I am a survivor of domestic abuse.
I haven’t written about this before. It’s not in my memoir Good Cop Bad War. But it occurs to me that I now have a duty to be publicly honest about this because it is becoming clearer that as a society we could deal with the causes and harms of domestic violence better. As a police officer, I knew so many—way too many—survivors who deserve the very best help that science can provide.
My relationship with my wife had its difficult moments right from the start. Sam, as I named her in my memoir, had a difficult childhood. This played out with a powerful temper with an attention-grabbing sense of drama. Later in our relationship, this turned into psychological abuse.
Her father was someone who used alcohol very problematically. His descent into mental illness was plain to see. On a holiday with her whole family, he became abusive to everyone and this manifested itself in really dark ways. And he tried to start a fight with me, swaying, fists raised, calling me names.
Growing up with addiction in the family can cause trauma in childhood. This is widely understood. As I got to know Sam and heard tales of her childhood, and teenage years, I instinctively understood the trauma. And as such I later understood the origins of her abuse towards me.
Sam rarely physically assaulted me. And when she did it actually was a relief because I knew then that her temper would immediately subside and she would become apologetic and tearful; and I can take a few punches. The behavior that was my nightmare was when she deliberately stopped me sleeping. This became such an issue that my fear of it happening when I was working long hours at times dominated my thoughts. It was horrible. If I complained when she did it, she would descend into the worst petty abuse. “Man up, Neil”. I was pathetic, worthless.
I forgave her, of course I did. I loved her. But most importantly I understood where it was coming from. So, I empathized and treated her as gently as I could. Until I couldn’t anymore.
As my years of undercover work went by, I was increasingly finding myself seeing work as an escape from home. It was a relief for me but also being away seemed to take the pressure away from our relationship. Less time together seemed to translate to less abuse.
I was unaware, however, that my mental health was declining. The beginnings of what would later become CPTSD (complex post-traumatic stress disorder) was changing me. I became emotionally numb, even while I kept going back to the dangerous work I was involved in. Feeling lost, I anesthetized myself with alcohol, I had affairs. At home I no longer was able to find that gentle understanding. The empathy. I must have appeared colder and more distant. And so, the abuse increased and got worse. My descent into mental illness accelerated and it was an extraordinarily difficult time hiding what was going on from our children.
In our divorce papers, Sam denied ever physically assaulting me. But she did formally admit to the intentional sleep deprivation. Interesting that the physical assault was a taboo too far for her. But the emotional abuse was something easier to admit. (We learn as children.)
Hellbound and Down 