My Story by Leigh Spencer

My story By Leigh Spencer

In 1988, I met a man who made me smile. I wasn’t looking for romance; my goal was to travel to Australia. Instead, he swept me off my feet and I ended up marrying him in 1990. We had two boys and lived in the USA for fourteen years from 1996 to 2010.

At the beginning of January 2015, my husband went to work as usual. Just before lunch, our landline phone rang; I didn’t recognise the number so ignored it believing if the call was important then a message would be left. It wasn’t. The phone rang again during lunch, no message. After lunch, the same number rang my mobile phone, only this time a message was left. It was my husband’s boss telling me my husband had collapsed at work. I phoned him immediately. He arranged for two of my husband’s colleagues to come and collect me from home and take me to the office where the paramedics were treating my husband. I let my younger son, who was living at home know, and phoned my elder son, who was living away to tell him about his father.

The plan to go to my husband’s place of work had changed by the time his colleagues had arrived. Instead we went to the hospital where my husband had been taken. Not long after we arrived, he was pronounced dead. The post-mortem stated the cause of death was hypertensive heart disease brought on by high blood pressure. He knew he had high blood pressure, but he refused to treat it.

What followed was a journey that took me down some very dark routes and unleashed many painful memories. Memories I had blocked away for years. The life I had fooled myself into believing I had was vastly different from the reality. The truth I had avoided was one of emotional abuse, financial control and reproductive coercion.

The question that must first be answered is how could I not know I was being abused? Back in 1988, I knew about physical abuse, but emotional abuse, financial abuse or reproductive coercion I hadn’t even heard of. In those early days of our relationship we weren’t on the internet. That came later.

He never hit me or physically hurt me in anyway. I liken our relationship to a frog being put in a boiling pan of water. If you drop the frog into the boiling water, it will leap straight out. If you place the frog into a pan of cold water and boil it up with the frog in the pan, it will stay there until it is too late. I was the frog in the pan of cold water.

Domestic abuse can happen to anyone, at any time and go on for many years. Abuse takes many forms, not all of them obvious. We read about physical abuse, partners pulling hair, kicking, punching, and pushing their partner down the stairs, threatening or worse, with a weapon. Then there are the cases of sexual assault. There is also emotional abuse, which, to the untrained eye, is invisible.

My journey began during the cremation service for my husband. The boys and I had assisted in writing the wording for the service and had chosen the music. As the celebrant was speaking, I was mentally changing what she was saying, even though we had our input and approved of what she planned to say. The words that were written were flattering; the words in my head were angry. When the music was played, I mentally changed that as well, from pieces of music that he liked, to ones that I thought were more appropriate. It was bizarre to say the least. That night, I scribbled down the words in my head from the service.

I then started telling my younger son about my life with his father. It was he who suggested I wrote it down. I wasn’t ready at the time; there were so many other things to do. The garage was on my to-do list, it needed sorting. In the garage was a small wooden box of my husband’s. He had it from when I first knew him. What was noticeable was that it had a shiny lock on it. Over the years, I suggested my husband open the box, but he always claimed he couldn’t remember the lock combination. While we were in the US, I went so far as to see if we could come up with the combination. We didn’t and the box remained locked. My husband always joked it had dirty laundry in it.

During my sorting of the garage I spied upon the box, but didn’t immediately do anything about it. Then feeling frustrated one day, I decided to open it using whatever means necessary. It did help that the wood of the box had started to rot. Upon breaking open the box, I could understand why husband hadn’t wanted me to see what was inside it.

I guess the contents were a time capsule to his former girlfriend. There were all the letters she had sent him, pictures and a ring box. One of the letters indicated that the ring box could have held an engagement ring. I know I am not the first woman whose husband had been in a previous relationship, but what hurt was that throughout our marriage he had denied that he had any lasting feelings for her. However, during our marriage, he had constantly compared the two of us.

After reading the letters, I decided it was time I did as my son suggested and started writing down my thoughts about my marriage. It took on life of its own, instead of writing as I and me, I started writing as her and she. Eventually, I gave her a name: Abby. Now this might sound a little crazy, but seeing my life through Abby slowly the truth dawned, my marriage wasn’t the perfect one that I had tricked myself into believing.

Initially, I believed the memories were false, however talking to my son he told they weren’t because he and his brother had seen it. Worse still it wasn’t just me who had been abused, but the boys and even our cats. I will reiterate: Not once did my husband ever use physical violence. There were no bruises or broken bones, physical abuse wasn’t his style and after all if he had done, I would have done whatever I could to have left him.

The more I learned about my marriage, the more I researched domestic abuse. What I learned was horrifying. However, it has given me a purpose in life. It isn’t so long ago that I considered ending my life; I was in a very dark place with nowhere to go. If it wasn’t for my younger son, I wouldn’t be here. It is thanks to him that I am able to write and talk about the abuse my husband put me through.

The three types of abuse I was subjected to are all invisible, hence the name of the website: The Invisible Abuse Project. The long term effects of them are even more invisible. The ability to sleep at night seems to have deserted me. I am anxious all the time and my confidence has vanished. To look at me, or even talk to me, you wouldn’t notice I suffer from all three. Yes, there are moments when my anxiety does break through or I seem very nervous, but that can be put down to the situation I am in.

When I first started talking about the abuse, the reaction ranged from support to being told I was making it up or I should get over it. You don’t just get over abuse of any kind. I stopped saying anything and I believe that contributed to my desire to want end my life. However, somewhere deep inside me a voice kept telling me that my story needed to be told in order make the abuse I have been subjected to become more visible, not just for those who are victims of it, but to those who suspect someone, a friend or a family member is being abused.

I don’t have any training as counsellor, apart from taking a life coaching course. However, I can share my own journey and provide a place for people to find support, know they aren’t alone, and for others to understand what emotional abuse, financial abuse and reproductive coercion are and how damaging they can be. Most importantly you can recover from it with support and move on with your life.