Arrogant Devil(16)

The problems began once Andrew started the corporate climb. The more impressive his job title became, the more stress he carried on his shoulders. The execs were tough on him. All day he’d absorb their poison like a sponge, and at night, he’d wring it all out on me.

I still remember the first time he snapped. I’d just returned from a yoga class and was in the kitchen making us dinner when he walked in the door. My sweaty appearance set off something in him.

“You sit around all day and you can’t even look presentable when I come home?”

I stood frozen in place, absolutely shocked that he’d have the audacity to say something so hurtful. It wasn’t like him to act that way and he apologized right after, said he was out of line, it was the stress talking, but a few weeks later, it happened again. This time it was because I didn’t feel up to going out to a Hollywood party with him.

“Thousands of women would give anything to be invited, to be with me. You don’t know what you have anymore.”

When I called him out for being unreasonable, he went for blood.

“You might be a pretty face, but in this town, there are a million women who look just like you. You’re nothing without me—remember that.”

After he spewed that venom, he still went to the party. I stayed home and replayed his words until I started believing them. Obviously now, I can see those are the words of a deeply insecure and troubled human being, but over time, I feared he was right. I know that’s sick, but Andrew was my husband, my supposed soul mate, the best thing that had ever happened to me. We’d been together for a while, and I trusted him implicitly. If he was upset with me, my first instinct was to figure out what I’d done wrong.

So, I tried to be better. From then on, I always made sure I was dressed and made up when he got home from work. I never turned down an invitation to attend a party with him and while we were together, I made sure to be a sweet, doting wife. In return, our marriage stayed the course. Andrew continued to bring home flowers (Yellow roses, my favorite!) even though I suspected he’d delegated the task of retrieving them to his secretary. We continued going on a date every Wednesday night, but more often than not I shared the time with his phone, which was never on silent.

Andrew kept climbing higher at his company, closer and closer to the American dream. His stress filled the empty space beneath our thinly constructed veneer, until there were too many cracks to control. It became impossible for me to differentiate between normal marital blowups and insidious emotional abuse.

“Jesus, what the fuck is wrong with you!?” he yelled at me one night after he’d lost his erection in the middle of sex. It was an impossible situation to navigate. If I consoled and reassured him, he would lash out defensively. So, I said nothing at all, and he seized the silence like a weapon. “I can get it up just fine—guess you just don’t turn me on anymore.”

In case you’re wondering, I’m a fucking excellent lover, I’d just reached the point where I couldn’t stand his touch, and he must’ve felt it. Of course, now I can look back and spot the abuse and manipulation like a vandalized copy of an I Spy book. Oh yup, there it is—circled right in front of you. But, when I was in it, I didn’t realize I was in it, living it—a complacent participant. The incidents were so spaced out that during the peaceful periods in between, I’d convince myself he’d changed, that he’d learned to cope better with his stress and wouldn’t say another hurtful thing to me. Even worse than that, I started to expect the abuse. I’d grown calluses. When he said I was pathetic, dumb, and worthless, I believed him because he coupled each insult with a dose of gaslighting. “Who else would want to be with you? If you left me, no one else would have you. You’re a boring wife and a boring fuck. Be glad I’m with you.”

Be glad I’m with you.

Be glad I’m with you.

He was holding my head under water, and I didn’t drown, didn’t break. I grew gills.

Four years into our marriage, it looked like Andrew was perfect. Everyone agreed, and I was glad.

I hadn’t spoken a word about his behavior to anyone around me, and that was an intentional choice on both of our parts. After the first few arguments, he’d hold me in bed and rub my back and tell me our personal life was ours. “We’re stars, babe, and stars burn hot. People won’t understand.” Of course, I wholeheartedly agreed. In the beginning, I still believed the best of him. I didn’t want to betray his trust and spew our dirty laundry to the world, especially since I was so sure each bad time was the last. Somewhere in the middle though, denial that it would continue dissolved into shame and embarrassment that it had and would.

I turned inward, pushing my family and everyone else away even more, and Andrew capitalized on that. He kept in touch with our friends when I didn’t. He put on a warm, friendly facade when we were out at parties. He was such a clever puppeteer, especially when you consider the fact that you can’t file a police report for words like you can for punches, and Andrew knew that. He never once hit me.

I did finally work up the courage to talk about it with Rebecca. She was the closest thing I had to a friend back in Los Angeles. We’d get lunch a few times a month and meet up for yoga here and there.

I broached the subject in a whisper, after a scripted answer about being annoyed with his adorable quirks.

“Actually, I don’t think I’m happy…with Andrew.”