The following is a guest post by
a victim of domestic abuse. For personal reasons the author has chosen to
remain anonymous. She is a religious woman albeit not an Orthodox one. By that
I mean that she takes her Judaism seriously – observing many Halachos and
keeping many Mitzvos but would not be considered
observant in the Orthodox sense.
I
was recently informed by the author that I had posted this before and removed
it because of the objections by some that as an Orthodox blog, I had an
obligation to post only essays by Orthodox Jews (…or some other similar complaint
– I truly do not recall the exact circumstances). I wish to now rectify this.
I
have re-read it and cannot remember or understand why I succumbed to that
demand. This woman’s story is quite poignant and deserves to be read. Her essay
transcends denominational differences. I believe that she deserves both our
sympathy for what she has gone through and our admiration for sticking to her
Jewish values despite her travails. Although the way she chose to deal with
this described near the end of her essay is not in any way a Halachic modality to ending a marriage - I see nothing wrong with what she did either. What is important is the fact that we can
all learn a lot from her inspiring words about her experience.
On
the morning before Yom Kippur, I immersed myself for the last time as a married
woman. Unlike all of the previous immersions where I was alone with G-d
and the mikveh lady, this one was during the day, and in the company of G-d and
all of my closest woman friends. Unlike all previous times at the local
mikveh, this time it was at a beautiful lake. And most importantly,
unlike the times when I rose from the mikveh thinking that now he had
permission to hit and rape me, this last time I rose to feel freer and cleaner
and happier than I ever had before. And this time I said so aloud, to
myself, to my dear friends, and to G-d.
Throughout my marriage, I read books about family purity and even showed my husband the books that the rebbitzin loaned me. I wanted these laws to help our marriage, to bring us closer to each other during both phases of the month. But the nature of our marriage never allowed for that. Our marriage was based on control and fear, and even the most beautiful rituals of Judaism couldn’t change that to a focus of love and mutual respect.
The
books I read all talked about how a couple gets closer when they live part of
each month as man and wife and the other part of the month as brother and
sister. Much as I tried, this never happened in our marriage.
Instead, he just controlled me or abused me differently during the two phases
of each month. When I was in niddah he constantly reminded me how
difficult it was for him to go so long without sex. He woke me during the
night to tell me he couldn’t sleep and couldn’t work because he was so
horny. When I offered to sleep in a different room, he said that it
wouldn’t help because it was about sex and not about me. (It took me
years to understand that statement.) During niddah he controlled my
telephone access, my money, and friendships. But he never hurt me
physically. At least not until the last few months of the marriage.
The
other phase of the month was the physical phase, the time when I did not have
permission to say no to sex, especially since it was my “fault” that we didn’t have relations
during my niddah. It was a time of physical intimidation, and often of
physical attack. It had only a bit of the physical closeness I had been
hoping for. It’s hard to make love to someone you fear, hard to sort
loving touch from painful touch when it’s the same hands providing both,
sometimes at the same time.
When
I separated from my husband with the intent to divorce, I asked my rabbi when I
could stop attending mikveh, when I could stop counting days and keeping
different sets of panties for different times of the month. He told me he
would find out, and that I should continue my usual practice in the
meantime. This lasted about a very long month, but as I neared my mikveh
date in the second month of separation, I decided to plan my last immersion,
and to use it as a time to mark for myself the end of my marriage long before
the civil divorce or the get were even in sight. When I told the rabbi of
my plans, he agreed that this could be my last mikveh.
And
so, on the Sunday morning before Yom Kippur I brought a minyan of women with me
to the banks of a nearby lake. The ten of us sat under trees and read
poetry, and some of our own reflections on the mitzvoth of shalom bayit, family
purity, and pikuach nefesh. A dear friend sang, “I’m going to wash that man
right out of my hair.” We cried and we laughed and then I removed my hat
and dress and went into the water in a bathing suit. I removed the suit
under water and immersed in the traditional manner, using the traditional
blessing. Even though I was immersing for new reason --- I wanted the continuity, I wanted it to have
some of the same elements of all my previous immersions.
When
I came out of the water it was with the intention that no one would ever have
permission to abuse my body again. I finished dressing, but did not put
my hat back on my head. Then my friends joined me in saying shehechiyanu for the beginning of my new life
without my husband. We ate chocolates, we hugged, and then went back to
my old home and to the place where I’d been staying for five weeks, and we
began to move my belongings into my new apartment. Kol Nidre was that
evening and I have never before felt so prepared for the day of
atonement. I was beginning to make teshuvah to myself and I felt that I
was at one with the world and with my G-d. I began the process of making
tshuvah with my own body and with the traditions of Jewish marriage.
