I should never have done that. I should never have yielded, given him the right. I should never have given it up. I don't know why I did it, then. By the time I realised that it was a mistake, it was too late. I was far too gone to do anything about it. I couldn't even recognise myself. I wanted out. And I wanted it now, desperately. Because of what it would do to Ted, I never even contemplated the idea for more than a minute.
I couldn't believe that the man I was perfectly, absolutely in love with and perfectly happy with, the man with whom I had been living a fairy tale dream a few years ago could change so drastically and hurt me to such an extent that I was beyond repair. The most pathetic, pitiful and irritating part was the fact that I was still in love with him. I would still do anything for him; and these wild, diametrically opposite feelings were draining all my energy reserves. Ted realised somehow that I had changed; a four year old boy could be sensitive to my feelings, a feat which no one had done in those five years. Part of it was my fault, since I hadn't seen it fit to share the details of my situation with anybody. I was afraid of what he would do to me. Plus, I was ashamed of all I had gone through and ashamed of talking about it to another person. Besides, no one was aware of anything being wrong at home. My husband and I were first class actors, capable of putting up a splendid show for all the public to see.
I could accept a kiss from him in public without flinching. When I stretched my hand out to hold his, he could accept it without being repulsed by my touch. We would continue inside jokes without an issue, pretending that they were still relevant. We would laugh at each other's jokes and flirt with each other like newly-weds. But the moment we climbed into the car, we would sit on the opposite ends of the seat, staring out of the window or fiddling with our phones, not speaking a word.
Ted was sensitive enough not to share any of this to the others, though I doubted he understood much of it, the oblivious toddler that he was. He had no idea that the reason for my despair was his adoring, loving father whom he worshipped. I didn't want him to know the reason either; I didn't want him to nurse any animosity towards his father that would cause a rift between them for the rest of their lives. I was glad that their relationship was intact and thriving.
It all began when Ted was born. A worn out, worried sick Christian, my newly born son and I returned back to our humble abode. After the mini celebration with Gail and Taylor, we went upstairs, tucked little Ted in, set up the baby monitor and returned to our room. We changed clothes and fell on the bed, exhausted. I snuggled against him and he put an arm around me. He seemed a tad uncomfortable. "What is it, babe?" I asked him sleepily. He didn't respond for a few seconds.
"Are you tired?" he asked me warily. Of course I am, I thought, I just pushed a tiny human being from my bulging body!
"Not at all." I lied. "What is it?" I replied. He fidgeted and sat up abruptly. I sat up too, worriedly looking at him. "Christian?" I ventured.
"I can't stand it, Ana! It's not possible to sit back and simply let things happen! I can't leave things be!" he exclaimed, frustrated. I was utterly bewildered.
"Huh?" I said intelligently, looking at him blankly.
"Baby, every time you don't listen to what I say, you get into trouble and cause everyone around a lot of anguish. Not that I am blaming you," he said hastily, seeing me frown and opening my mouth to protest. "It's just that if you were to listen to me in the first place, we wouldn't have to go through anything at all. Do you understand me?" he looked at me, upset, running his hand through his hair. There was silence for some time as Christian shifted uncomfortably, clearly disturbed.
"What do you want me to do, Christian?" I asked finally, cautiously. I already knew what I was going to hear.
"I need control, Ana. Let me do things for you. It will be hell of a lot simpler, then. Fuck, we wouldn't have any trouble at all. I can't function without control. It's an integral part of me. I need it like a fish needs water. It is essential for me…" he continued like this agitatedly for about twenty minutes ending with, "… so frankly, I need to know where you are, what you are doing and what you plan to do to you to keep you safe." I took a deep breath tiredly and gave him an exasperated look. "Fine, whatever you want, Christian." He looked at me incredulously and, after a couple of seconds gave me a slow exultant smile. I had no idea then that the same smile would be so foreign to me, years later.
Then the horrors began. He began to control my daily schedule, where I went, what I did every minute of the day. I wasn't allowed to work; I had to care for Ted full time – no questions asked. He deprived me from doing things that I most desired. Each time I got angry or depressed at this tyranny, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath in. For Christian, I said to myself. Somewhere along the way, I realised that he was squashing my every fantasy, every dream, and every opinion.
Everything happened his way, or it didn't happen at all. I could either drive with Sawyer, or not at all. I could either call my parents only and not meet them, or not at all remain in contact with them. By this time, the realisation had dawned on me too late. I had withered away to becoming a shadow of the person I once was. My self-confidence, my ability to stand on my own two feet, my ability to have an opinion, my ability to stand up for myself had all long since been destroyed. I could not find the strength to put my foot down, to stand proud and tall in front of him. I was trapped in a gilded cage. So I continued in the same manner.
About three years after Ted was born, he stopped coming home early. He stopped spending quality time with me, though he took Ted out frequently and both of them thoroughly enjoyed these Father – Son bonding sessions. I wasn't even allowed to complain; else a few effectively harsh words would leave my spirit broken. We stopped having sex, even though it had entirely been for his pleasure before. I started smelling alcohol on him every night for weeks together. That was when the arguments began. We argued and verbally fought with each other day and night. Though this should have increased my courage and revived my spirit, I only got worse.
One night, he came home slamming the front door at 2 in the morning. I heard his footsteps coming up the stairs. I sat on the bed waiting for him to arrive. When he did, he threw me a look of disgust and threw his shirt at me after unbuttoning it. "Christian!" I said, appalled. "Where were you?" I demanded. Then he did something I never expected him to do in my entire life. He struck me. I was shocked to silence. Before I could recover, he struck me once again. Aware of Ted sleeping down the hall, I only sucked in my breath sharply.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" I hissed. He removed his trousers and tackled me on the bed. I struggled and fought him, whispering pleas which he didn't seem to hear or register. I started panicking and my breaths came out shorter and faster as he readied himself. He fucked me thoroughly. For the first time, I knew what it was like to be raped, by my own husband. After he was satisfied, he flopped on the bed and went to sleep. Just like that.
The next morning, he gave no sign of being aware of the events of the previous night. I was terrified of his every move. I felt endangered in my own home. I was sore all over, all day. When he returned home late again, the same events recurred. I was in a daze. This isn't happening, I thought, it can't be. It is a dream; eventually, I will wake up. I never did. As the years passed, the physical assaults increased and I bought more and more make up to hide the scars from Ted and everyone else.