Rage: We’re Talking About Women We Know

Date Posted: 08/11/2016

This week Theatre Orangeville works with Family Transition Place to take on one of the toughest social topics we face today…violence against women. Rage Against Violence happens at 2 pm Sunday Nov. 13^th at the Opera House. This is a one-time chance to hear members of our community read from real stories of real people, collected last year and scripted powerfully by Gary Kirkham and Dwight Storring. Originally presented as a fundraiser for Women’s Crisis Services of Waterloo, the playwrights said the toughest part of the process was, knowing that the people they were writing about are neighbours. Shining a light on a dark place is our only hope.

That said, in the weeks leading up to Family Transition Place’s Rage fundraiser this story came to me anonymously from a woman in OUR community.

- Bernadette 

I feared for my life every day. Every day that passed was one that I’d never get back. I was buried in a maddening cycle of waking each day in fear of the next emotional explosion that would cripple me further into my sense of worthlessness and falling asleep each night dreading the thought of spending my eternity with someone that didn’t see anything wrong with how he was treating me. I’d spend hours each night laying awake trying to imagine a scenario in which I could leave. He truly and honestly believed he was just in his behaviour, and that he was within his full right to scream at me until I cowered. Trouble was, in that life, I empowered him to do so, because in that life, I wasn’t going anywhere. I didn’t have any other options. He was my life, and my responsibility. This is the path I chose – that chose me, and so it just was. There was no predicting the next outburst. The next attack on my mental and emotional well-being... There was no way to know what the next trigger would be…

If something broke.

If the dog ruined something.

If dinner wasn’t waiting.

If the laundry wasn’t done.

If the grass wasn’t cut.

If I smiled at a male colleague at a work function.

If I was late getting home, even by a minute.

…If there was a fork in the spoon slot.

There was no way to know when the next time he would snap and make his sole objection to cause me to crumple to the floor, sobbing in tears, begging him to stop screaming at me only to demand I stop crying – only infants cry. I’d beg for him to stop degrading me. I’d beg him to take back his words, when he’d say he hoped something bad would happen to me. Trying to reason and eventually just apologizing, and saying whatever I needed to say to take the blame and make it all stop. It could take hours. He wouldn’t stop until he felt he’d won, and often even that wouldn’t bring his rage down. 

Yet – I’m one of the lucky ones. I never feared for the literal end of my life – he never lifted a finger. Rather I feared for the ongoing loss of the life I was actually living. I had accepted my fate and gave up hope of ever being happy… of ever knowing what partnership, respect or even contentment really felt like. I made it my mission to take care of our family and do my very best to continue to be his safe place. I acknowledged his mental illness and used it as a scapegoat for his inexcusable behaviour.

This went on for seven years. I played out my role to the best of my ability. I saw the red flags and let them float past. It was that year that I had the miscarriage, and although I’m not religious, or even superstitious, that red flag flew at full mast – and stayed there. Life went on for another year and a half in the same fashion it always had. But I was different. And although with every outburst, my outer reaction remained unchanged, in my mind, that little red flag kept flying.

The next year was the one that mattered. I finally acknowledged that fluttering red flag. It was constantly reminding me of my own mental illness – the self- loathing and the sinking feeling of depression. I reached out. I became more involved in my work. I made friends. And then the unthinkable happened. One of those friends worked their way in so far, I confided. I told someone a small tiny portion of what happened behind closed doors. Along the way I found a little ray of confidence in myself. I did matter, and yes it seemed impossible, but I could stop the cycle. I could LIVE my life. I could change my path. I made a decision. It was time to go. 

That same confidant convinced me to call Family Transition Place. I pushed back and tried to convince myself that wasn’t me. I didn’t need to get help. I wasn’t one of those poor women. Except I was. It’s exactly who I was. And that was okay. The support at FTP saved me from him. They saved me from myself. They saved me from a life I didn’t think I could escape. They had the knowledge and the resources to protect and rebuild my emotional and mental wellbeing. They empowered me. They encouraged me to lean on my support system – for which I am so lucky to have. It took time, but my wounds are healed, and although some scars don’t ever disappear, they become insignificant. I no longer see them when I look in the mirror. Now I only see this life. This new life that is full of love and support and more happiness I ever knew could be possible.

It is possible.