the torment of twisted love

Lindsay Thurman

HIS BREATH WAS HOT AND STUNK WITH ROT from years of filling his belly with cheap malt liquor. The intimacy I once enjoyed with my husband had changed. I’d spent years learning what I liked and how to enjoy the physical moments of pleasure we shared, but I couldn’t remember the last time it felt fun. My arousal used to excite him, but now he seemed to crave my pain. I tried to twist out of an uncomfortable position, but his hands found my hips and held me still. There was no point in resistance, so I braced myself and waited. His eyes studied my body, full of flaws that he regularly identified with excruciating detail. I could tell that he was growing agitated. He paused, holding himself above me. 

“How do you expect me to enjoy myself if you’re not more into it?” he complained. 

I pulled him towards me and feigned desire while praying that he wasn’t too drunk to climax. On those nights, assuming he didn’t pass out on top of me, he’d mutter a slur that sliced deep into the insecurities I’d been carrying since we started dating in high school before abruptly returning to the television, leaving me to ruminate on my failure as a wife. I desperately wanted to please him so I played the part, moaning and moving my body in ways that would convince him that he was the greatest lover who had ever lived. 

Satisfied that he’d proven his worth as a man, he readjusted himself until my face started to contort from the growing discomfort from the angle he chose. He moved faster with a ferocity that mirrored the contempt he showed me in our daily life together. I only needed to hold on for a little longer. I clenched my eyes shut and bit my lip until he was satisfied. He rolled over to his side of the bed and fell into a deep sleep and shame crept up from the pit in my stomach, accusing me of being weak and pathetic. I knew that our marriage was flawed, but if we lost our physical connection, then we’d never find our way out of the darkness that plagued our relationship since its inception. I just needed to be better, to do better. I needed to find a way to enjoy myself and give him what he wanted at the same time. Maybe he just drank too much that night. Maybe next time would be better. 

I pushed the memories away and muddled through the fog that softened the daily emotional blows delivered by a man who had vowed to love and care for me for the rest of my life. I regularly prayed for a path to a brighter future. Life wasn’t ideal, but I’d gotten past his infidelity. A few months earlier I’d even successfully forced my body to accept an act that he’d been requesting for years. I still wasn’t comfortable with it but if I wanted him to remain faithful, it was only fair to give him every experience he requested. 

The afternoon was the best time for it. He didn’t have a chance to drink too much, ensuring he’d be gentler. I led him to the bedroom and positioned myself appropriately, simultaneously hoping that time would slow down to avoid the inevitable and speed up to get it over with. I felt him approach. Pain. All my muscles contracted in protest, and I asked him to slow down. He sighed and acquiesced. I breathed deeply and slowly, focusing only on relaxing. The pain melted away and was replaced with a nauseating sensation I tried to ignore. Whenever my body tensed, threatening to reject his movements, I mentally soothed its worry. His sobriety would ensure that it wouldn’t take too long. I breathed and I waited. Had it felt like this the last time? I didn’t remember hating it that much, but it wasn’t about me. I was giving him what he wanted. 

When I felt the conclusion of his efforts, I rolled to my side and stared at the wall until he left the room. I made my way to the bathroom and gazed at myself in the mirror trying to find the victorious pride I’d once felt when I first succumbed to his desire, but it was replaced with disgust. My reflection scowled back at me. She was pathetic. Why couldn’t she be the person he wanted her to be? Why couldn’t she love what he wanted her to love? 

My stomach cramped and I crumpled to the floor, wedging myself between the toilet and bathtub as the salty evidence of my pain spilled forth from my burning eyes. I buried my head in my knees as my mind raced with incoherent thoughts. I broke into a cold sweat and my heart thumped with a brutality that conveyed its displeasure in what had just transpired. My chest heaved as I released muted sobs and gasped for air. When I finally returned to myself, unsure of how long it had been, I pulled myself off the cold floor, cleaned up, and joined my husband in the living room. He was watching TV before he left for work, so I curled into my spot on the couch and waited. I offered a kiss and a hug when he walked towards the door and was met with a sigh, a pat on the back, and a limp mouth.

One year later, we were divorced. Over the next decade, I built a new life filled with joy and independence. My time as a wife was a distant memory that felt like an imagined counterfeit life. I wanted nothing to do with the past, but my ex still haunted my dreams. The darkness of his presence began creeping into my waking hours and my amazing life grew increasingly difficult to live through. No effort on my part could produce any relief so I sought help from a therapist. I explained my relationship with my ex and the way he threatened violence without really needing to act it out given my overly compliant nature. I rarely mentioned our sex life, but when I started sharing the details of my nightmares, she pointed out a common theme. 

Within the safety of my thoughts, I toyed with the term “sexual abuse” when I reminisced about my marriage, but it never felt right. I had agreed to everything we had done. Sure, my ex would often ask if I thought that he raped me, but I never tried to fight him off. I had no right to feel wronged. But despite my belief that I had no claim for misconduct on his part, I still felt wounded. I understood that we didn’t have a healthy sexual relationship, but what did we have? Was I really the only one to blame? Every week in therapy we untangled the subtle and complex web of betrayal that had occurred. 

“I don’t know how to forgive myself,” I grumbled. 

“You don’t have anything to forgive yourself for,” my therapist replied with a soft and gentle smile. 

“But I let it happen. I was so weak.” I shuddered as revulsion flowed through my veins. 

“But you did try to say no,” she stated matter-of-factly. 

“No, I didn’t,” I shot back. 

She leaned back. “What did you do when something started to hurt?” 

“I’d usually try to move but he always held me in place.” 

“And did he know you were uncomfortable with certain things?” 

“Yeah.” I shrugged. 

“How could he have known that?” She stared at me with a subtle intensity. 

“Well, I told him.” 

“Exactly. You said no for years. He knew you didn’t want those things, but he did them anyway.” Her remarks hung in the air as I considered their weight. 

I started journaling to bring the details of the past back into focus. In time, I began to see how I’d tried to resist and how he used fear and manipulation to keep me in line. When my body protested his movements, he used his strength to bend me to his will. When I refused to try things that made me uncomfortable, he prodded me with shame and guilt until I lost the ability to turn him down. Each revelation brought a new wave of compassion for the woman I’d been and as the blame was shifted to its rightful owner, I finally started to heal. I found the strength to share my experience with friends and family. Each validating response released an internal tension I hadn’t realized existed and the hidden shame that I’d been carrying for so long started to melt away. 

I’m now left with thick and crooked scars, but those scars are evidence that the wounds have healed and are no longer festering just beneath the surface. They’re still tender and sore and have altered me in permanent ways. I still lament as I wonder who I could have been had I refused an ill-fated proposal from a weak and broken man, but I refuse to linger on things I cannot change. I found freedom by bringing my pain into the light and I choose to release myself from the past and focus on the future.