Loving an Abuser: How I navigated the harsh realization that my friend was an abuser
Like many others, I believed that I could never love an abuser. I bought into the “monster myth”; that abusers are inherently evil and unlikeable people, easy to spot and easy to avoid. But the thing about the monster myth is that it’s just that: a myth. My desire to believe in this myth made it difficult for me to acknowledge when my friend became abusive and controlling to his partner. I didn’t want to believe that he was capable of hurting someone. I also didn’t want to believe that I was capable of loving someone who could be an abuser. There are a lot of feelings involved when finding out your loved one is an abuser. I experienced a lot of guilt, shame, and fear that other people would find out. But while I was conflicted with my inner turmoil, a human was being harmed. I had to come to terms that those emotions- while valid- were allowing me to avoid holding my loved one accountable. I had the ability to name what I saw and to do something about it. This is my story of loving an abuser and learning that holding someone accountable can be an act of love.
Sean, their name has been changed for privacy, was one of my first childhood friends even if only by proximity. Our parents were good friends and forced us together at different family functions and school activities. We grew up together and remained close from braces to puberty and eventually college into adulthood. Sean became one of my safe space. The person who I would call if I needed a friend to be with me through the hardships of life. Whenever we were together nothing was off limits. We talked about the good, the bad, and the gray in between; I learned later that for Sean, the bad was worse than I could have imagined.
Sean was always in a serious relationship. That wasn’t surprising, he checks a lot of boxes; charismatic, attractive and intelligent. But it puzzled me were the women he chose to date. At get-togethers or celebrations with friends, his partners were quiet and reserved. Usually, if one of us tried to bring his current partner into a conversation, they would defer to Sean before answering our questions. We all assumed that was part of his type; shy, quiet, meek women. There weren’t any red flags, no blaring alarms, no bruises or tears to let us know what was happening behind closed doors. We couldn’t see the signs of abuse, or maybe we didn’t want to see them.
But in 2020, things began to change. The pandemic locked folks down, and our social circles became smaller. It was during this time, I began to recognize that Sean was more than my childhood friend. When we would talk on the phone or go for walks, he would tell me about his relationship issues. How his current partner would upset him, and how he didn’t feel respected. I would respond with traditional best friend sympathy saying things like, “It will be okay.” or “A lot of couples are struggling right now.” But the more time we spent together, the more candid our conversations became. Eventually, his usual complaints became more concerning. He would talk for hours about how his partner didn’t listen to him, how he used apps to monitor their phone, and how he had taken over managing their finances under false pretenses. He would become enraged over minor slights and used tactics like yelling, breaking dishes, or “accidentally” shoving them to intimidate his partner into submission. I could see the escalation of manipulation and it became harder to justify or ignore his behaviors. When I would question him, he immediately became defensive or blamed his partner for his reactions. He would often say things like:
“They made me mad, so I had to…”
“If they would just listen to me, then I wouldn’t have to..”
“If they would learn to do better, then I would be better.”
In the summer of 2021, the world reopened and I used it as my excuse. I stopped answering his calls. I made excuses to miss our weekly walks. I stopped going to stores where I could potentially run into him. I stopped being his friend, because that was easier than holding him accountable for his actions. That’s the thing about gender-based violence- whether you know the survivor or the abuser, it's easier to pretend it doesn't exist or ignore the problem than to truly witness the pain being caused. Confronting the pain also meant confronting my own bias and acknowledging that by being silent, I was complicit in the abuse. Looking back, there were many nights where I went back and forth in my mind, trying to rationalize his behavior, but now I see I was trying to justify taking the easy path. The path of ignorance. The path of denying that my friend was abusing his partner. The path that required me to see only the good in a person that I knew was committing harm. It was a dangerous path that put his current partner in danger and could lead to their death.
Running away from Sean did a disservice to both of us. For him, he lost a friend who had the language and experience to hold him accountable for his action. He lost the chance to have his choices challenged and to have another viewpoint reflected back. The disservice to myself was the internalization of my guilt and shame towards Sean’s abuse. I isolated myself from our mutual connections to ease my own conscience. Deep down, I knew I couldn’t keep running away, but it took months for me to quit making excuses and confront the truth. I couldn't compartmentalize Sean into the parts I wanted to know and the parts that I wanted to remain hidden. I had to acknowledge all of him and all of his choices.
I wish I could tell you it was easy. That we had one or two difficult conversations and he changed for the better, but that is far from the truth. Over the years, Sean and I have struggled to remain in each other’s lives. We have both gotten married, started families, moved away from our hometown, and juggle a plethora of responsibilities in our everyday lives. When we do talk, our conversations are tense with anger, frustration, and disappointment looming just beneath the surface; however, in order to keep him in my life, I had to make a conscious choice to confront his behaviors. Our conversations are harder now because I explicitly voice my concerns and talk openly about the abuse with him. Not just once or twice, but every time. Every time I see the signs of abuse or hear him blame others for his actions. Instead of blaming or shaming, I try to respond with truth and put the focus on the pain he is causing to his partner.
“I understand you have trauma from your past, but it doesn’t excuse your behavior right now.”
“ In this version of the story, you portray yourself as the victim. Are you taking responsibility for your choices?”
“Your actions sound controlling and possessive, have you thought about how your partner feels?”
“I hear you, but I disagree. Maybe, this is a good topic to bring up in your therapy session or support group to get a different perspective?”
“Intentionally manipulating or scaring your partner isn’t toxic, it’s domestic violence. Full stop.”
As you can imagine, his responses can be hit or miss depending on the day, but I no longer placate the abuse. I no longer sit back in silent complicity, and the consequence is a painful friendship with a complicated bond. I love Sean, but I don’t like him anymore. I used to retrace my memories for clues, signs, anything that could have warned me. If I could have said or done something different to change his path. But time has passed and those thoughts are only whispers now. These days regrets have been replaced with grief as I mourn the facade of my childhood friend.
Names and events have been changed to protect the privacy of all parties.
