Life Story: I Bullied My Wife Into Depression

But that is not the beginning of this life story. This particular life story begins in a less positive place. It began when I was in a place where I didn’t think I was good enough, measured up, or counted for much. My self-esteem was in tatters, the only thing that held it together was my macho pride and accompanying big fat ego. And I had a good corporate job which did the trick and covered up my internal turmoil perfectly. Nobody looks at a man in a brand new mercedes benz and thinks, “Huh, he must have some pretty bad self-worth.” Everyone called me boss, bossu, sir, and I basked in it.

The most effective means of communication in the house I was raised in was raised voices. The person with the loudest voice and the meanest words always won. And the most preferred means of discipline was physical violence; electric cables, ladles, shoes, you name it, my parents used it. I don’t think my father liked or cared much for being a father, but he sure did enjoy having little humans to abuse and bully. And the sad part is my mother partook in the abuse, I guess it was bonding for two miserables.

The words I remember hearing most from my parents are, “You won’t amount to much.”

Story of my life.

Those words stuck with me. I pushed hard to make it in school, at work, and everything I did. But the feeling of worthlessness deep down in my soul never went away, the more successful I became, and the more people looked up to me, the more I felt like an imposter. After all, I wasn’t supposed to amount to much.

I met Becky at Bella Roma night club in Osu. She was in a group of about ten girls, celebrating a bride to be. Her dress sparkled like a diamond and could not get any shorter. And those impossibly high heels! I saw legs, and thighs and dimpled cheeks. She took my breath away. And when she rose up to dance, I blessed God for his sculpting of black women. Curves!

I think I stared really hard. Our eyes met a couple of times and she blessed me with a few smiles. But all the while, all I could think of was how out of my league she was. Her group looked like a pack of no nonsense lionesses, self assured and in charge.

I was afraid. I made no moves. Story of my life

A cold drink splashed at the back of my neck. She feigned surprise. But I could see right through her, she did it on purpose. The music was blaring really loud so she leaned into my ear, “My drink is on your neck, you owe me another.”

“How about you dry my neck first?” I asked.

She took my breast kerchief and dried my neck, all to hoots and cheers from her gang. Their unabashedness was alien to me, in my mind, a woman was to shrink herself. A lady ought to be bashful. These ones weren’t. And I didnt like it, because I liked Becky. 

By the end of the night, she had sat in my car, kissed my cheek, intentionally exposed crimson red panties, taken my complimentary card and wrangled a date out of me. I was flattered, and confused. What educated, professionally successful woman behaves like that?

Becky turned out to be super intelligent and kind. She was also loads of fun. We dated for sixteen months and then I married her. Our marriage ceremony was small and intimate, Becky’s choice. And her gang represented, dressed to the nines.

One of my aunts pulled me aside and said, “You look too happy, don’t let your wife see you love her that much, she will not respect you. And see her friends, are you sure you can handle this high class lady?”

All my feelings of inadequacy came flooding. And I resolved Becky was not going to drive our bus, I was. I resolved to tame her, to be in charge and run the marriage.

I could lie and say I didn’t realize what I was doing; but, I knew exactly what the hell I was doing. I clipped her wings gradually but steadily. First I recruited her mom to help me get rid of her friends.

“You’re a married woman now, what’s with all these girls, girls?” Her mom advised. 

That is how I isolated her from her gang.

And then I turned innocent talks into one-sided screaming matches, she never partook, she just looked at me with bewilderment most of the time. And then I stopped giving her my time, I spent more time outside than I did at home with her. I got myself a sidechic just for the sake of it. And I stopped spending my money on her. When she got pregnant with our  daughter, I stopped intimacy with her. And when she gave birth, I doted on our child and ignored her.

When she tried to address what was happening, I pretended I didn’t understand her and brushed her off. The pathetic thing about all of this is that I wanted her to stay with me, in my own twisted way, I loved her. But I needed to beat her down to a pulp, so I could feel in charge.

For two years I abused her in ways you cannot begin to imagine. Never laid a finger on her, but I abused her.

Becky became a shadow of herself. She hardly dressed up, even to work. She withdrew and I’d usually catch her crying for no reason. I was proud of my creation.

Then one day, I saw an sms preview on her phone, “I am here. I want you. He doesn’t. It is that simple.”

When she slept that night, I borrowed her thumb and unlocked her phone. My wife was having an emotional affair. And the guy was trying to take it a step further, from emotional to physical. The son-of-a-bitch was trying to phuck my wife.

“Let me take you to Zanzibar, or Turks and Caicos, and give you something to smile about. You deserve it. Becks.”

Becks, he even had a nickname for her. Becks.

And my good ole wife’s response was, “I don’t want to make rash choices and harm my daughter. I need time to think.”

Her answer deflated my already fragile ego. I was hoping she’d say something like, “I love my husband,” or at least, “I’m afraid of my husband.”

All she was concerned with was our baby. I could go and burn the sea for all she cared.

I went to my mother’s house to rant and rave. My mom supported me and together we began to plot how to expose her to her mom. But my big sister was there, visiting my mother. And she let me have it.

“You’re a fool. Coming to cry to your mother like a toddler. Tell mom how you treat your wife. You’re lucky it was only an emotional affair. If I were your wife, given the way you treat her, your daughter wouldn’t be yours. Go home and fix your marriage like a man. Stop behaving like an ass.”

Then she sucked her teeth so hard and so long, and she turned to my mother, called her all sorts of bad mother names and stormed off.

My sister saved my marriage that day. She told me all the things I already knew, and convicted so much that her words kept ringing in my ears. She set in motion the change required for the beautiful part of this life story.

Days later I held my wife’s hand and asked that we go see a marriage counselor. At the counselors office, she asked for a divorce. I begged her. And then I committed to doing the work on myself and our marriage.

It’s been five years of intentional friendship and relationship building. And I couldn’t be prouder of where we are right now. I have my bubbly, confident, unabashed wife back. Few nights ago, we had a date night on our couch, netflix and chill. After the netflix, the chill part had me praying in Arabic. Dear God, thank you for the magic of Becky.

Becky, all round wonder girl. Becky, my love story. My love story; story of my life.

Find more intriguing real stories from real people here.