Molting: The act of casting off body parts.
What about when we cast off more than just our skin, hair, or shells? What about relationships? What about ripping ourselves away from our abusers?
Molting your abuser is not the beautiful loss of the old and a glistening into the new as we imagine in nature. It’s more like a hairy mouse stuck to a glue trap; flesh tears with every attempt to flee the trap. Your muscles ache, limbs shake, heart pounds, and if you could scream through each painful and emotional tear, you would. You want to give up. “I’ll just stay.” I spit a sob; “I can’t.”
I continue to leave my abuser. Guilt engulfs my soul and is so plentiful I’m sure I’ll drown in shame. I cry as I have never cried before. How is that possible? I’ve sobbed so much in the last eight years with him I’m sure my lifetime allotment of tears has been exhausted. But no, my tears gush like an overflowing river that mountains cannot contain.
I don’t know what to call this emotion; it’s never been described to me and is entirely new—an emptying. As I empty, I also peel. My flesh becomes frail and sloughing; leaving my abuser resulted in painful lacerations, and this severing of my outer coating is the only way to break free.
I do not see or feel freedom on my horizon. I take all the blame and imprison myself within it.
I am doing something I’m sure I cannot do—pulling myself away from glue so thick I lose every inch of my skin, hair, hope, and courage. All that remains are bleeding, exposed nerve endings, and a hunger for love I had forgotten existed.
Leaving your abuser does not instill a sense of pride, strength, growth, or self-love; not right away anyway. That’s why it is so damn hard to do and why so many don’t. Leaving your abuser raises every sense of self-doubt and inadequacy that any human being ever considered and forces it to the center stage of every breath you take.
The only reason I was successful was that minute by minute, hour by hour, then day by day, I reminded myself one thing; “You’ll never get this far again.”
No one believed me; no one trusted that leaving was the only way to save my life. Many questioned my motives, and I lost my best friend. My tears raged like an aggressive and untamed waterfall. My heart ached with such agony I’m sure it bears scars.
And as I write this, I know beyond a doubt some readers will not see the validity in me calling him my abuser; my molting is still incomplete—I have the desire to explain.
Regardless of how it manifests or is inflicted, something is wrong if you feel fear, uncertainty, shame, pain, doubt, and confusion in all moments of each day. If you are willing to sacrifice yourself and your own knowing for the sake of someone else, something is wrong. If you continue to tell yourself that love is painful and requires unlimited penances for being human, something is wrong. Something is wrong if your feelings, thoughts, and dreams are discounted, hidden, or atoned. And if someone else, besides your loving mother, claims to know you better than you know yourself, something is wrong.
I left my abuser, my daughter’s father when she was two. His attacks were ruthless and his weaponry was words laced with intimidation resulting in my belief that I was worthless and horrible. I believed him when he claimed I was ruining our daughter’s life and she was better off without me, that I was a horrible person, a liar, a cheat, unworthy of happiness, an incompetent mother, selfish, and unlovable.
All of my skin remained stuck to the layers of his thick glue that held me captive and smothered my true self for so long. I left it there along with the house my father built us. I moved forward with open, gaping wounds so ripe and stinging that even the air in my new apartment caused me pain.
“I’ll just go back. I can’t; You’ll never get this far again.”
Very early in my molting, when I was bleeding the most, I found a man that I was sure would love me with the most tender care. He did, and he wanted to.
This new man would make it all better. I fell madly in love with his caring ways, sense of humor, and promises. I kept nothing from him. I poured myself, my soul, and all of my truths onto him. He didn’t even wince. It felt so freeing. I had no reason to hold back; he loved me and I trusted him with everything.
He promised to show me happiness. What is happiness? Besides the miracle of my daughter, I honestly did not know what happiness meant; but I craved it. This new man adored me, every inch of me—this was new for me. He was loving, confident, and generous. He showed me an intimacy I had never experienced before. When we were apart, I craved him—he was intoxicating like the most amatory drug known to the human experience.
The man he wanted to be was who he let me see, first. For a long time, this now elusive part of him was present most of the time. Slowly I learned I had fallen in love with an alter ego. His Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde performance were as natural to him as self-doubt was inborn and instinctual for me. Now after many years, I can see all of him. Fostering the good over the bad is the key to success and both parties must invest.
Yes, early in the molting process it is hard for a woman with no skin to know if red flags mean stop or go, run or hide, acknowledge or ignore.
My knee-jerk reaction has always been to ignore. I ignore brutal truths until I’m unable to contain the festering. And yet when my feelings are expressed, they are relayed with as much confusion as I feel. My skin is much thicker now. Therefore, I’m not only capable but I’m ready for the hard work marriage requires.
We all have the type of person we want to be set up in our minds; we strive for it and many of us attain it. None of us are perfect and all of us must continue to work toward the improvement of self. Hopefully, in a marriage, you can shed your old skins, take the time you need to go through things, and molt together.
Tina L. Hendricks