A Dance With the Devil: A True Story of Marriage to a Psychopath by Barbara Bentley Page B
Authors: Barbara Bentley
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back down and find a way to work it out. I would return to the comfort of John’s arms, whatever the cost.
I now know this was not rational thinking for a loving relationship, but back then I had let my idea of a loving relationship slip into an addictive one without noticing the warning signs. This was the beginning of becoming so absorbed in John’s needs and trying to fix them that I forgot about my own. I felt compelled—almost forced—to help John solve his financial problems with my unwanted advice and series of suggestions. I just knew I could change him. I would get him to control his spending so our lives would be stable. What I didn’t realize then was that, one by one, as I let my boundaries slip, John was gaining more and more control of me—subversive control that made it seem like I was still in control, when I definitely was not. I was being manipulated by a psychopath who knew what he wanted and how to get it out of me. I entered the crazymaking world of the psychopathic verbal abuser. Looking back now, I can see that the pattern became entrenched that night. I continued to unwittingly play my role in the repetitive sordid drama for many years to come.
Just then my kittens, Peaches and Patches, skittered down the stairs. Peaches crossed John’s path, and tripped him. “Goddamn cat,” he hissed, picking himself up. He grabbed the kitten, raged down the stairs with her, and headed for the back door. Before I could get to him, he hurled Peaches outside. She landed hard, on her head, in the dirt, and began to convulse.
“You son of a bitch!” I screamed, as I tried to push John aside. I rescued Peaches and cradled her to my chest, rocking back and forth. As John came toward me, I shrank away from him.
“I . . . I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Cats are supposed to land on all fours.”
“Obviously,” I managed while weeping, “they don’t.”
“Here, let me take her,” he said. He held out his hands. I stepped back. Things had gotten so horribly out of control I was afraid of what he might do next.
“Please,” he said, “let me have the kitten. I’ve treated convulsions on the battlefield. I have. Honest. I can help Peaches. Let me have her.”
We stared at each other for a long time before I relinquished my sweet pet back into his hands. But the hands that had moments ago abused Peaches were now gentle and caring. When we were inside, I watched as John sat in the rocker with Peaches on his chest. “Please, Barb, get me a blanket,” he said, “I’ll spend the night with her here.” I covered the two of them and left them there, listening as John called up to me, apologizing over and over, saying that his temper came from being half Irish and half Latin American. He called it a deadly combination.
I looked again at Peaches. She had calmed down. John had calmed down, as well, and so had I. At the middle landing, I turned around and called down, “John, so help me, if you ever lay a hand on her again, or me, you’re out. Out! No second chance.”
He didn’t reply. I went to bed, but was too uneasy to stay there. I needed to explore this violent side of John, so I returned downstairs and questioned him. He resisted. I probed some more. He finally acknowledged that he had been violent before, when he was a child and he had tied firecrackers to a cat’s tail and lit them. He said he’d laughed. While I silently wondered how he could do such a thing, I acknowledged this was only a boyish childhood prank, no different than a scene from an Our Gang or Three Stooges comedy. Even my father had admitted to me many years earlier that he and his brothers had tormented their pet cat by pushing her through tunnels they had dug in their backyard. But at least they hadn’t killed her. When I mentioned that I didn’t think it was funny, John quickly added that he had felt bad when his father caught him.
Then he told me that he had also been violent as an adult, but only twice, and both
I now know this was not rational thinking for a loving relationship, but back then I had let my idea of a loving relationship slip into an addictive one without noticing the warning signs. This was the beginning of becoming so absorbed in John’s needs and trying to fix them that I forgot about my own. I felt compelled—almost forced—to help John solve his financial problems with my unwanted advice and series of suggestions. I just knew I could change him. I would get him to control his spending so our lives would be stable. What I didn’t realize then was that, one by one, as I let my boundaries slip, John was gaining more and more control of me—subversive control that made it seem like I was still in control, when I definitely was not. I was being manipulated by a psychopath who knew what he wanted and how to get it out of me. I entered the crazymaking world of the psychopathic verbal abuser. Looking back now, I can see that the pattern became entrenched that night. I continued to unwittingly play my role in the repetitive sordid drama for many years to come.
Just then my kittens, Peaches and Patches, skittered down the stairs. Peaches crossed John’s path, and tripped him. “Goddamn cat,” he hissed, picking himself up. He grabbed the kitten, raged down the stairs with her, and headed for the back door. Before I could get to him, he hurled Peaches outside. She landed hard, on her head, in the dirt, and began to convulse.
“You son of a bitch!” I screamed, as I tried to push John aside. I rescued Peaches and cradled her to my chest, rocking back and forth. As John came toward me, I shrank away from him.
“I . . . I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Cats are supposed to land on all fours.”
“Obviously,” I managed while weeping, “they don’t.”
“Here, let me take her,” he said. He held out his hands. I stepped back. Things had gotten so horribly out of control I was afraid of what he might do next.
“Please,” he said, “let me have the kitten. I’ve treated convulsions on the battlefield. I have. Honest. I can help Peaches. Let me have her.”
We stared at each other for a long time before I relinquished my sweet pet back into his hands. But the hands that had moments ago abused Peaches were now gentle and caring. When we were inside, I watched as John sat in the rocker with Peaches on his chest. “Please, Barb, get me a blanket,” he said, “I’ll spend the night with her here.” I covered the two of them and left them there, listening as John called up to me, apologizing over and over, saying that his temper came from being half Irish and half Latin American. He called it a deadly combination.
I looked again at Peaches. She had calmed down. John had calmed down, as well, and so had I. At the middle landing, I turned around and called down, “John, so help me, if you ever lay a hand on her again, or me, you’re out. Out! No second chance.”
He didn’t reply. I went to bed, but was too uneasy to stay there. I needed to explore this violent side of John, so I returned downstairs and questioned him. He resisted. I probed some more. He finally acknowledged that he had been violent before, when he was a child and he had tied firecrackers to a cat’s tail and lit them. He said he’d laughed. While I silently wondered how he could do such a thing, I acknowledged this was only a boyish childhood prank, no different than a scene from an Our Gang or Three Stooges comedy. Even my father had admitted to me many years earlier that he and his brothers had tormented their pet cat by pushing her through tunnels they had dug in their backyard. But at least they hadn’t killed her. When I mentioned that I didn’t think it was funny, John quickly added that he had felt bad when his father caught him.
Then he told me that he had also been violent as an adult, but only twice, and both
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