Untied
By: Lindsey Huff Breitschaedel
Tags: Domestic Violence, Divorce, Violence, Domestic Abuse, Autism

Until a few years ago, I always thought that domestic violence was something that happened in rural, run-down trailer parks; conjuring vague images of men in wife beaters (no pun intended) with a bottle of gin in one hand and the other hand swinging punches. I suppose that’s how I found my pajama-clad self standing in my kitchen at around 1am one night, staring at my phone with my heart racing, unable to decide whether to call 911. I couldn’t match that narrative with what had just happened to me in my own house.

At the time, my husband, son and I lived in the Silicon Valley, just East of Cupertino. He worked at a major tech firm and I split my time between teaching music, playing concerts and taking care of our two-year-old son. We pretty much fit the mold of the many other upper middle class families in the area, which I think made it much more surreal when he physically attacked me that March evening. Like many couples, we had been through our share of ups and downs, but we also went to couples therapy and had put a lot of time and energy into improving our relationship. We both went to individual therapy and were committed to working on both ourselves and our marriage. Looking back, there were some smaller incidents of violence throughout the course of our 12 year relationship (breaking or throwing things), but I never would have expected him to lash out at me physically.

Back to 2016…besides the aforementioned pictures of bottle-wielding “bad guys”, several sensations kept flashing through my mind as I stood there in shock: the intense stabbing pain from being punched in the nose repeatedly, the sound of my child crying in fear because his father wouldn’t let me hold him, me telling my husband I would call the police if he didn’t hand our toddler over and get out of the house immediately, the echo of my own scream as I was shoved across the nursery to land on the floor. I also remember vividly my panic at what might happen if I dialed those three digits. Would my son be taken away? Would my husband (a non-citizen) be deported? Also, this couldn’t have just happened, right? So what was I doing in the kitchen with my phone in my hand? Around and around the cycle went. At the same time I felt a chasm open in my heart and…a feeling like the death of innocence and faith. In that instant, I knew that I would never fully trust my partner again.

As it turned out, I never found out what happens when you call the cops on a family member, at least not in California. My husband came downstairs and was completely disoriented about what had just happened. Our son had croup and was coughing in his arms. Things felt slightly more normal for a second…we had a sick child in need of attention, so we focused on that. He had already had pneumonia twice, so we needed to take careful stock of his situation. To soothe his airways and try to make sense of what just happened, we decided to take a walk in the cool night air. Around and around the block we went, with an eventually sleeping son in his arms. In no uncertain terms, I told him that his behavior was unacceptable and that he needed to get a psychiatric assessment. I don’t remember whether he apologized but I am fairly certain that he agreed right away to go to a doctor. He didn’t remember exactly what he had done, and to this day I don’t think he fully understands.

On our long walk, my husband tried to describe what had happened from his viewpoint. There were a couple of variations…the first time he had punched me, it was because I surprised him in the dark and he didn’t know who I was. Then there was a version where he was angry with me specifically because he felt abandoned when I had postpartum depression following our son’s birth. Or a combination-I was an intruder who was “crazy”and he felt like he had to protect our son from me. Later I found out that he had been having fantasies about hitting me for months and been talking to his therapist about it. All of this information was absolutely flabbergasting to me. None of it made sense and it truly felt like the world had turned upside down. But by that time exhaustion had also set in and we decided to go home and figure out what to do in the morning. Since our toddler was peacefully sleeping for the moment, I dragged an extra mattress into the spare room upstairs and must have eventually gotten some sleep. I ended up sleeping on that same mattress for the next year.

I have very few memories of the following days because of a few other events that took precedence. The next evening our son’s croup became so acute that we decided to take him to the ER. The juxtaposition of waiting to have my child’s lungs X-rayed while wondering whether my own nose might be broken is something I will never forget. But shame and fear kept my mouth closed and my heart racing. I was still in intense pain that would last for the next 2–3 weeks. While we waited in the ER, my husband tried to lighten the mood by cracking jokes and I could only stare at him in astounded silence.

It turned out that our little guy had pneumonia as well as croup and the doctors wanted to admit him for the night to monitor his oxygen levels. This was a shock on top of a shock. Luckily, the night was uneventful and he slept pretty well despite the IV and all the monitoring equipment. The steroids and other treatment they gave him seemed to get him over the initial hump of both illnesses, so we took shifts taking care of our little one during the night and were able to go home the next morning. Before I settled in for a couple of hours of sleep, I saw that my therapist had replied to my email asking whether she had a cancellation over the weekend. It gave me a bit of comfort to know that I would see her the next morning.

In our session, it was hard to make sense of all the events from the past few days. I remember telling her the details of the incident, as well as about my son’s illness. I also vividly remember her using the term “domestic violence”. Even though I logically knew that was what happened, it just didn’t feel right to me. Every time she used those words it just seemed so ugly, so unreal. Mostly I just felt numb and overwhelmed. I don’t remember telling anyone else what had happened in the next few days or even weeks. I threw myself into helping my toddler feel better and went through the motions at work and at home. Only the physical pain and a sense of hyper vigilance around my husband reminded me that something major had shifted in my life.

He did follow through on getting assessed, and we agreed that it would make sense if I went with him to meet with the psychiatrist to whom he was referred. She was, as often seems to be the case with doctors in her profession, a bit detached and cold. Overall, she seemed unruffled by what we shared, and her diagnosis was one of underlying depression and anxiety that had, in her opinion, had led eventually to rage. She suggested that he try an antidepressant for a year and see how things went. He agreed to try it, but later told me that he only took it for a few months. I didn’t see much of a difference in his everyday behavior, even during the time he was taking the meds. But it was encouraging to me that he was willing to give it a shot and I was hoping that it would help the next time we got into a disagreement.

Over the next months, I sifted through my feelings to see whether I was truly willing to forgive him and try to move on. It wasn’t easy, and I needed a lot of personal space. That was quite difficult for him, and although we worked hard on talking things out in therapy, physically we had never been more separate. I more or less moved into the spare bedroom and took a lot of time for self-care: journaling, yoga and adult coloring books were very soothing to me during that time. I also gave serious thought to the idea of leaving, but as a child of divorced parents, I was convinced that it would only be detrimental to our child if we ended our marriage. So I decided to really give things a second chance and move on as much as possible. As a small safety measure just in case there was a repeat incident, I shared a bit of what had happened with our neighbor across the street as well as our housemates at the time. It helped to know that I could get help from people who knew our history if there was a future emergency.

About a year later, we felt that this chapter had closed and we decided to try for another child. Our second baby (also a son) was born about 3 years after his brother came into this world. I was really grateful to have a more “normal” postpartum period the second time around, with the help of medication, social support and therapy. There were a couple of incidents during that time that frightened me, but I had convinced myself that things had to be okay. Although a couple of friends of mine were so put off by my husbands behavior that they did not want to come to our house when he was home, overall things seemed to be just “fine”.

There were some major bumps in the road the following years, as our older son was diagnosed with Autism and ADHD. Because of the lack of services and social support as well as cost of supporting two children in the Silicon Valley, we decided to move back to my husband’s home country, Austria. Just as we were preparing to move, the Coronavirus went from a pesky inconvenience to a worldwide pandemic. There were a few more incidents where I was frightened by my husband’s anger and I was also increasingly concerned that he seemed unable to relate to how the kids and I were feeling and our experiences in daily life. It felt more and more like he could only focus on himself and his anxieties about the move and, of course, COVID-19.

Fast-forwarding a bit, we were able to successfully sell our house for a nice profit and move to Vienna, the capital city of Austria. For me, it was a big sigh of relief to settle into our new place and re-connect with the friends I had made living abroad some years earlier. Our kids adjusted well and our older son was able to join an inclusive classroom at a local school for 1st grade. But for my husband, the transition was very rough, and although he was able to keep his job and work from home, he really missed California and the hubbub of office life.

Only six months after our move to Vienna, I found myself once again in the position of considering a call to the police. My husband and I got into a small disagreement that quickly escalated into him snapping into a rage. This time he didn’t hurt me as severely, but from the beginning of the argument he badly frightened me and both children by screaming repeatedly in my face. “GO AWAY, GO AWAY, GO AWAY,” the refrain lasted for several minutes, during which he was so close to me that he was spitting on me. The kids were right next to us and were already crying and terrified, so I tried my best to de-escalate the situation by putting my hand on his chest and asking him to please leave the room and take a break or a walk; anything to calm down. Instead, he continued to yell, eventually shoving me down the hall and out of the room. He started to close the door and shut me out, but because the kids were in the room with him, I tried to grab the door and stop him. He pried my hand off the door, gouging the back of my right hand and breaking the bracelet I always wore. Then he locked himself and the kids in the room and held onto the lock from the inside.

In addition to a screwdriver in the hopes that I could unlock the door, this time I didn’t hesitate to grab my phone; in some logical part of my brain that was trying to function, I hoped that if I started filming, I could use the video as leverage of some sort. Then I knocked on the bathroom door repeatedly, reiterating what had just happened-for the sake of putting it on record-and asking him to open the door and let me comfort the kids. Once I started talking and knocking, they started calling my name. It truly felt like a nightmare. I told him that if he didn’t come out and leave the apartment within five minutes, I would call the police. As all of this was unfolding, I felt my heart burst the rest of the way open and I knew our marriage was over. It was the worst feeling I have ever felt. I was both completely devastated and also completely certain that this was the only path forward. Being physically overpowered (twice) and unable to help my children when they were frightened was something I feel that no mother should ever have to experience. As scary and painful as it was to be yelled at and physically hurt, what stayed with me the most from these incidents was the horrible sense of hopelessness at not being able to protect them. I counted down to three minutes, and then, around when I got to one minute, he let go of the lock from the inside and I was able to unlock the door with my screwdriver.

Once he opened the door, I kept the camera rolling until I had convinced him to leave the apartment and cool off for a few hours. The moment the door clicked shut behind him, I made sure the video saved, then immediately hugged the kids and made sure they were okay. Knowing that he could come back at any moment, I put on a movie to occupy them and I started packing as fast as possible. With shaking hands, I discovered my broken bracelet lying forgotten on the floor and stuffed it in my wallet. While I gathered up passports, medication, PJs, loveys, and enough clothes for at least a week, I called one of my closest friends and asked him to pick us up. He told me later that as soon as he saw my name come up on his phone, he knew something was wrong. Usually we just chat on WhatsApp or take our kids to the park, so a phone call was very out of the ordinary. Knowing the history of my marriage, my friend said he was not entirely surprised, although very sad to hear what happened. Within half an hour, he was at our apartment helping me load our stuff into a taxi downstairs. A half hour after that, we had a place to stay through one of his contacts. Even though I was far away from my own family, I truly felt like the kids and I were just as loved and cared for in this crazy situation as we would have been back in California.

Over the next few days, I tried to keep life as “normal” as possible for the kids while I worked quickly to find out what the next steps would be to protect us. One of the first things I learned was that it was important to send a message right away to my husband saying that the kids and I were staying with friends. Otherwise I was opening myself up to the possibility that he could accuse me of kidnapping the children. It was one of many moments to come that utterly blew my mind, because the thought that people actually do kidnap their own children is so incomprehensible to me. On the upside, I was pleasantly surprised to find that there are several hotlines women can call to get advice in a situation like this in Vienna. Although I am fluent in German, I quickly found myself learning long and complicated new terms, such as “Einstweilige Verfügung” which is a very fancy word for extended restraining order. Phew.

It became clear to me rather quickly that, to protect myself from any kind of future attack on my character and also to ensure that I could have the kids in my care most of the time, it was important that I go to the police. Initially, I was worried about lasting consequences for my husband’s personal record, job, and, perhaps most importantly, mental health. But in addition to wanting to make it clear that I had left because I was afraid for the safety of myself and my kids, I also wanted to protect us in case he flipped out again in the near future and tried to attack me or to take the kids themselves. From my research, it also sounded like because my physical injury was not very severe, it was likely that if I did go forward and press charges, they would not stay on his record for very long, nor would his employer be informed of my actions. So I felt like it was the best course of action to go ahead and make a report with the local police.

Walking into the police station was one of the most difficult decisions I have made in my life, and I was so nervous that I was having trouble thinking clearly. I was on my own and not sure where exactly I needed to go to make a report. The first area I entered turned out to be where one goes to pay parking tickets, but they re-routed me to the correct reception desk. There were two male officers sitting in the reception area, and after they buzzed me in, they quickly started in with rapid fire questions and began typing my details into their computers. At first they seemed a bit skeptical because I had waited five days to come in and make a report. After I explained that as a foreigner I wanted to fully understand the consequences of what I was about to do, they seemed to soften a bit. It also seemed to help that I had been to the doctor to get an examination of the large scratch on my hand just two days after the incident. She had remarked that it did indeed seem to have been inflicted by someone gouging me with their fingernails.

To my great shock and dismay, after they took down my details, one of the officers asked me for my husband’s phone number and proceeded to call him right in front of me. He didn’t reach him, but while the phone was ringing, I was petrified at the thought that I was sitting so close by that I would be able to hear his voice when he picked up the phone and found out what I was doing. My next thought was that he might be brought in to explain his side of the story while I was still there. But the officer hung up without leaving a message and then walked me upstairs to the officer who, he explained, would be taking down all the details of what had happened. I glanced at the gun at his hip while we were walking and tried to take a couple of deep breaths.

The next part of my time at the police station has taken on somewhat of a miraculous quality in my recollection. I went into that office expecting to be met with disbelief or even ridicule, and my ears were also on high alert for the sounds of approaching footsteps or my husband’s voice. It’s unfortunate that no one told me that he would in fact be brought in to a different part of the station so that I wouldn’t have to interact with him. As it was, I was shaking from head to foot the whole time I was telling the investigator what happened. But on the whole, this part of the events of that day was almost…soothing? From the moment I walked into his office, Udo did his best to help me feel at ease. The environment was far from cozy, between the shuttered windows, 60’s decor and plexiglass shield between the two of us, but somehow he managed to convey to me that I was being seen and heard very clearly. It was yet another moment that will be etched into my memory for many years to come.

The first question Udo asked me was how I was feeling at that very moment. I think I had to stop and collect my jaw off the floor before I stammered that I was pretty frightened. He asked me to take some deep breaths and try to notice where my body was physically located. Slowly I felt the chair underneath me and the mask on my face. It was one of several times that we locked eyes and he asked me to just breathe until I felt like I could continue speaking without feeling panic. Sometimes he made some brief observations, such as that it seemed to him that I had been putting myself down or putting myself last in many situations, which was astounding to hear out of the mouth of someone who had just met me. It sounds a bit ridiculous, but I almost felt like he was an angel who had fallen out of the sky to guide me through this extremely surreal and awful process. Several times he asked me to clarify things, and that proved to be very important, as my German vocabulary didn’t necessarily include subtleties such as the difference between “push” and “shove” (schieben vs stossen).

But because I was still so worried about being confronted with the very person I was discussing, I found that I wasn’t able to concentrate fully. Finally, as we were wrapping up the details of the report, I asked Udo what was going to happen next. To my great relief, he told me that he was going to walk me out of the building through a separate exit. At that point, I wanted nothing more than to be finished so that I could go home and try to process what had happened. He explained to me that my husband would not be allowed to enter our family apartment for the next six weeks (another long and fancy word: Betretungsverbot, AKA Wegweiser). If I wanted to, I could apply for an extension of the Vertretungsverbot — what I believe we would refer to in the US as a restraining order — in which case he would also not be allowed to pick the kids up at their schools. I did do this a few days later. He then handed me a copy of the report he had made, highlighting his contact info at the top, and walked me back downstairs to an exit at the back of the building. Several officers graciously let us pass with a nod on our way out and I was again astounded at the respect and courtesy I felt from these people with deadly weapons strapped to their bodies.

I stumbled home and tried to prepare myself for the kids to return home with our babysitter. By this time we had moved back into our own apartment temporarily, and since my husband had refused to give up his keys, I had already felt uneasy for a few days. In fact, it was our neighbor going back and forth a few times between his front door across the hall to the elevator that had finally spurred me to bite the bullet, so to speak, and move forward with the police report. The jangling sound of his keys had given me some severe anxiety attacks and my gut finally declared that it was fed up with living in fear in its own home. Now I felt an intense mixture of fear and exhaustion, combined with the awe of having been treated fairly well in the process.

This was only the beginning of what turned out to be the longest winter I can recall in my life so far. Between the pandemic, one of the coldest springs on record in many years, and the many layers of grief, sadness and anger I was to cycle through, there were only a few bright spots in the months to come. One was the shift in my relationship with my boys.

From the day we moved out of our family apartment and got into a taxi with one of my best friends, the kids really impressed me with how much they were able to comprehend about the gravity of the situation. Many times in the following days and weeks they talked about how “Papa said GO AWAY” and then went on a “time out”. In our household, we use time outs as a way to diffuse a heated situation and physically separate ourselves from each other and calm down. They also talked about how scared they were and that they couldn’t see Mommy anymore while they were locked in the bathroom. Not once during the first couple of weeks, during which they didn’t see him except for brief play dates (with mutual friends present), did they ask to see him or talk to him. Before one of the play dates, my older son said that he didn’t want to go. “I don’t like Papa”, he said, much to my astonishment. As a child with Autism, it has historically been very difficult to talk about his feelings about people, or even objects. I was unprepared for this situation, but I wanted him to know that his feelings and opinions were okay. I told him that he didn’t have to like Papa or to play with him, but that he did need to go to the playground because we had a plan to meet him there. He seemed to accept this, and although I wasn’t going to the play dates at the time, my friends who were there said that he seemed fine once they were all there. Unfortunately many of these early play dates were short because all the indoor public spaces were still in lockdown and it was cold and snowy outside.

Another touching moment was when my three year old looked at the scratches on my hand and asked where “the ouchie came from”. Before I could even think about it, I found myself answering, “Papa scratched me”. “I’m sorry, Mommy,” he answered. I had never heard him apologize before. I told him thank you and that it wasn’t his fault at all. Although I was bone tired from all the stress of figuring out where we would live, what life was going to look like for us, etc, I also felt like I had a lot more energy to interact with both of my kids without also having to monitor how my husband was doing, what he was saying, and how likely he was to be angry at any given moment. Suddenly, I was free to just take in how my children were doing and what they needed, and to stay mainly grounded in the present just like they were. I tried to be honest with them as much as possible, but also not burden or scare them with unnecessary or inappropriate information.

Another silver lining to this incredibly difficult time was the the apartment that I managed to find for myself and the boys. Although I was legally entitled to stay in our family apartment, at least for the time being, I felt that it really didn’t make sense to stay. I felt uneasy because of the memories, and the apartment would have been quite expensive for a single parent. In addition, it wasn’t super close to my older son’s school. It wasn’t so easy to find an affordable apartment for a mom with two young kids (and a grand piano), but we were very fortunate to find a place a couple of blocks from the school very quickly. As a bonus, we ended up getting to know the owner and her family, who have practically adopted us. It has meant the world to me and the kids to know that we are safe, welcome and even taken care of in our new home.

My friends and some of my family members were also extremely supportive. From loaning (and even giving) me money to pay the deposit for the apartment and get furniture, to watching the kids for me when I couldn’t find a sitter or coming over to hang with me and the kids in times when I needed some company, to endless moral support and encouragement, I can honestly say that I would never have been able get through this situation without their help. Some days I actually couldn’t stop crying because it felt so incredibly vulnerable and incredible that people believed me and believed in the course of action I was taking. One day, a teacher at my older son’s school pulled me aside to tell me what I great job I was doing with my kids and I thanked her in shock and gratitude. As soon as I walked away from her, the floodgates just opened and I had to go home an hang out on my couch with a box of tissues for a couple of hours before I could get on with my day.

On the flip side, I also experienced some skepticism from close family members and friends. Interestingly, one of these family members was present when my husband hit me in 2016. Of all people, I was hoping this person would understand and support my decision to leave. Instead, I was met with criticism and judgement. I was told that I was over exaggerating what had occurred and that it would be detrimental to my kids to bring them up in a “broken family”. I firmly told this person that I believe, and have also heard from professionals, that watching a loved one being physically and verbally attacked is just as traumatic for a child as experiencing an attack personally. To me, it is much more important to have the three of us safe than to stay in a potentially dangerous situation for the sake of keeping the family together. Having watched my mother be abused by my stepfather, I also have firsthand experience of watching this kind of scene play out in my family home, and it’s not something I want for my children, under any circumstances.

Other family members and friends have told me that it’s “normal” for parents to scream at each other, hit each other, break things or not speak to each other for days at a time, because that is what they themselves observed in their own families. While I can empathize with this experience, it doesn’t normalize it for me at all, and I still don’t find it to be acceptable for myself and my children. I find it really sad that it seems my decision is uncomfortable for other people and has affected my personal relationships with these people who are dear to me. But I also refuse to apologize for doing what I feel is right or to listen to lectures about what I should and shouldn’t be doing. I hope that these relationships will heal with time and distance, but if they don’t, I’m lucky enough to have many people who are in my corner for good.

Going back to the legal proceedings related to my decision to move toward divorce — I also filed for an extended restraining order, which was granted for one month. In the meantime, I only had contact with my husband via friends or family members, and was keeping track of all the correspondence between us. From the day of the incident, I had clearly communicated to him in writing that the relationship was over and that I was afraid for my safety and the kids’ safety. At first, he still tried to convince me to meet up with him or to let him come over and cook with us in the apartment so that the children wouldn’t be scared of him. While I absolutely agreed that the kids shouldn’t be frightened, I didn’t feel that this was the correct way to go about repairing the situation. After the restraining order was granted, he stopped trying to push the boundaries. In the meantime, I tried to find a mediator so that we could sit down in a safe space and try to work out the next steps.

Unfortunately, it was a long time before we were able to sit down and speak with each other. I could write an entire article just about this part of the journey toward our eventual divorce, but I think I will save all those details for another time. In the end, we both ended up getting lawyers, then firing the first lawyers and getting new ones. At first, it seemed that we were in a deadlock; more or less in the middle of what they call in German a “Rosenkrieg” (war of roses) where both sides fight bitterly to tear each other down. I filed for full custody of the kids for a period of six months, during which I was hoping he could have a chance to process the end of the relationship and also start more comprehensive treatment for his anger issues. Of course it would also be important for the kids to see him during that time, but I wanted another adult to be present in case he started to flip out again.

He responded by filing for 50% custody of the kids and used my mental health history (verbal and sexual abuse by my stepdad during my childhood, followed much later by postpartum depression after the birth of our first son) to contest that I was unstable and an unfit mother. I gathered statements from our current and previous babysitters who stated, of their own accord, that I was very capable and also the logical choice as the main caretaker of the kids, since he was very absorbed in his demanding job as an engineer and not very in touch with the kids’ day to day lives. When we finally sat down together with our lawyers for the first time, his lawyer immediately attacked my character and tried to poke holes in the police report by questioning me about what had happened and then pointing out “inconsistencies” between what I said and what was written down. It was extremely triggering, especially given that I had tried to report what my stepdad had done years before and wasn’t believed (more about that over here).

In the end, my (now) ex realized that it just wasn’t practical for him to have the kids 50% of the time with his work schedule and stress level. So we worked out a plan for him to have the kids every other weekend for about 3.5 days, in addition to 2 weeks in the summer and one extra afternoon per week. The kids and I had a chat about it during one of the nightly snuggles my older son initiated as a bedtime tradition (another really amazing development that has happened since the separation…he is really reaching out to connect with both me and his dad more). I let them know that although their Papa and I don’t live together anymore and aren’t together anymore, they will always be our kids and we will always live with them — we just take turns now.

The finances were a bigger hurdle, as my husband was not willing to reveal all of his financial assets from our eight years of marriage. In Austria it is required to do so, but it’s not actually enforced if one of the parties is not willing to share all of their account statements. If we had gotten divorced in California, he would have been legally forced to do so through the “discovery” process. So it was a bit of a guessing game. But with the help of some family and friends, I was able to put together a pretty accurate, or at least acceptable (in his opinion) overview of our finances. What really stung me emotionally during this process was not only the fact that he refused to share this information, but also that I realized that he had never fully trusted me throughout our relationship. We never had joint accounts and he was never really transparent with me even though he made all of the financial decisions. Over the past few years, I ended up being pretty financially dependent on him since I was working less to care for our older son. This then transitioned to almost total dependence when the pandemic hit and I no longer had gigs and concerts. Luckily I was able to keep teaching piano via FaceTime…that kept me sane in a lot of ways. But I felt over time that my ex and I had completely different lifestyles. I always felt like I was on a shoestring budget and was stressed out just paying my share of the bills, whereas he seemed to be able to afford whatever he felt was important.

In a nutshell, we actually wrapped things up fairly quickly in the end…about six months passed between the day my former husband physically attacked me a second time and the day we officially filed for divorce. Over that time period, he never took responsibility for physical actions he took that Sunday morning. No matter how many times I explained what I experienced or even showed him photos of what little “evidence” there was, he insisted that I had projected the whole incident because of my past trauma. He also downplayed what happened in 2016 when he finally told his parents and, of course, he especially downplayed it in front of our lawyers, stating that he “accidentally smacked me in the face (once) because he mistook me for an intruder”. While it confounds me greatly that he cannot come to terms with his actions, it also is frightening, because there is really nothing stopping him from doing something like that again, or something even worse. But I suppose that’s a reality I would have had to live with anyway. Overall, I’m just grateful that the kids and I are safe and will be able to live comfortably for the foreseeable future. My physical wounds are long gone, the shock is slowly wearing off — what will take the longest to heal, I believe, is trust.

It is terrifying to share publicly about this entire experience, but I feel strongly that it’s important for others to hear and see that domestic violence doesn’t discriminate based on income level or social status, and also that its effects can be felt emotionally and spiritually even when the physical scars are minimal. The ripple effects that it causes in one’s life are also quite challenging — for me, this includes being disbelieved and shunned by several in-laws and also some members of my own family. Whatever it is that causes society to not take survivors of abuse seriously is beyond all comprehension to me. If I hadn’t had so many amazing friends and family members who did support me, I wouldn’t have had the courage to stand by my conviction that I was on the path the kids and I needed to be on. I also felt really relieved and grateful that there are many resources people in these kinds of situations here in Austria and also in the US. So help is there if it’s needed. I’m also happy to be an informal resource for anyone who is struggling with this kind of situation. Please feel free to reach out to me.

So there we have it. Eight years after we tied the knot, we have now untied it. It often felt like I was also coming undone. But here I stand. Thank you for reading.