Hospital visit
During one of the two short visits my ex made to me in the 28 days I was in the hospital for surgery, I asked her what she had done to the house.
She snapped back, "What do you mean?"
I said, "Well, since you and Lob seem to like moving things around when I can't do anything about it, I figured you'd moved my things again -- or just packed them up and left them in the garage."
She snarled back at me, "I haven't done anything with your stuff!"
I talked to the hospital psychologist about the previous two years of abuse at her hands, and was made to realize that that was indicative of an abusive personality. Ob wouldn't do anything that could be easily seen as simply cruel, -- not publicly. Or at least not her conception of "publicly".
An abuser needs secrecy. They need to seem to be the victim. Moving my things like that would have clearly identified Ob and Lob as abusive and cruel.
Ob wanted her family's permission -- "everybody" in her terms -- to abuse me.
I saw it constantly. Ob would spend an hour or more throwing insults and sarcasm at me when we were alone. Then suddenly, when her daughter or a friend came by, this brutal, belittling creature would become childlike and cute. Her tone of voice became that of a teenager. Her expression cleared from the hard snarl to an almost blank and naive. It could happen instantly.
I have to admit that the change would leave me startled, even breathless.
The best advice came from one of the volunteers who were visiting in the hosital: "There's nothing you can do about it from here. They're going to do what they're going to do. You have to concentrate on recovering from this surgery."
The words made me touch the spot where my jugular vein had been cut to remove a surgical sieve that had been implanted to prevent blood clots from getting to my brain. I spent the rest of my time in the hospital, and the following months, striving to recover as quickly as possible.
As it turned out, Ob and Lob intended to make sure that I didn't recover fully in my own home.
She snapped back, "What do you mean?"
I said, "Well, since you and Lob seem to like moving things around when I can't do anything about it, I figured you'd moved my things again -- or just packed them up and left them in the garage."
She snarled back at me, "I haven't done anything with your stuff!"
I talked to the hospital psychologist about the previous two years of abuse at her hands, and was made to realize that that was indicative of an abusive personality. Ob wouldn't do anything that could be easily seen as simply cruel, -- not publicly. Or at least not her conception of "publicly".
An abuser needs secrecy. They need to seem to be the victim. Moving my things like that would have clearly identified Ob and Lob as abusive and cruel.
Ob wanted her family's permission -- "everybody" in her terms -- to abuse me.
I saw it constantly. Ob would spend an hour or more throwing insults and sarcasm at me when we were alone. Then suddenly, when her daughter or a friend came by, this brutal, belittling creature would become childlike and cute. Her tone of voice became that of a teenager. Her expression cleared from the hard snarl to an almost blank and naive. It could happen instantly.
I have to admit that the change would leave me startled, even breathless.
The best advice came from one of the volunteers who were visiting in the hosital: "There's nothing you can do about it from here. They're going to do what they're going to do. You have to concentrate on recovering from this surgery."
The words made me touch the spot where my jugular vein had been cut to remove a surgical sieve that had been implanted to prevent blood clots from getting to my brain. I spent the rest of my time in the hospital, and the following months, striving to recover as quickly as possible.
As it turned out, Ob and Lob intended to make sure that I didn't recover fully in my own home.
posted by Unknown at
6:53 AM
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