I had a restraining order. It was in effect. It meant my estranged husband could not come to my home, come near me or try to contact me in any other way than what was approved.
Yet, he had been in my garage while I was gone. And he wanted me to know, which is why the freshly empty beer bottles were left for me to find.
But I was frozen.
I knew I needed to use money I had earned to pay for someone to come out and swap out my garage keypad — the one with the password that would open and close the door. And I couldn’t make a decision.
I was mindf*cked. I couldn’t think for myself even when I knew what was right. And that, sadly, was by design.
I remember the expression on my friend’s face as she looked at me, plainly, and told me to get the damn keypad changed — as if it were the most obvious thing to do ever, because it was — and the astonishment that she seemed to be feeling by seeing how frozen I was. It was as if a chip had been removed from my brain or something.
Thinking for myself did not compute. Because, for years, I had been manipulated to believe that what I thought — even if it was 100% right — was wrong. I’ve told friends it’s like knowing for sure that the sky is blue but going along with someone who says it’s yellow because, if they say it is, you must be wrong.
That’s some serious mindf*ckery. It’s also a super f*cked up thing to do to someone, which is a whole separate beast to unpack.
And that’s where I was.
A few days before that, I had no idea I was in the situation I was in. Not until an advocate with the police department had pushed an information sheet across the table to me, absolutely blowing my mind. My life checked every single box on a wheel that outlined symptoms of abuse.
👉 Yes, he has used threats and coercion.
👉 Yes, he has used intimidation.
👉 Yes, he has used the children.
👉 Yes, he has successfully isolated me.
👉 Yes, he used blame, denial and minimizing.
👉 Yes, he has used male privilege.
👉 And, yes — financial abuse was present.
All of that is abuse. All of it indicates you’ve been mindf*cked. If it’s been for a few days or a few years. It’s happening. Even if they never laid a hand on you.
Yet.
Oh, and I changed the damn keypad. But like learning to walk again after a traumatic injury, making simple decisions felt like learning to think again.
It got easier, each decision, the further I got from the mindf*ckery. I’ll show you.
We’ll go through these indicators and look at ways to unwind from them in the weeks ahead. If you haven’t subscribed to this newsletter, yet — please do!