Domestic abuse at the hands of a spouse is a bitter reality that many men experience but are conditioned by society to hide. Abuse of men at the hands of women is something that does occur, but because of male pride and cultural conditioning, it often remains in the shadows. In To Hell and Back: My Life as an Abused Husband, author Kimber Broughton narrates the true story of Jonathan, a man who suffered a morass of abuse, psychological torment, and financial violation by his manipulative former wife, Stacy. This memoir describes Jonathan's twelve years of abuse-the hell he experienced, how he handled the cruelty, and how he was finally able to leave the marriage and overcome the after effects. This memoir tells one man's brutally honest story in order to share it with other men who are living through the nightmare of abuse. Detailing how to recognize the warning signs of abusive relationships and how to fight to get free of them, this book expresses that rebuilding pride and finding real love again after an abusive relationship is possible.

To Hell and Back: My Life as an Abused Husband

By Kimber Broughton

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2012 Kimber Broughton
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4759-0629-5

Contents

Preface.........................................................vii1. Introduction.................................................12. The Beginning of the End.....................................23. "Come into my Parlor ..."....................................74. A Marriage Made in Hell......................................155. Are We Having Fun Yet?.......................................276. They're Not Really Made Out of Rubber........................447. She Assaulted My Checking Account!...........................518. It Was a Christmas Gift, Officer!............................619. A Blessing in Disguise.......................................7510. Court is in Session.........................................8811. Caramel Praline Crunch......................................9612. I'm Not the One Wearing Handcuffs!..........................10513. My Stained Glass Window is Gone!............................12414. Wake-Up Call................................................13815. Either She Leaves, or Both of You Go!.......................15716. Put it in Shawn's Room!.....................................17317. I'll Represent You on One Condition ........................19618. Are You Loving Life Right Now?..............................21019. Signs of Abuse: A Review....................................216Reflections.....................................................223

Chapter One

Introduction

Call me Jonathan, though that's not my real name. Because the events I'll discuss in this book actually occurred, names have been changed to protect the innocent and, yes, the guilty too. In the pages that follow, I'll discuss a bitter reality that many men experience but are conditioned by our society to hide: domestic abuse at the hands of a spouse.

Much has been written about the opposite scenario—the abuse of women by men. This is a very real and widespread problem, and I have nothing but sympathy for the victims. But the abuse of men at the hands of their women is something that does occur, daily, and there are very few (if any) books on the subject. It's less common than the opposite problem; sadly, there's no doubting that. But even when it does occur, it remains in the shadows for various reasons, mostly because of male pride and cultural conditioning. This book is intended to help those men who are living through the nightmare of abuse, to show them how to recognize the warning signs and how to fight free of them, and to help them realize that there's a life beyond an abusive relationship. You can rebuild your pride and find love, real love, again.

Now, I'll be the first to admit that I'm no Phil McGraw or Joyce Brothers; I don't even have a bachelor's degree in psychology, much less any experience at all as a therapist or marriage counselor. So what qualifies me as an expert? My own personal experience: I lived it. From 1993-2005, I worked my way through the graduate school of a hellish marriage, one that still haunts me psychologically today.

Chapter Two

The Beginning of the End

For more than ten years of my life, I was married to a she-devil. There's no better way to put it.

It didn't start out that way, of course, but within six months of marrying my dream girl, my life had devolved into a hell on earth, a morass of abuse, psychological torture, and financial rape. I often looked around at other people and wondered, "What am I doing wrong? Why can't we be like that couple? They look so in love, so happy! Is it me? Am I being punished? Why?"

One of my good friends, a co-worker, had told me that he and his wife never argued. He said they had disagreements, but when they did, they'd stay away from each other for an hour or so, and then act as if nothing had happened. I'd always heard the term "agree to disagree," but couldn't envision it happening in my marriage.

I'd decided, by then, that I must have had bad taste when it came to picking women. I'd always been shy and quiet; maybe I just took the first thing that came along. Maybe I'd lowered my standards too far, settling for less than I should have after my disappointing first marriage. I didn't have an outgoing "Type A" personality; I preferred to be the man behind the curtain. Almost all of my dates had been with women I'd been introduced to or set up with on blind dates. That's how I met my first wife, Carrie.

When Carrie told me she wanted a divorce after seven years of marital bliss, I was taken completely by surprise. I knew we'd grown in different directions over the years, but I hadn't realized things had gotten so bad. I've never been one to handle rejection well, and the idea of a divorce tore me apart. I reluctantly left and went to live with my parents while we hammered out the details of a separation agreement. I didn't do well. At the urging of family, I began seeing a counselor to deal with the pain and humiliation. I felt I was a failure to myself and my child. It was the roughest time of my life—or so I thought at the time.

Divorce and depression tend to be synonymous, especially when the divorce comes as a surprise. It can be traumatic to reminisce about the day your beautiful bride walked down the aisle to join you at the altar. I remember thinking, "Our love will last forever," yet suddenly here she was, telling me she wanted out. Why was she doing this? I hadn't been unfaithful; I hadn't been abusive. We just grew apart. What would my friends and family say? I couldn't face our mutual friends any longer; I didn't know whose side they'd take.

I felt I'd never be happy again. Loneliness became my best friend. I didn't want to go out with family or friends, only to see happy couples together; the memories would flood my mind, intensifying the feelings of despondence and worthlessness. I lost interest in the things I'd previously enjoyed. I didn't sleep well, and found it difficult to concentrate and perform my job. Simple things like getting out of bed, showering, and dressing seemed like too much trouble. It's so much easier to lie in bed and feel sorry for yourself.

My health began to spiral downward. Some people eat their way through a state of depression, only to gain weight and increase their feelings of unattractiveness. I, personally, wouldn't eat; it wasn't worth the effort. I'd go days without eating a good meal, and my reward for punishing myself was severe headaches. On the other hand, there are a select few who can submerge themselves in a rigorous exercise program to release their pent-up frustrations and anger. I joined an exercise club and gave it a good try for two or three weeks, but my heart wasn't in it, and I quit.

My finances were suffering; I was making mortgage and utility payments for a house I wasn't living in. I assumed 75% of our joint expenses, in addition to both child and spousal support. Luckily, I had understanding parents with whom I was able to live rent-free.

I'll always remember the advice I heard over and over again: "Time heals all wounds," and my all-time favorite, "the wheels turn slowly, but they do turn!" I'd also always heard it was the squeaky wheel that got the grease—so I made a lot of noise during the divorce, which only cost me more money in legal fees. I had to listen to unending banter from others who criticized my wife's actions, which only made me defend the woman who'd put me in this situation. A close relative finally demanded of all the critics, "Stop talking about her. The more you talk, the more he'll defend her! Leave him alone, and he'll eventually see things for himself!" That advice proved beneficial. I did soon start seeing things in a different light.

The official cause of our divorce was "irreconcilable differences." I was allowed visitation with my six-year-old son every other weekend. I found it difficult to spend quality time with him when I knew that his mother, the woman I still loved, might be out with another man at that very moment.

My friends and coworkers rallied to my side and encouraged me to get involved in activities outside of work. I joined a bowling league, which was enjoyable; I began going to friends' houses on my off days and on the weekends I didn't have my son, and we'd play guitar and have fun together. I was slowly beginning to heal. I even started thinking about female companionship again, yet my shyness remained a constant impediment to finding someone. I was still seeing a psychiatrist and therapist weekly, which gave me the opportunity to talk about it, at least. Was I doing an injustice to my son? Would he think I was trying to replace his mom?

Personal ads had just started appearing in our local newspapers, and I broached the subject with my psychiatrist. I told him I was of the opinion that the women in the ads were loaded with excess emotional baggage and other problems. The doctor replied that I might be surprised; he suggested that there was always the possibility that many of the women were just like me—ladies who were shy, who didn't know how to walk up to a stranger and start a conversation. His advice: give it a try. He gave me his usual speech about meeting in a public place and not revealing too much about myself, pointing out that if I met the person and wasn't impressed or felt threatened, I always had the opportunity to say so and walk away. At his urging, I answered a few ads, and actually met a woman in a very similar situation—her husband had recently left her for another woman. We went out a few times, but the chemistry just wasn't there between us.

My sister had lost her husband a few years earlier in an automobile accident, but she had recovered, and her wisdom and experience were a tremendous help. She'd say, "I know it doesn't look like it now, but things will get better!" She was right. I didn't think I'd ever recover, but the old adage was true: time does heal all wounds.

It was ten months before I began seriously seeing another woman I'd been introduced to by my sister. It was ironic; she'd recently divorced my high school history teacher, something that proved to be very awkward when we went to watch her son play Little League football. We went out a few times, and I thought we were doing okay until, one afternoon, she asked me to take her to a park with a three-mile walking trail. As we talked, she proceeded to tell me that we should just remain friends and not try to advance our relationship to the next level. I learned I'd ruined our chances; it seems I spent a lot of the time we were together talking about my soon-to-be ex and relaying how hurt I was. I hadn't fully recovered.

I went back to spending most of my free time with my friends, playing guitar, and drinking to mask the pain. When my divorce became finalized, I actually felt a wave of relief: it was finally over, and I wasn't hurting anymore.

At first I was reluctant, but eventually I began seeing a woman at work who had a reputation for sexual prowess. She was my exact opposite. She loved the spotlight, and thrived on the attention she received from other men when we'd walk into a nightclub. I'd spend most of my time on a barstool nursing beers while she danced with any willing male in the place. She'd always say, "It doesn't matter who I dance with; I'm going home with you!" After a month of her never-ending sexual energy, I began to wish she would go home with someone else. I told her it was beginning to be a job, not an adventure anymore. Naturally, she didn't appreciate that much.

Another woman at work had grown tired of listening to the nymphomaniac's tales of our sex life, which she broadcast to everyone in the cafeteria who'd listen. She approached me and said she had a friend she'd love for me to meet. "You deserve better! She's using you as a play-toy, and you're a nice guy; I don't want to see you get hurt again."

That's how the nightmare began. That was how I met Stacy.

Until then, I'd thought my divorce was the worst experience I would ever endure. But it didn't even come close to what would transpire over the next 12 years of my life.

Chapter Three

"Come into my Parlor ..."

I first met Stacy on a weeknight. Taking heed of my doctor's advice, we agreed to meet at a fast food establishment. My first impression was that she was attractive, polite, and courteous. She had three children, two of whom lived with her. She told me that she was currently on a week's vacation from her job as a nurse at a nearby hospital. I'd just met her, and had absolutely no reason to doubt what she said.

We talked for over an hour about various subjects. I learned that her previous husband had died at an early age; he'd suffered a massive heart attack. I clearly saw the pain in her hazel-blue eyes as she recalled the memories of his death. She'd just broken up with her boyfriend—a man who, ironically, I happened to know. His younger brother and I were friends in our teens, and my parents and his had been good friends for over twenty years. It's a small world after all, as the song says.

When it was time to leave, we agreed to see each other again, and made plans for that upcoming Friday night. I suggested dinner, and possibly we'd take in a movie. I left that night with an excited feeling; things appeared to be looking up for me.

That week, I anxiously looked ahead to Friday night, when I'd be able to see Stacy again. When the time came, I spent a considerable amount of time making sure I was dressed nicely before leaving for her house. I arrived at the pre-determined time for our dinner date, and was duly introduced to her son and daughter. Her son and mine happened to be the same age, which was a big plus in both our favors; our boys could play together on the weekends I had visitation with my son.

We enjoyed a nice dinner together and decided to forego the movie and head back to her place to relax and continue our conversation. The time went rapidly; we ended up talking until the wee hours of the morning. On the drive home, I played the night over in my head, and concluded that date had been a terrific success. I'd already decided I definitely wanted to see Stacy again. Much to my delight, she called early the next morning and asked if I'd be interested in getting together to take a leisurely walk at a nearby park. I was more than happy to comply; I'd thoroughly enjoyed her companionship the night before. We ended up spending the entire day together, talking and laughing and enjoying each others' company. I did notice that there were moments when Stacy appeared to be lost in her own thoughts; she appeared to be tuned in to her past. I didn't feel it was my business to pry; possibly she and her deceased husband had also spent time walking together, and the memories had flooded her conscious mind and made her feel sad.

After another dinner together, we went to my parents' home for an informal meet-and-greet. They appeared to be both pleased and impressed with Stacy; she turned on the charm and said exactly the right things. As we were leaving to return to her house, she made a peculiar statement: she promised to take good care of me. I thought surely she was referring to my recent divorce and the hurt I'd suffered.

That Sunday morning we attended church services together. During the service, I noticed that she'd retreated into deep thought again. Something's lurking beneath the surface, I remember thinking; but again, I felt it wasn't my business to ask about it. If she wanted to reveal what was troubling her, then I'd find out when she was ready to talk about it. However, I couldn't dismiss the feeling that she was hiding something.

After church, I was taken to meet her parents. They were both very nice and cordial. To hear Stacy telling her parents about me, I was the best thing since sliced bread. Her Mom graciously volunteered to watch the kids, mine included, anytime we wanted to go out and be alone. Stacy had already told them of my shift work and the awkward days off between shifts.

The next morning, Monday, I was off from work. I'd just gotten out of bed when my Mom came upstairs to my bedroom and said she needed to discuss something with me. She'd just received a phone call from a friend, asking her to please accept what she said at face value and advising her to get me away from Stacy—she was bad news! The friend who'd made the call was one of my Mom's oldest friends—the Mother of Stacy's ex-boyfriend. She told my Mom that Stacy never went to work, had lost numerous jobs, and had taken advantage of her son's good-hearted nature by maxing out his credit cards. According to Mom, by the end of the conversation the list of atrocious things Stacy had done was rather extensive.

I wondered then if that might explain those times when Stacy seemed to be lost in thought. I began to have second thoughts; should I take the woman's advice, or should I judge for myself? I realized that when a romance goes sour, things have a tendency to be blown out of proportion, especially to the mother of an affected child; the child's age isn't necessarily relevant. Was she just harboring ill feelings towards Stacy for that reason? I wondered ... but I have to admit that I had serious doubts about Stacy at this point. The ex-boyfriend's parents had always been nice, Christian people and good friends to my family and me; as mentioned earlier, I grew up with their youngest son. I'd spent many sleepovers at their home over the years, and I'd gone on numerous trips with their family during my teens.

I'd assumed Stacy was working; her vacation had supposedly ended the day before, and I was caught off guard when my phone rang. It was Stacy calling to wish me a good morning, and to invite me over for lunch.

"I thought you were at work," I said slowly.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from To Hell and Back: My Life as an Abused Husbandby Kimber Broughton Copyright © 2012 by Kimber Broughton. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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