"Ours was a match made in hell..."   No woman walking down the aisle believes she will one day wake up lying next to an abusive spouse. Vows are spoken with sincerity and forethought, colored by shared dreams of happily ever after. I similarly promised myself – and God – that I would do all that I could to see that the marriage I had entered into would not only survive, but thrive. Yet, one sad day, after a million little incremental abuses, I woke up battered and scarred, utterly confounded as to how my life had become such a nightmare. What I did not realize was that the seeds had been planted long before.    I grew up in a broken home in Northern California with my mother and two sisters. My father left our home when I was five years old. Although we saw our father regularly, it was more out of a sense of mutual obligation than desire, I think, almost exaggerating the unbreachable chasm between us. My dad was, at once, very handsome and charismatically aloof. Apparently, I was not supposed to be close to him. I felt more like an obligation than a daughter.   My mother was a determined provider. She always made certain we had a roof over our heads, food on the table, and clothes on our backs. We were expected to do our homework and go to bed on time. Affection and communication, however, were virtually non-existent. I did my best not to cause trouble, as it seemed that was what was expected of me. But, I had no sense that I was in any way special, unique, attractive or otherwise extraordinary. Although I was “gifted” and always succeeded in school and was surprisingly popular with the kids, I felt altogether empty and worthless.    When I was 19 or 20, I met John at church. He was immediately smitten with me, and we began dating. After a few short months, I broke off the relationship because he was constantly trying to “fix” me. Almost a year later, after his expressed willingness to accept me as I was, we began dating again. I took his obsession with me for love, and I believe I loved him too. Two years later we were married.    John had some serious health issues, and together with his emotional stress of coping, John’s life quickly became the focal point of our relationship. In my mind, this was my time to shine, so to speak. I could dote on him, take care of him and encourage him without a care for my own needs. That’s what love does, doesn’t it? Looking back, I can see how John needed someone to take care of him, and I needed to be needed. Both of us made it all about him. Ours was a match made in hell.    Early on, we made many memories, taking some relaxing vacations and finding many things to enjoy and laugh about together. As long as John’s expectations were met, life was good.    Five years into our marriage, I became pregnant with our firstborn: a daughter. John was an awesome daddy to Charla, but it was during her early years that he began to drink and self-medicate. Both of our families had a history of alcoholism, so I protested loudly and often for fear of what might follow. He would assure me that he was in control, try to hide his issues and, if discovered, would condemn me for my lack of sensitivity and support. Over time, our marriage saw an ever-changing number or type of lapses of integrity which included the use of pornography, stealing, lying, questionable relationships and drug and alcohol abuse – whatever seemed necessary to try to fill the ever-growing hole in John’s life. It was no longer even remotely concealed that John’s needs and desires came first. Trying to gain my husband’s love and appreciation became my objective – to give, love, encourage and support John to the extent that he would want to love me and care about what was best for our family.   As the years passed, we were blessed with three more children, two sons and another daughter, yet more children, less time and money also meant more self-sacrifice. So John looked for ways to satiate his own appetites. Although I tried to put on a good face and hold things together, I felt emotionally abandoned and fearful. I never knew what to expect, what I might discover or how I might be treated.   John’s drinking increased, as did his prescription drug abuse, and with it the deception. He became a spend-aholic, and our finances began to suffer. Any criticism or concerns I voiced were met with anger, and John’s passionate insistence that he should not be deprived whatever he pursued. To his way of thinking, any objections I had were because of my blatant selfishness.    Without emotional support, together with my twisted understanding of what it meant to be a God-honoring wife, I kept our family secrets and prayed fervently that things would turn around. I naively believed that, if I maintained my loyalty and became even more encouraging, sensitive and giving, one day my husband would miraculously see that he had a devoted wife and four amazing children, and he would eventually give his all to keep our family whole. That day never came.   My lack of appreciation of my own inherent value made me an ideal enabler – something I never imagined becoming. I remember well reading magazine articles and watching made-for-TV movies about women in abusive relationships and wondering how any woman worth her salt could get caught up in such insanity this side of heaven. Now I know. It is like a slow-growing emotional cancer fed by fear and self-doubt.    Even more subversive, although threatening or intimidating, John never hit me. He knew all of my sensitivities, such as my desire to be a godly wife, woman and mother and could disarm me by insulting my faith, disparaging my character or simply demanding submissive silence of me. He would openly refuse to help me with household tasks when I asked just to throw his weight around, and would periodically lock me out of our bedroom as a form of punishment.    My husband became a tactical expert, using his words like a weapon. He could twist my words and confound me to the point of sheer exasperation and confusion. In the end, whatever was wrong in our relationship could be traced to my failure. John’s will and domination controlled our world. He decided what we watched on TV, what songs played on the radio, whether anyone was allowed to have a good time. When he was harsh with the children, I would step in. Then he would blast me for daring to be disrespectful in front of the children. Although I tried to protect them, still, they felt his wrath. If I think on it too long, there is perhaps no end to the guilt I could assume on that score.    There were many times I wanted help, wanted to leave. But, he had never hit me. Nor, to my knowledge, had he ever been unfaithful. So, I felt as though I had no biblical justification for leaving.   Truly, by the time I was forced to leave with our children, I was little more than a shell. I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown, the children lived in fear and anxiety, and John ruled his world with an iron fist.    One horrible Friday night, after four hours of intense counseling, we returned home, and John promptly went to our bedroom, closed the door and began a telephone conversation with a woman whom he was quite obviously dating.      Early the next morning I left, taking the kids with me. Only after I walked out the door did I find my voice and, at long last, the children found theirs, too. It was the beginning of freedom and healing. The secrets would no longer be kept; they would be exposed. The harm that had been done would be called what it was.    Eighteen years earlier, I could not have foreseen that I would end up in an abusive marriage - that I would go to such extreme and unrealistic lengths – even sacrificing my common sense, dignity and even the emotional security of my own children -- to try to earn love and respect. John may have been abusive, but I enabled his destructive behavior.    After our separation, I still believed reconciliation was possible and worked toward that end. Although John initially made an effort to change, his addictions and long-ingrained abusive tendencies led to our divorce in 2003.    My regrets are too numerous to count. They come from not demanding the respect the children and I deserved early on, not speaking the truth openly from the beginning, not getting whatever drastic form of counsel and emotional support I needed, not putting my foot down and saying no. It has been hard for me to forgive myself for the cruelties our children witnessed and endured. I had failed to adequately protect those most precious to me.     There is nothing noble about allowing another to wield such power and control. It is a deadly trap and a lie. Like so many others in similar circumstances, I didn’t want to see it, and so denied it. My dream was to be such an honorable, loving, caring, sensitive, giving, encouraging wife that my husband would be irresistibly drawn to me. Instead of living in reality, I held out for hope, imagining our family one day standing whole and happy, leaving a legacy of faith and love. I imagined my husband treating me with tender love and protective care. Such was the vindication I yearned for but will never receive. It is a façade, a prideful deception I was foolishly – even selfishly – willing to entertain. I believe this desire lies deep in the heart of every enabler. Witnessing other women in similar situations, it becomes ever more apparent.     Not altogether surprising, the more abusive my husband was, the harder I tried. And on it went. So, all my efforts did was add fuel to the ever-growing blaze. That is the wicked truth. Abusive relationships are an unhealthy union of control and domination with a gross lack of self-esteem and self-debasing desire to please.   Individuals caught in abusive situations are seeking three primary things: a voice, a sense of value, and validation. While our voice may be most easily found, our sense of value must be most consciously fought for, and vindication, we must understand, may never be forthcoming. The road to restoration and healing becomes clearer when we let our unrealistic expectations go.   Even lacking in appreciation for our own inherent value, if you are living in the dreadful confusion of an abusive relationship, you must waste no time in speaking out. If it feels hurtful and wrong, it probably is. Love is not confusing and does not diminish the value of others. It’s okay, and sometimes imperative, that you say no. Of course, it is vital that you use wisdom in terms of how you take action to free yourself, making personal safety of all those concerned the highest priority.    It has taken many years and countless hours in counseling to come to see my own value as an individual, a woman, a mother and yes, once again, a wife.    Cindy and her husband live with her four children in Northern California.