of any kind he yelled at me and stormed off, leaving me alone in a restaurant.
In the fall of 2018, shortly after we got married- Brett Kavanaugh was confirmed as a justice on the Supreme Court. Those confirmation hearings were a nightmare for many, many women- particularly those of us who have experienced sexual assault. Looking at the writing on the wall- for Roe and beyond- was terrifying. At this point I had been speaking out about abortion access for years. I asked him, “Hey- could you use your voice to talk about this issue too? I feel very alone and unsupported. I feel like I have to continually make myself vulnerable as a way to beg for my basic humanity to be recognized. Abortion has benefitted you too. Maybe you could talk about that.”
Instead of any sort of kindness, I got an indignant rampage- I got yelled at for “expecting him to post on social media when I KNEW he didn’t use social media!” He turned my vulnerable pleas to feel like I had an actual partner into some freaky mirror world where I was a monster for not respecting his very strict anti-social media habits. Nevermind the many other ways he could have spoken up or given support. Nevermind that I wasn’t demanding that social media be the medium. Nevermind that literally nothing about his temper tantrum addressed the actual point. It was horrific.
There are so many other small and large moments. There’s his absolute disbelief that I had the audacity to be disappointed that he neglected to vote in a local election. There’s the general attitude of hating the policies that affected him personally, but being unwilling to do anything proactive or engage in anything community focused. There’s the moment, shortly after we got married- when he yelled at me, “I don’t want to subsidize YOUR healthcare!” when I was trying to figure out our insurance. There’s the ever-present “teenager energy.” He was so upset that capitalism hadn’t favored him the way he deserved as a man. He was so upset at the ego hit of being at times underemployed, at times struggling with money. (Nevermind that I also struggled with money). He was so resentful that I owned the house we shared, so resentful that any attempts to combine resources were met with emotional violence.
Beware, BEWARE- the so called “progressive” men whose main motivation is simply not wanting to look bad to an external audience.
I might as well have been married to a Republican.
Where did this feeling of betrayal, this knowledge of the complete lack of support all begin? With a pregnancy. With a choice to not have a child under wildly unstable circumstances.
Our first summer living together we got a puppy. Such a cliche for the starter stage of a serious relationship- get a dog, then get married and have a kid, maybe. We both adored her. I’m not going to say that he was a bad dog parent because by most measurements he was great. He was responsible about some things and irresponsible about others. I was responsible about some things and irresponsible about others. We fell into our respective strengths, I guess. He made sure she got to go to the dog park and get good play. I made sure she was safe and took on the bulk of the emotional labor of managing her health (she had some issues as a puppy). We butted heads. We each thought the other person wasn’t pulling their weight. But we both loved her deeply and within that at least- I had trust. He felt that I was not a good enough dog mom and told me that with some regularity. He told me that after having a dog with me there was “no way” he would have a child with me.
During the lead up to our divorce the issue of who would take her was an agonizing one. I was staying in the house (that I had bought before we got married) and he was moving to another state. He just sort of assumed that he deserved to have her more than I did. He straight up asked me if I would “hold onto her” for about 6 months while he got his life together and then send her to him. After all his criticisms of me as a dog parent, he sure had no problem asking me to take over all of her care while he waffled around.
I said no. I insisted on a “custody agreement,” written into our divorce agreement. Because he was moving out of state, we would have a year on/year off agreement. We would split medical bills. We would each take care of her other needs when she was with us. I could not give up this dog, but I also felt like we both had a right to her. I was trying so hard to be fair and amicable. The parallels to the perils of navigating human children during a divorce were not lost to either of us. During one of the more heated discussions, he actually told me- “If we had human children I would just take them to California with me and then you wouldn’t be able to see them!” I was hurt but I also sort of internally cackled. That’s called kidnapping, my dear.
He left. Years went by and he never contacted me or communicated at all to take his turn with the dog. I was nothing but relieved. Last year, he tricked me into talking to him again by framing it as finally wanting to “talk about the dog.” He was living in state again and we met for a beer. He apologized for not reaching out. I didn’t have the heart to tell him how glad I was that he didn’t. It turns out that his life still was exceptionally unstable- he was working the same miserable job, living in a miserable suburb in a state that he hated, with messy 20 somethings who left their food wrappers everywhere. “An unfit environment for a dog,” he said.
I can now see more clearly how he weaponized the dog against me for emotional manipulation and control. These actions were less obvious to me back then, in the thick sea of distain he created and allowed us to fester in. He would ignore me when he arrived home and immediately run to the dog to shower her with love and affection. When it became hard to participate in things like taking her to the dog park (because it felt wildly unsafe to be around HIM)- I was made to feel like an asshole who didn’t care about her. On our last day together, the goodbyes consisted of a disturbing emotional display towards her (playing a song from his phone and weeping into her face), and a half hearted, “take care of yourself, lady” to me. At the time I thought- these are the actions of a wildly unstable person or a wildly manipulative person- or both. It’s not that I don’t understand or have compassion for the loss- I absolutely do. But ultimately these displays had nothing to do with her and certainly had nothing to do with me- it was all about him and only him and his feelings. Wielding approval like a weapon, like a treat that only gets doled out if you are pleasing him was something that happened constantly. Imagining going through this with a child- who most certainly would have been a vessel for his projection and unprocessed garbage and emotional manipulation- is sobering.
I have no doubt that he deeply loved our dog, but the unconditional and uncomplicated love of an animal is easy. Being a human in his orbit who is not serving his ego is resigning yourself to the life of a ghost. I have no doubt that protecting this fragile ego will always come before the care of literally any other living being besides himself.
That is mostly the end of the story. Now I live alone in my house with my dog and my cat in relative peace. I think about what would have happened if I went through with the pregnancy. I think about how I would have an almost 8 year old now. I think about the insidiousness of abuse and misogyny and about how everyone wants to think of themselves as a “nice guy” but how actions speak louder than words. I think about his insistence that I was bad at care, at “mothering”- when really- he was mad that I refused to mother him, a grown ass adult who wanted to remain emotionally 14 years old until the end of time. I think about the deep sting of the words he threw at me often, including, “I don’t care about your feelings and you can’t make me care.”
I think about the care I lend to people every single day in my job, tending to people’s pain and their complicated relationships with their bodies. I think about how I nursed my cat in her old age, managing multiple serious health conditions and how seriously I took this role. I think about how good that devotion felt, regardless of whatever “childless cat lady” insults get thrown my way. I think about the close friendships I have and how we care and show up for each other over years. I think about how much easier it became to care for my home, my dog, and all the other labors of my life when I was no longer being berated and neglected by this sullen, mean house ghost. I think about broader community care- how to show up for people outside your immediate sphere, how to advocate for better circumstances for everyone. I think about how writing this out, sharing my vulnerable stories- is also an act of care. It would have helped me to recognize myself and my story when I was in the thick of all of this turmoil. I think about how “care” and emotional labor are expectations that have much higher stakes for women, and how my ex never stopped to ask himself whether or not he was showing up in the ways that he demanded. I think about extending love and care to myself- something that could have interrupted this nightmare so much sooner. And every single day I am so grateful I was able to access the care I needed in being able to have that abortion with little legal or logistical fuss.
I think about that moment when I read what his ex before me had written. I think about my words joining hers in the ether. I think about the ways women keep secrets for men, hide away their abuses and failings- even from each other.
I think about who might read my words.
And I think about how we are conditioned not to listen to our own intuition and good sense- even when it is smacking us in the face.
Maybe a lot of men will never want to speak out. Maybe they are incapable of expanding their definition of care to anyone but themselves. But I can and I will, over and over and over again.