“And where the words of women are crying to be heard, we must, each of us, recognize our responsibility to seek those words out. To read them, and share them, and examine them in their pertinence to our lives.” - Audre Lorde, Cancer Journals
I don't remember how he trained me; it was so subtle over many weeks, months. Was it the first time I recall "letting go" something that he had done, which felt so completely wrong? I don't know. It could have even started well before my awareness had time to catch up. Exes, friends, society, my mother, my father, from the moment I was born, was I trained? I do recall the times which I had said something I knew I shouldn't have; the characteristics of his rage had become familiar very quickly. I easily remember not objecting when I wanted to. I know that the build-up to a punch, kick, push, or slap is so much worse than the pain they illicit.
He trained me to anticipate anger, even while new angers were being built. He told me what abuse was and what it was not; it wasn't abuse when he threatened but never laid a hand on me. It wasn't abuse when he pushed me down but never slapped me. It wasn't abuse when he kicked me if it didn't leave marks. What about when it did? No, because he apologized. Nothing was abuse unless he said it was, not even murder. I had no idea what qualified as abuse. When one is living within abuse, it is nearly impossible to think that one is abused. The abuser “has a temper” or the relationship is “passionate,” not abusive, no matter how miserable, isolated, and afraid you may feel.