by Patricia Oshier Franks

Created on: September 28, 2009   Last Updated: September 30, 2009

I used to be one of those who said, "She should walk away. I'd never put up with that. I'd be out of there so fast his head would spin." Then, I found myself living a nightmare, unable to extricate myself. Like many in my position, as time passed and circumstances changed, I found it easier to stay.

I rationalized my husband's behavior much the way he did, telling myself it was stress or alcohol, not really him and he didn't mean it. It wasn't abuse, just yelling and stuff, and I'd never found myself hospitalized or anything that drastic. It was mostly verbal and the physical violence was so infrequent at first, I could easily put it out of my mind. He was always sorry and swore it wouldn't happen again. I believed him because there was a lot of time between physical incidents, until the last few years when it all escalated. Still, I didn't leave until I was too terrified to stay.

As the abuse escalated to verbal abuse nearly every night, I began to realize in the back of my mind that I didn't want to be there any longer. I didn't want to stay, but I had no one to turn to, none I could ask for help. I had no job, and had never really held steady employment since my husband earned enough to support us.

I stayed home, responsible for the household and making sure he was happy, that his life was as easy as it could be. This entailed being his personal slave. He even said I could write, basically giving me permission to write romance novels, a goal I'd sought since age 14. I ignored the nagging suspicion, and later the realization, that his 'permission' to something I enjoy, that I longed to do, was his way of keeping me at home, under the illusion he only wanted me to be happy. So, though I had several stories published in the intervening years, electronic and print, I had no job and no steady income, no resources.

Over the years, he'd alienated my family and his, isolating me from those who might have helped until the one time I did ask, I couldn't stick to it. I had called my mother after a particularly nasty night and told her I wanted out, but I'd need a place to go, to stay for a while. She couldn't let me stay with her, or wouldn't, and I suggested my sisters place, plenty big enough with extra bedrooms as they had no children. She didn't say it could be done, only to call her the next day. I knew then, I'd get no help from my family. Perhaps they were afraid of him, too, afraid that he would come after them for helping me escape.

But I couldn't even

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