When my husband started saying my brain was âunder-developedâ and calling me things like âclinically immatureâ, I accused him of gaslighting. I was convinced he was being a âtypical manâ and just belittling me. I told him it was abuse and he rolled his eyes at me like I was an over-dramatic child.
When he started hiding the alcohol and replaced all our knives and scissors with safety tools, I lost my temper. I shouted and cried. He just calmly explained that I was proving his point by having a full blown toddler tantrum.
When I sat down with him and told him I couldnât take it anymore and Iâd decided to leave him, he raised his eyebrows in patronising amusement.
âOh really, Lottie? You think youâll be able to look after yourself? How do you expect to find somewhere to live and pay the bills without a job? How do you think youâll get around, and even make basic decisions?â
I tried to retort but I didnât know how to respond. He was right, of course, I didnât have a job or any money of my own, but that was because he had forbidden me from working and told me it was unladylike for me to be in control of the money. He also had a point about my skills. I couldnât drive. He always said it was a waste of time for me to learn as I never went anywhere without him anyway. Now that I thought about it, I didnât have much experience in making decisions, either. He always just seemed to make them before I needed to worry about it.
He saw me trying to come up with something, anything, to say. He put a finger to my lips and shushed me.
âListen, I know youâre having a hard time coming to terms with your condition. Why donât I ask my friend Dr Andrews, the psychiatrist, to come and talk to us tomorrow and help to explain things in a way you might understand?â, he asked kindly, if slightly condescendingly.
I was so confused at how this conversation had gone so unexpectedly wrong, I just nodded and sat there staring blankly, deflated.
âGood girlâ he said, and kissed me on the forehead.
The next evening, he arrived home from work with an older man in a brown suit. He introduced him as Dr Andrews to me, although he called him by his first name, John, when he offered him a drink.
âYour husband tells me youâre having some trouble adjustingâ Dr Andrews said, in a gruff, posh voice, sitting down with me in the living room. âItâs perfectly normal for women such as yourself.â
âErr⌠sorry, what do you mean women such as myself?â I tried to be polite, but I felt frustrated with the way this man was talking. He had the same dismissive approach as my husband.
âClinically immatureâ, he replied, earnestly. âItâs a common condition, chronically under-diagnosed and only affects women, of course. Unfortunately, there no cure or medication. The best approach is a firm hand and a reliable father figure, which - lucky for you - you already haveâ.
At that point, my husband walked back into the room with two whiskies and a glass of orange juice. He handed a whisky to Dr Andrews, who thanked him, and placed the juice in front of me.
âYou must follow the program Iâve outlined for herâ Dr Andrews explained, addressing my husband now. âDenial is only natural to begin with, but sheâs relying on you to keep her safe. Be strict, and donât allow emotions to get the better of you. A girl like her will need firm boundaries and discipline.â
âI know, Johnâ, my husband replied, wearily. âItâs been tough already, her little brain just doesnât understand why I have to restrict her and put certain rules in place. But Iâll keep going, I know Iâm the responsible adult here.â
They kept talking as if I wasnât there and, mentally, I wasnât. My mind was spinning. A real doctor was here telling me that everything my husband had been saying for months was true. My brain really was âunder-developedâ.
I tried tuning back in to their conversation but the words they were using were too big and complicated, so I just drunk my juice and sat quietly, trying to come to terms with what was happening to me.
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