This is the third of three essays by Emilia in a series. The artwork in this post is by Emilia.
It was during one of my many confinements at “The Hotel California” (my term of endearment for the psychiatric ward at University of Arkansas for Medical Sciences in Little Rock, AR) that I finally I agreed to ECT (electroconvulsive therapy).
This treatment was previously offered to me, but I immediately shut the very notion of it down. What kind of “special crazy” would allow doctors to send electric shocks through their brain in order to induce seizures? However, at this point I was desperate and the controversial treatment seemed like my only hope. My second marriage was on the verge of ending. I convinced myself that my husband would simply be better off if he didn’t have to constantly worry about me.
The second of three essays by Emilia in a series, this post contains descriptions of abuse. The artwork in this post was created by Emilia.
CRUSHED AND SHATTERED
And then I met my first husband Dick in Apollon Gym in Highland Park, NJ. I was nearly 21 years old and I fell madly in love with him. We were married. I was nearly 23 and he was 29 years old. Yes, I loved him very much. But the root of my decision to marry him was as an avenue to leave the home in which I had been raised without “shaming my family name.” I was desperately eager to begin my own life. This new life would be free from abuse and degradation and constantly mixed signals — “I love you,” while beating me beyond recognition, or calling me a whore because I wanted to attend a university that would require me to live on campus, away from home.
My life was going to be different now that I was away from my “loving abusers.” Little did I realize just how poor a selection I had made when I chose Dick as my life partner. How could I possibly know given my life experiences thus far? Though I took my commitment and my vows extremely seriously, I didn’t realize at the onset that my first marriage would be filled with control in every sense of the word, constant jealous outbursts, baseless accusations, verbal abuse and physical abuse.
The first of three essays by Emilia in a series, this post contains descriptions of abuse. The artwork in this post was created by Emilia.
My name is Emilia. I’m 46 years old. I look perfectly healthy and “normal.” However, I’m actually disabled due to the fact that I struggle with serious and chronic mental health issues.
I wasn’t always this way, though.