Pt 2. Why does he hit?

You ask, why did she stay. I ask, why did he hit?

Making sense of his repetitive (emotional, psychological, verbal, sexual and physical) abuse was difficult at first, because at times he appeared to be the most genuine and understanding person on earth. How could someone so warm and humorous have such a relentlessly cruel side to him too? It just seemed… impossible. So when he first punched my face bloody, tore my pants and forced himself on me, I blamed it on the alcohol. He was drunk and he lost control. It’s not his fault.

But many men drink too, few and far between end up raping and beating their partners bloody each time they get intoxicated.

I should have known then, that there was something very wrong when he could get turned on at the sight of a woman bawling her eyes out, screaming and pleading at the top of her voice for him to STOP, PLEASE. It was not a pretty sight at all, especially with all the tears, mucus and snot smearing the makeup on my face. Yet he continued, smug, satisfied. It was almost as if he relished the power he had over me.

One day, I pointed out to him, “You know you raped me, right?” He dismissed my concerns with a chuckle.

“Come on, you liked it too. Don’t pretend you didn’t enjoy it.”

I had so much pride. Acknowledging that I was sexually assaulted was humiliating enough, and to have my perpetrator invalidate my pain felt even more so. So as with all other uncomfortable feelings, I swept this incident under the rug. It was always much easier to suppress trauma than to relive and reflect about it.

The signs were there all along, especially when he often referred to women as “sluts”, “bitches” and “whores”, both in jest and in anger. He rejoices in the ruin of women; his mindset no different from acid-splashing Indian men hell-bent on disfiguring women who reject their advances. But I was too infatuated with him; his smoke and mirrors blindsided me. The truth is, he hits women because he is an entitled misogynist. At the core of his mind, he sees women as inferior and conniving beings who are always out to exploit men, so battering me — as well as his numerous ex-girlfriends — is neither a shocking nor terrible act. He flung balled-up fists at me, hammering right at my face with all his strength, simply because he thinks he has the right to do so. Women were to be used as he saw fit: for sex, company, as the necessary component to have a child with, and to be treated well only when he felt like doing so.

His friends see him as charming, witty and fun-loving, because these are sides of him that are real, too. These are qualities that made me fall head over heels in love with him, and partly why it was difficult for me to leave even after being abused. As it turns out, he knew just how to play the role of the ideal lover to keep me hooked. He whisked me away in a whirlwind of excitement, and with my lofty fantasies of romance and adventures temporarily fulfilled, it became a challenge to imagine what life would be without such riveting passion. But he was a mere mirror thriving on my broken dreams. He paid close attention to my hopes and desires, unearthed my buried disappointments, then reflected to me everything I craved for in a relationship. His love was hardly real; his only lasting emotion was contempt.

The devil doesn’t come dressed in a red cape and pointy horns. He comes as everything you’ve ever wished for.

One time he punched me so hard, my inner cheek was lacerated I bled all over my clothes and his sheets. Months later, I told him that he could have fractured my skull. He scoffed, “Don’t exaggerate, I didn’t hit you badly.” From his response, it became apparent that he truly believed the harm he caused was not a big deal at all. He diminished his own responsibilities in all his violent episodes.

Reconciling with the truth and enormity of his mistakes would be too hard on his ego, so in his defence, he would play the victim. He would resent me, blame his mother, pin his own wrongdoings on childhood trauma, fate, and even genetics. Alcohol is his most commonly go-to reason for his abusive behaviour. He’d continue to lament how society is unfair, particularly to men. And if you point out that we indeed live in a patriarchal society where men still hold more power in political leadership and in the workplace, and that thousands of women are still murdered by men each year, he’ll call you a man-hating feminazi and tell you to be a lesbian.

To uproot his unhealthy beliefs and instead, plant in logical ones is akin to a complete brain transplant. Sadly, such thorough rectifications of poisonous thoughts and radical self-transformations rarely happen. In his mind, he would always be a kind, generous and loving man. When I brought up his propensity for cruelty, he regaled me with tales of how he’d actively volunteer at the hospice in his junior college days, as if to convince me — and even himself — that his true nature is righteousness and kindness. (He’s 33 years old now, the last time he volunteered was 16 years ago.)

And so, the abuse continues. I tried breaking up him before. What ensued next made sure that I would never attempt it again.

At 8 AM, when I was heading out to work, he appeared below my block and ambushed me. He grabbed me by the hair and dragged me to his car. I screamed and resisted, but could not escape.

There were at least two passersby around, and I screamed for help, “CALL THE POLICE,” but all I got were stares. No one came forth to stop him. No one videoed the incident. No one even had their phones out to dial for the police.

Throughout the drive to his place, he repeatedly grabbed my hair and slammed my head onto the dashboard. At his place, he continued to punch my face; he gave me black eyes, doused me with ice-cold apple juice then blasted the air conditioner. I was shivering so hard, I begged him to turn off the air conditioner. After a while, he allowed me to change into dry clothes. Then, he poured apple juice over me again. I still remember how all the aloe vera bits got stuck in my hair, and how he still wanted to have sex with me in that state. At this point, I knew it was futile to resist.

These days, I still can’t look at aloe vera apple juice without feeling a pang of pain.

He was so incredibly remorseful the next day. He looked at me with tremendous guilt in his eyes, shared his childhood trauma that caused him to be violent, and promised to go for therapy.

But many children from dysfunctional families do not grow up to inflict harm upon others. In fact, they try to refrain from causing hurt, knowing first-hand how it felt like to experience immense pain while growing up.

At that moment, I felt his pain and recognised that he has issues. He instilled hope in me that things would be better, and I couldn’t bear to give up on our relationship just yet. Because, what sort of person would I be if I were to leave a loved one just because we faced obstacles? Afterwards he drove me to buy makeup to cover up my bruises, and everything became fine and dandy again.

Abuser’s logic: Anything that can be concealed with makeup is not considered ‘real abuse’.

What I didn’t realise was that his violence is not a behavioural problem or a result of a substance abuse disorder; his violence stems from the way he thinks, and these warped notions of entitlement are already firmly ingrained in his mind. Altering his lifelong belief system of women as cunning and vapid creatures is extremely challenging, for he has grown up with the idea of females as the shallow, manipulative and hysterical gender. To justify his abuse, he’d often retort, “Women are very conniving, you know?” He remains in denial about his unacceptable behaviour and comforts himself with a series of internal lies supported by his own questionable rationalisation.

With that trump card of him being a doctor (and hence ‘abusive doctor’ was a far-fetched oxymoron), there was little I could say in return. “Who are you to say I’m unkind? Do you see how much I help patients every day?” he’d snap. And then again, who would believe me? His friends? They are his friends for a reason; they are on his side. My friends? They would not be able to understand why I was unable to “just leave him”. Outsiders? They would be compelled to wonder if I had done anything to trigger my abuser, because it is uncomfortable to accept that a person can indeed be so irrationally violent and cruel without any particular reason.

Being with him was like a drug; I knew it was unhealthy. At the same time, when our relationship was going well, I felt a joy — a high — so intense, it was more than enough to make me forgive him for all the suffering he had put me through.

I was addicted beyond the point of redemption.

To people in an abusive relationship: PLEASE SEEK HELP. No one should live with violence. Contact PAVE, a family violence service centre at 65550390 if you’re in Singapore. Choose a life without abuse. You deserve it.