Brandie's Story, Part I

We were teenagers when we first met.

The year was 1990, the first time I laid eyes on him was at a church youth group function. Set against the dusty rose carpet and wood paneling walls, he stood at the front of the church with his friends. He was wearing a mustard yellow and black shirt buttoned all the way up with dark Girbaud jeans. Hands in his pockets. Dark hair, hazel eyes, and a mischievous smile. 

My first impression was that I didn’t like him. I should have trusted myself.

I was born fourteen years earlier to a teenage mother who never completed high school. Her first marriage was extremely, physically abusive. I was in third grade when we made our strategic exit from his grip. She remarried when I was in fourth grade, but their initially strong emotional connection quickly faded away and for many years they essentially lived separate lives. My mother was a survivor. I learned from her. Just survive. Keep going. But I didn’t want to be like her…

I came from a “broken” home, never knowing my biological father during my childhood. As a young girl, I dreamed of the fairytale life. I desired the IDEAL family – mom, dad and children all happy living in the same house forever. You know, “first comes love, then comes marriage, then comes Brandie with a baby carriage” and all that jazz.

HIS family was the ideal, picture-perfect family. His parents were still married with three boys who always had Sunday lunch at home. His father was a beloved minister whom I grew very close to as a young teenager, calling him “Daddy” at his offering. 

Daddy was a wonderful man, fulfilling every expectation I had built up in the void that my father had created. I mentally reasoned that Daddy’s son would be my best shot at getting what I had always wanted growing up. I believed his son could provide me with the fairytale life.  

We dated off and on in highschool.  Then on Valentine’s Day of our junior year we decided to  make it official. He gave me an oval sapphire and diamond promise ring in our senior year. That was 1993.

Looking back to our dating years, there were plenty of RED FLAGS: 

• extreme jealousy
• controlling behaviors
• threats of suicide if I broke up with him
• threats that he had people watching me at all times even when we were apart
• dangerous and reckless driving with me in the car when we were arguing
• an explosive temper

But my dream-colored glasses blocked out many of the red flags flapping in the wind. All I could see was the promise of a dream come true. I believed that I was making a wise decision. I was eighteen years old after all…

My mom tried to warn me. 

My boss tried to warn me. 

I was an independent woman and had a headstrong spirit. I truly believed I had all the answers. The truth is, I wanted a break from our engagement, but breaking off the relationship meant losing my “Daddy” and losing the wonderful family that came along with the package.

His little brother had become MY little brother. 

His sister-in-law had become MY big sister. 

I was deeply invested in the wonderful relationships I had with these wonderful people. Surely, judging by his family of origin, he could deliver what I deeply craved….

At 18 years old, I was a married woman. We were a ministry family. His whole family was a ministry family, both widely regarded and deeply loved. We served as assistant youth pastors within our first few years of marriage, and later as Youth Pastors. 

He played piano on the church worship team. I taught dancing to young girls and teenage girls. I was the Ladies’ Ministry President. We both preached and taught the word of God on Wednesday nights as well as some Sunday morning services and conferences. I felt church people looked up to us and counted on us. 

I truly believed, as we were taught, that marriage is forever and divorce is not an option. 

I NEVER wanted to be divorced. Other ministry couples who went through divorce were overtly judged and negatively spoken of.

In our home, scriptures such as, “God hates divorce” and “a wife should submit herself to her husband” and “your body is not your own” were used as weapons. Don’t get me wrong – these scriptures are all true and can be found in the Bible. The caveat here is that in situations where domestic violence is occurring, these scriptures are wielded as verbal weapons to assert the utmost control over the other spouse. 

As a ministry family, we fought all the way to church, put on our “Christian masks” while at church, then fought the whole way home. 

I felt as though I lived in a fishbowl–swimming around my little round glass bowl with the wavy top while people admired what they could see. You see, everyone in church knew me by name because of our ministry positions. There was nowhere I could go without someone recognizing me or speaking to me as if they really knew who I was. 

Photo Credit: Connie Daigle

Inside, I was so lonely and isolated and NO ONE knew the real me. I was conditioned to keep our private lives private. No counseling although I repeatedly begged for it. No one was to know what went on behind our closed doors. 

The tactic of the abuser is to silence and alienate the abused. This is an attempt to maintain a happy outward image. The image of a happy home is very important to the abuser because it is HIS image.

When we spent time with friends, they observed his ill treatment of me. Many would make comments to him about the way he treated me. I was so embarrassed that my closest friends felt they needed to speak up for me. I was embarrassed because I had always projected an image of a tough girl that didn’t put up with crap. 

I was also simultaneously relieved that others confirmed my feelings. I thought that just maybe hearing it from other people would make him realize he needed to change his ways. But it did not. It just led to more fighting. He hated that all of our friends ‘liked me better than him’ or ‘sided with me’. This led to accusations of me not ‘defending him’. 

I am a perfectionist by nature; therefore, I felt I needed to rise up and start defending him. This catapulted the isolation.

You see, on the outside I never really showed signs of an abused woman. 

Oh, there was that one time Mr. Earl noticed bruises on my upper arm and asked, “Is your husband hurting you?” I denied the concerned inquisition and turned it into a joke. Mr. Earl let it go and I was relieved. I learned to be more careful with my wardrobe choices. For the most part, my wounds were invisible to the eye.

For suffering women like me, abuse centered around control, intimidation and threats rather than black eyes and swollen lips. It can be more difficult to ascertain that what we are living in is indeed an abusive situation.

The dream-colored glasses I was wearing, the heavy cloak of being a minister, AND my deep devotion to God weighed heavily on me. I had to keep my marriage vows true before God. Those things really blocked out the vast amount of red flags continuously hoisted in the air with each passing year… all 15 of them. Red flags such as:

• His expression of male supremacy and expectancy of female subservience
• His control over the small budget he gave me for groceries and household items. Then he expected me to present the receipt to him whilst sitting behind his large vintage metal desk. Each item was scrutinized and I was fussed and scolded for my purchases like I was a child
• Our biggest fight happened because I bought a 5 dollar pair of shoes without asking him
• My face has been spit in
• My boundaries were rarely respected
• I had to beg to be allowed to spend time with my friends
• I suffered an intensely painful miscarriage at home “alone” in the middle of the night while he slept – he always needed his sleep. He expected me to get up and go to work the next morning. He was quite upset that I felt I needed to stay home to rest and grieve. I also needed to go and see my doctor. I had scooped my baby out of the toilet with a slotted spoon, placed it inside a Ziploc bag, and placed my baby inside a brown paper lunch bag. He drove me to my doctor’s appointment, but I was still alone
• I did 95% of the household chores and took care of the children. I did 100% when the children were sick, sleeping on the floor of their room with my blanket and pillow so he could get his rest
• He called me his ‘concubine’ and his ‘good and faithful servant’
• I learned that I couldn’t trust him with my deepest and most vibrant dreams. He would just squash them and ridicule me for having them – I could never be better than him, you know… competition was always in full gear

 I was so very unhappy. I was not free.

As the old saying goes, “Three times’ a charm”. 

• The first time I mentioned a divorce, he conditioned me to stay by pointing a loaded and cocked .38 special in my face. 
• The second time, I verbally declared divorce. He surprised me and “changed”… for six months. That was until I became unexpectedly pregnant with our twins. Every bit of “change” went out the window. The moment I told him I was pregnant, I saw the switch flip in his eyes as plain as the light switch on the wall. 
• The third time I used the word ‘divorce’ was the last time… with a Petition for Divorce left for him to find on the dining room table. That was June of 2010. This time was very well planned and strategic. All firearms were packed along with all of my belongings in our Honda Pilot as I drove away from the home that I had put so much of myself into.

I wish that I could say that leaving was easy.     It was not. 

I wish that I could say that staying away was without turmoil.     It was not. 

...to be continued...