Married to Crazy: A Man's Story of Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, and Recovery

By Clarkson Graham

Clarkson Graham met and fell in love with Olga, the woman of his dreams. Their courtship, engagement, and eventual marriage followed. As their relationship progressed, Olga’s behavior became progressively more volatile and abusive. All along, Clarkson lived in the hope that he could “fix” her problems and live up to her perplexing expectations, until one appalling event drove him to his breaking point. Following therapy for post-traumatic stress disorder, Clarkson finally put his life back together again and was then determined to share his experience, and especially what he had learned, with other people—and particularly with other men—who might find themselves in a similar situation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Feb 25, 2013
• ISBN: 9781771361552

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Copyright © 2013 Clarkson Graham

All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, in any manner whatsoever, without permission from the author and publisher.

ISBN 978-1-77136-155-2

Issued also in printed form (ISBN 978-1-77136-154-5).

Layout by Kim Monteforte, WeMakeBooks.ca

Cover design by Cindy Cake, WeMakeBooks.ca

Edited by Andrea Lemieux

Clarkson Press Company

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Author’s note: The story depicted in this book is a true reflection of the events that occurred; however, I have taken measures to preserve the privacy of the people involved to the best degree possible. All names are fictitious and other potentially recognizable features of my story, such as locations, dates, and times, have also been adapted accordingly.

In memory of my grandmother

My grandmother was not only the matriarch of our family, she was also a true example of how life should be lived. Even though her stature was diminutive, her heart was enormous. Her purpose in life was to see everyone at peace and to love her family with her whole heart.

She was a genuine person of character. Her life had meaning and purpose, and meaning for her was defined through her acts of love toward others.

She was one of the strongest, most resilient women I had the pleasure to know. Living in a different time, she had to face many adversities; however, she was a pillar of strength, never showing weakness, no matter how seemingly impossible the hurdle was to overcome.

My grandmother was made of good stuff, or, better said, she was made of the best stuff this world has to offer. She was the best grandma. She will never be forgotten, and I will always love her dearly.

May God bless you, Grandma.

In memory of Dr. Abdishakur Jowhar

Dr. Jowhar was one of the most caring, gentle, compassionate, and intelligent human beings I have had the pleasure to meet. Although our interaction was brief, his kind listening ear and profound knowledge and expertise in psychiatry allowed him to provide the correct diagnosis and treatment plan that fostered my recovery.

Without him, my journey back to self would not have been possible.

The world lost an angel, a philanthropist, a scholar, an advocate, and a friend when he was suddenly taken away.

Dr. Jowhar, words cannot express my heartfelt gratitude for your assistance and the immense sense of loss that I felt in my heart after hearing about your tragic death.

You will always be in my heart.

May God bless your kind soul forever.

Our greatest glory is not in never failing, but in rising every time we fail.

— Confucius

Acknowledgments

There are several people to whom I owe a special thanks for supporting me during my recovery. Dianne Bekeris, for providing me with a safe and comfortable place to express my hurt feelings and sadness during our weekly counseling sessions. Arsalan Ahmad, for encouraging me to express my feelings of hurt, sadness, and anger so that I could continue healing. Dr. Abdishakur Jowhar, who diagnosed me with post-traumatic stress disorder, for steadfastly and unequivocally convincing me that I was normal and that I would fully recover one day. Dr. Tara Palmatier for her incredible insight into the scary world of personality disorders and for acknowledging that my lack of self-confidence and self-worth was completely rational and normal considering what I had endured. I thank each of you for all you did to support me and instill in me the necessary confidence I needed for my recovery. Your efforts will never be forgotten.

Thank you to Heidy Lawrance at WeMakeBooks.ca for your guidance in the making of this book, and a special thanks to Cindy Cake for your expertise in creating the book cover and Kim Monteforte for the design and layout. I would also like to thank Sandra for her input on the cover design.

I would like to express my sincere gratitude to Andrea Lemieux for taking on the long and arduous task of editing my book. I appreciate your sensitivity, editorial insight, and care in helping me turn my manuscript into a polished product from the reader’s perspective. Thank you so much for agreeing to work with a rookie author such as myself.

I also want to thank my boss, Jack, for supporting me during this difficult time. Thanks for encouraging me to become a warrior, and to tackle my recovery as a project. I appreciate your words of wisdom; they helped me to concentrate on the future, while at the same time grow stronger as a leader, and as a man. Thank you so much for caring.

I want to express my sincere thanks to my family and friends for your endless love and support during my recovery. Your advice and unwavering encouragement, compassion, love, and kindness will never, and could never, be forgotten. Every day I feel blessed to have such a charmed life full of wonderful, loving, and supportive people like all of you. I will be forever grateful. I love you more than words could ever express.

Last, but certainly not least, I want to thank my parents for showing me their never-ending love, support, and faith in me during the most difficult life circumstance I have ever endured. I owe my recovery to both of you because, without you, I would have been lost forever. Thank you for reminding me of the person I was so that I could eventually return to the person I know I still am. I am where I am today because of you.

Finally, I would like to thank Olga. You always said that I would write a book one day, and I guess you were correct about that. Thanks for the story.

Introduction

Meeting Olga was tantamount to writing the first chapter in my love story. I was the happiest I had been in my entire life. She was strikingly beautiful, sweet, loving, and caring. Every time I looked at her, my heart would literally skip a beat. I loved her smile and her laugh. I was enamored by her engaging personality, and by the fact that she seemed so strong and confident. I felt as if I was her prince—and she was definitely my princess.

I loved Olga with my whole heart. In fact, I had never felt so much love toward a woman in my entire life. I thought she was the one who would complete me; the one with whom I would grow old; and the one with whom I would laugh, cry, and build a beautiful life. I felt as though I was an even better person solely because she was part of my life.

Olga was like a dream come true. I honestly believed that she loved me deeply with her entire heart. We planned to have children, buy our dream house, and live happily ever after. I thought we were a match made in heaven—but I was dead wrong. Things do not work out as planned when you cross paths with someone who may be a sociopath, and, unfortunately, I didn’t just cross paths with one, I actually married one.

Martha Stout writes in The Sociopath Next Door that about one in twenty-five people (or 4 percent of the population) have a condition known as antisocial personality disorder (ASPD), meaning that they have little or no conscience.¹ In That Bitch, Troy Sheppard and Mary Cleary say that, unlike psychologically healthy individuals, people with ASPD, also known as sociopaths, lack conscience, empathy, guilt and remorse.² They go on to say that because she has no conscience, remorse, empathy, shame or guilt, she will use others mercilessly, ruthlessly and callously to get what she wants.³ Driven by their innate lack of conscience, sociopaths are motivated to control and dominate their prey and win at all costs by employing a vast array of tactics, including, but not limited to, humiliation, lies, bullying, intimidation, guilt, shame, manipulation, blame, and even physical, verbal, and emotional abuse. After their attacks have been executed, they typically fail to acknowledge, and boldly deny, the devastating impact their incorrigible, selfish behavior had on their prey. In fact, a refusal to see the results of one’s bad behavior as having to do with oneself … is a cornerstone of the antisocial personality diagnosis.⁴

1 Martha Stout, The Sociopath Next Door (New York: Broadway Books, 2005), 6.

2 Troy Sheppard and Mary T. Cleary, That Bitch: Protect Yourself against Women with Malicious Intent (Somerset, England: Centre Publishing), 75.

3 Ibid., 80.

4 Stout, The Sociopath Next Door, 49–50.

This book is a memoir of my battle dealing with the pain, confusion, and trauma associated with the emotional, physical, and verbal abuse I suffered at the hands of my wife, who may have undiagnosed ASPD. It is a story about how I came to realize my desperate situation, how I managed to escape, how I suffered through the symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), and how I finally embarked on the process of rebuilding what I almost lost—myself. If you find yourself in a similar situation to mine, I hope you find this book a worthwhile resource as you work to revive and reconstruct yourself, or to help someone you know who may be in the position I was in.

Chapter One

My story begins in March 2007. I was new to the town of Kitchener, Ontario, and I was asked by my friend Troy to come out and play soccer in the co-ed recreational league that he participated in on Friday evenings at a local high school. He said the people in the league were very nice and that I would have a good time if I joined. Troy told me that the group usually went to a local pub after the game, and this would give me the opportunity to also meet socially with the others.

Being my typical introverted, overanalytical self, I hemmed and hawed over his invitation for a few weeks. I have always found it hard to push myself out of my comfort zone to try new things, and especially in this case because I didn’t know anyone except Troy and his wife, Cassidy. Although I wasn’t a huge soccer fan, and I had not played it since high school, after completing a mental pros-and-cons list, I thought, What do I have to lose? and I decided to give it a try. The trump card was that playing soccer might be a good way to have some fun and meet new people. Apart from how I played or, for that matter, whether or not I had fun, at least I could enjoy a cold beer after the game. How could I go wrong?

Perhaps because I’d seen one too many sporting-goods commercials, I was a firm believer that in order to play your best, you needed to have the right equipment, and, unfortunately, I had no soccer gear. I had an old pair of running shoes, and, considering my history of ankle injuries, there was no way in hell I was going to attempt to play soccer after a twenty-year hiatus without wearing the proper shoes. Needless to say, I had some shopping to do before my soccer debut. It was not as if I was a fashionista and needed a new pair of shorts or a T-shirt to look cool; I simply needed a pair of soccer shoes and shin guards. It was a small capital investment, and I made it without hesitation. After my big purchase at the local Sport Mart, I thought I was ready to go. My psychological preparation had officially begun.

I arrived at the high school the following Friday evening at about 6:45. I climbed the bleachers to where Troy and Cassidy were sitting, we exchanged pleasantries, and I sat down to put on my new shin pads and shiny new soccer shoes. As I was getting ready, another couple arrived and sat down beside Troy and Cassidy and proceeded to get ready. Troy introduced me to them. The woman’s name was Olga, and her tall accomplice was Mitch.

I thought Olga was absolutely striking. She had black hair that she wore in a ponytail; a cute nose; distinctively high cheek bones; and bright, expressive green eyes. She was slim and athletic, but her most endearing and memorable attribute was her beautiful smile. Her teeth were white and straight, and when she smiled, you could see her top and bottom teeth. She had one of the warmest, most engaging smiles I had ever seen.

After the first half of the game concluded, the teams rotated and I ended up playing against Olga. I was captivated by her fun-loving attitude, her toothy smile, and her contagious laugh. She was also a good soccer player, and I was certainly attracted to the athletic type. Needless to say, it was hard to concentrate on playing soccer that evening, and, as a result, my performance was less than stellar. I don’t recall the final score of the game, and, to be honest, it really didn’t matter. It was just soccer. It wasn’t the World Cup final or anything remotely close to that.

After the game, we went to a pub for a beer, and, unintentionally, I ended up sitting across from Olga. Considering that I didn’t know anyone except Troy and Cassidy, and they were sitting at the other end of the table, my shyness was evident and I remained quiet. I had never been good at breaking the ice and conversing with relative strangers in social situations like this one.

I don’t remember the topics or any of the details of the conversations that occurred at the table that evening, but I do remember one distinct event. It may seem trite; however, Olga ordered French fries and she offered me one. I declined, though I thought it was nice of her to offer a complete stranger a French fry. I felt extremely nervous being near her, and I refrained from looking directly at her for fear that she might catch me staring.

I knew Olga was taken (the large engagement ring was a dead giveaway), and it was definitely not my style to swoop in on another man’s woman. Good guys don’t do that. It’s part of the guy code. Mitch was a big man; he probably outweighed me by a good 50 to 60 pounds (23 to 27 kg). If I were ever brazen enough to say or do something that he took exception to, resulting in our being in a scuffle, there would have been only two hits; the first one would have been his fist hitting my face, and the next one would have been my body hitting the floor. I certainly wouldn’t want to have had to explain to my boss how my face got mangled when I arrived at work on Monday. This would have been awkward, and a tad uncomfortable, to say the least.

Even if logic and a palpable fear for my personal safety had not prevailed, I wouldn’t have known the first thing about how to attract a woman, let alone a woman who was already engaged. To be honest, I have always been a little awkward in the presence of the opposite sex. When it came down to it, I was simply an average small-town boy from Chelmsford, Ontario, and by no means was I a sweet-talking, suave Casanova-type. Even though Olga was off-the-market, I couldn’t help thinking, Wow, where did this beautiful girl come from? I hope I meet a woman like her one day.

By all appearances, Olga and Mitch seemed to be a happy couple who were madly in love with each other. I remember looking at Mitch and thinking that he was a lucky guy to be engaged to such an attractive and friendly woman like Olga. My initial impression was that she was down-to-earth because, although Mitch was nice, he was not a runway model. I reasoned that she must be a person of character because it seemed as if her priority was to find someone who loved her and treated her well.

I knew that all women were not the same. It was evident that some were motivated by superficial priorities and sought out rich, attractive guys, even if they treated them disrespectfully. I thought Olga was different, and I concluded that maybe, just maybe, if she were single, she might be interested in a guy like me. I wanted to think so anyway.

In hindsight, our first meeting was inconsequential because (a) we didn’t have a meaningful conversation, or anything that remotely resembled one (unless Olga’s offering me a French fry counted), and (b) she was engaged to be married.

In the end, I decided I wasn’t going to join the soccer league on Friday nights. I was busy with work, and on top of that, I had a two-hour daily commute to and from work, though I know this was simply a cop out. (I firmly believe that if you really want to do something in life, you can find a way to make it a priority.) The truth was that my passion for the sport was not reignited enough to want to play every week. I knew the people were nice, and I always enjoyed spending time with Troy and Cassidy; however, I just wasn’t into it enough.

The next time I saw Olga was about nine months later at a Christmas party that Troy and Cassidy hosted at their house. I went solo to this event; for the most part, at this juncture in my life, I was pretty good at attending events by myself. The invitees included those who played in the soccer league on Friday nights and their significant others. Needless to say, since I had played with them only that one time, I didn’t know many of the people there.

I vividly remember seeing Olga and Mitch sitting on the couch in the living room. I was sitting on another couch, absorbing the conversation around me like a plant absorbs carbon dioxide—an inactive bystander listening to the banter among friends who knew one another. I felt like an outsider, and my natural orientation toward introversion certainly didn’t make me the life of the party.

I did notice something quite fascinating. Olga and Mitch gave the impression that they were one of the happiest couples in the whole world. Besides my parents, I didn’t think I had ever witnessed two people who appeared to be more in love than they were. They were inseparable, holding hands all evening. Couples don’t usually sit beside each other holding hands for an entire evening while at home, let alone out at a social gathering with friends.

Olga appeared overjoyed. I recall listening to her talk and laugh, and, once again, I was mesmerized by her