10. Risky or Reliable?: Couples Counseling for Domestic Violence
Couples Counseling for Domestic Violence
I take no joy in being a whistle blower, but it’s time. I am a committed marriage and family therapist, having practiced this form of therapy since 1977. I train marriage and family therapists. I believe that marriage therapy can be very helpful in the hands of therapists who are committed to the profession and the practice. But there are a lot of problems out there with the practice of therapy—a lot of problems.
WILLIAM J. DOHERTY, PHD
October 16, 1987. The national news was the stock market. Three days later, all fears came to fruition on Black Monday 1987. The Dow dropped 508 points. Though I had no money invested, I was deeply concerned for friends and for the nation itself. Indeed, it was a very scary time.
But for me, the day was Freedom Friday, though hardly freedom without dread of what would happen next. Yet for a few short hours, Carlton and I were convinced the terror of the past years had finally come to an end.
We had been secretly planning and preparing for weeks. His clothes, shoes, and other necessities had been boxed and hidden in his closet. I had done the same, gathering papers, books, clothes, and everything I would need for an extended time away from home. More than a month earlier, I had visited the Grand Rapids Domestic Crisis Center, filled out a long form, and waited for a social worker to look it over before she called me in for a consultation.
The center had housing available for poor women and their children who were escaping violence in the home. I qualified. I was poor and lived with my son in a violent setting. But the social worker saw things differently. I was dressed in my adjunct professor garb. Not a good choice. Worse than that, however, was the required information form—particularly the question asking about my education and the highest degree I had been awarded. She looked at me skeptically. “You have a PhD?”
“Yes,” I told her.
“This is not the place for you. You need to talk with someone at the Women’s Resource Center. They can give you professional help.”
I protested. “I already talked with them,” I explained. “They sent me here because I need a place to go for a week or so until the court makes a decision.”
The Domestic Crisis Center in Grand Rapids turned its back on my domestic crisis.
If I could not find help from the Domestic Crisis Center, where else could I go? I was a member of a church only three miles from my home. I had previously talked with our senior pastor, who had been aware of my husband’s anger issues, but he was very hesitant about getting involved. He had agreed to meet with my husband on one occasion, but later he told me that my husband had spent the entire time defending male headship. My ex-husband also told the pastor that the problems in the marriage were mine—that he was the rightful head of the home “from the kitchen to the bedroom.” Our pastor realized he did not have the tools to mediate our very serious marital problems. At least he didn’t tell me to go home and submit—like many ministers do. His concern was for my welfare.
In the end, the church took me in. Why hadn’t I gone there in the first place? Like so many women, I was terribly ashamed. To ask for help was much easier when the woman behind the desk was a stranger. But I was forced to swallow my pride. And then we were welcomed with open arms into the home of our associate pastor, Dick Doeden, and his wife, Nancy. More than that, Dick took Carlton under his wing during the two weeks we stayed with them—including sending him out to the big backyard to rake leaves. A mother couldn’t ask for more. And in the weeks after we left their home, Dick would call and ask if Carlton could join him at a few Hope College football games.
After a temporary court settlement, Carlton and I returned to our home the day after my ex-husband was ordered to move out. My abuser was at least temporarily out of the picture, and we weren’t talking to each other.
“Forced counseling never works.” That was the response of the psychologist on the other end of the line after I had summarized my situation. (“He’s the best counselor in town,” I had been told.) “If a spouse agrees to counseling under the threat of divorce,” he told me, “don’t even bother trying to drag him in. It never works.”
We had not gone to counseling prior to that fateful day of separation two weeks earlier. Carlton had caught a ride to school in the morning with his dad, who was on his way to work. As I had arranged with his school, he was permitted to return home as soon as it was safe. Within minutes, he raced through the front door and went upstairs to get the boxes we had packed and hidden. We filled the van and got away before noon, fearing his father might just decide to stop home at midday.
After unloading at the Doedens’ home, we headed for a meat market and bought bones, sneaked back into our house, and left them in the refrigerator for Rafiki, our dog. Next stop, the grocery store, where we bought a roasted chicken and fixings and headed out of town. We found a two-track road in a wooded area overlooking a horse pasture. It was an absolutely beautiful autumn setting. We parked and opened the doors of our old Westfalia van for the best meal we’d ever eaten. I’ll never forget Carlton’s comment as we set the table: “Finally, we’re free.” Today, more than a quarter century later, we remind each other of those moments of freedom we shared together.
My escaping with Carlton, however, was anything but the tranquil loveliness of an autumn horse farm. The fear that both of us felt when “we separated from Dad,” as he has always termed it, was very real. Would he kill me? He would go to prison, of course. But what would happen to Carlton?
No counseling could have alleviated my fears—fears based on knowledge, not paranoia. But I did in a most mysterious way benefit from counseling—from arms that enfolded me in the night, as though God had somehow reached down through the light-years and touched me. The night before Carlton and I made our escape, I had gone out walking, alone as I often did, Rafiki on a leash. A few blocks from home, I noticed two women coming toward me—one black, one white. They greeted me under a lamppost and we had a few pleasant remarks, and then the black woman said something I might have construed as inappropriate. It was dark. They could hardly see me. She said, “You look troubled.” I began to say I was doing fine, but I choked. The words refused to form. They both put their arms around me as I sobbed. When I got my voice back, I told them briefly about the situation. They prayed for me there in the dark. They held on and didn’t want to let me go, promising to remember to pray for me. I never saw them again. Maybe it was a vision, I sometimes think. But I know, whenever I recall those moments on that dark street, I was visited by God that night. I’m reminded of the words of Cardinal John Henry Newman’s hymn, “Lead, kindly Light, amid th’ encircling gloom, lead thou me on.”
I did not know how I would navigate the months and years ahead as a single mother. Having filed for separate maintenance, not divorce, I had no intention of ever remarrying. Financially, Carlton and I struggled. He picked up odd jobs and held down two paper routes while staying active in sports—sometimes convincing his mother to sub on his paper route. In fact, I became adept at delivering the Grand Rapids Press and may have been the best seminary professor ever to carry out that job. But bills piled up, and I ended up borrowing money from my thirteen-year-old son to make ends meet.
For our first Thanksgiving on our own, we invited my sister Kathy from Madison, Wisconsin. We had turkey and all the fixings, though dealing with that aspect of the holiday had proven to be very difficult.
A few days earlier, I had greeted Pastor Dick at the door. He had two large bags in his arms. It was a gesture of kindness on behalf of the church, and I graciously thanked him for the thoughtfulness. When he left, I cringed in shame at what had just happened. I had been the one who had helped in past years with such handouts, and now I was on the receiving end.
But I pulled myself together, and by the time Carlton arrived home from school, I was able to say in a cheery voice that Dick had brought over a turkey and much more. But before I could finish the sentence, Carlton was howling. “Why did you take it?” His outrage was worse than I could have anticipated. “You could have just said no.”
I told him I had no choice. He screamed back that I did have a choice, that I should have said no, that people would find out. “Why did you do it?” he screamed. “Now everyone will know. Don’t you care about me and about how I feel?”
I did care. I knew when I accepted the gift that I was paying for it with the gall of my own shame and even more with Carlton’s shame. But there was no alternative. I had to show gratitude and accept the gift.
In the months that followed, tension increased between Carlton and me. In many ways, our situation was not healthy. He would go through the stack of bills and figure out what he would have to earn to pay them if a health problem were to set me aside. He could pick up more odd jobs and make it. He was stepping in as the man of the house. But he was a thirteen-year-old kid, and I was a strict and protective mother. Both strong-willed, we clashed. Finally things got so bad, I contacted a counseling clinic and set up an appointment. I went to several sessions but seemed to be making little progress with a therapist who had never been married or had children herself. She did say it was imperative for her to meet with Carlton and me together.
Not surprisingly, he was defiant. There was no way I was going to drag him into counseling. I put my foot down, and he came along. It was not a pleasant session, as he sulked most of the time. Little, if anything, was accomplished. We walked out of the brick building into a sunny spring day. Neither of us spoke. As we got to the car, he couldn’t hold back his contempt any longer. “Why do you waste your money on her? She’s crazier than you are.” He was right. She was crazier than I was. I went back for one more session, paid my final bill, and left therapy behind.
From then on, our relationship improved. School was out a few weeks later, and through my frugality, we were able to travel the roads of Michigan and splurge on mini-vacations. We got up early on Sunday mornings. I drove the car and folded papers while he delivered. Then off to church and on the road, not needing to return until paper delivery time late on Monday afternoon. Those are memories we’ll carry for the rest of our lives.
The counseling that served me best in the months that followed my escape with Carlton and our return home came by way of informal encouragement from family, friends, and colleagues. The shame I felt in revealing the violence of my ex-husband to my siblings was overturned in direct proportion to their showering Carlton and me with love and concern. Older brother David and his wife, Sharon, sent a lovely arrangement of flowers that arrived only days after we had escaped. Younger brother Jonnie demanded to know if I needed financial help. Whatever we needed (or didn’t need) would be sent immediately. His offer showed pure concern for our well-being, not a hint of obligation. My sisters were equally supportive.
Dozens of people almost seemed to materialize out of nowhere, simply offering care and kindness. But the ones whose words meant the most were my longtime colleagues at Trinity. They could have avoided the subject after President Meyer briefly filled them in at a faculty meeting. I was not there and do not know what he said, but the outpouring of concern and support overwhelmed me. And particularly from those on the opposite side of “the women’s issue.” During my seventeen years at Trinity, that topic was a hot button, and I was on the “liberal” side in the eyes of many of my colleagues. But differences of opinion counted for nothing when I was hurting.
So it was that for me the most effective counseling came in informal settings. And my case was certainly not weakened by the fact that my ex-husband had left a trail of deceit and dishonesty. Many people commented to me that they had been aware of previous situations but had refrained from saying anything to me about it. So much for my capabilities as the queen of cover-up.
I look back with indignation at the actual “marriage counseling” I endured. After separating from my ex-husband, I still believed I should press him to participate in counseling. He refused to go to a certified counselor, and finally I conceded to go to a Bible church minister whose church was some twenty miles north of Grand Rapids, where no one would know us. As I reflect back, I am truly bewildered as to what was going through my mind. Carlton and I were free at last. Why would I even consider subjecting him to having his father back in the home? And why would I not demand a professional? When my ex-husband refused, I should have said adios. I didn’t. I was bound and determined to give things one last try—perhaps to assuage my own feelings of guilt, if nothing else.
Had I read what is available from so many sources today in books and in articles online, I’m convinced I would not have spent my time and money with this incompetent small-church minister (though I certainly don’t want to imply that a megachurch minister would have served more competently in our situation).
“Couples counseling or marriage counseling is never an appropriate strategy to address abusive behavior—especially domestic violence,” writes Terry Moore, a licensed clinical addiction counselor. “Resolving the kind of conflicts between people for which couples counseling is intended will not stop one person from abusing the other. Conflict is a pretext for abuse, not a cause of it.”1 Having since read up on the subject, these statements sound so obvious. Why wouldn’t I as a smart, educated woman have recognized these truths to be self-evident—for my own declaration of independence?
What Moore writes is so elementary and obvious that I’m almost embarrassed to quote it: “Couples counseling depends upon an open dialogue between partners . . . People who are being hit, intimidated, or controlled through threats or other coercive means by their partners are not free to engage in an open dialogue.” But I wasn’t the only one back then, and even today, who was entirely clueless on this critical matter.
Moore emphasizes that before an abuser even undergoes couples counseling, it is imperative that he enter a certified Batterers Intervention Program (BIP). But even BIPs are only as effective as the abuser’s commitment to turn his life around. Ray Rice had been through anger management courses before beating his fiancée. So even BIP is no cure-all.
Who is this Terry Moore? I didn’t know if she might be a woman. I’ve known women whose name was spelled that way. But Terry, as it turns out, is a man, pictured on his website with a beard and in a baseball cap, smiling but appearing tough enough to take on a violent husband, no ball bat needed. He is an expert on domestic violence who is often interviewed on TV and in other media and was featured in the 2003 nationally award-winning documentary Journeys of Survival: Indianapolis Responds to Domestic Abuse.
I knew nothing about Terry or the likes of him when I was contemplating marriage counseling. Not only had my ex-husband not agreed to anything comparable to BIP, but he also refused to go to a certified counselor because he was convinced that such a therapist might agree with me and thus usurp his headship. That I did not recognize this as a giant red flag blowing in the Michigan icy winter will always stump me.
My ex-husband and I were together for our first meeting with the Bible church minister. The minister offered a prayer and then asked me, since I had initiated the counseling, to explain the problem. I briefly recounted many incidents of my husband breaking down doors, beating me, and threatening to kill me. Besides this cursory summary, I might have referred to one of my recent journal entries:
September 19, 1986
I discovered that all our financial files were missing from the file drawer where they have been kept for years. I asked [him] about it. He said I had no reason to have access to them since he kept the finances in the family.
Or I might have read aloud a much more descriptive entry on violence that I had written exactly one month before the previous entry. I didn’t. But if I had, I cannot imagine it would have made any difference.
August 19, 1986
Last night was a terrible ordeal . . . We were in the process of drilling holes for insulating my study when I brought up the subject of my book (which I obviously shouldn’t have done at that time). He went out of control, threw the drill on the floor, knocked me to the floor, and broke the latch on the bathroom door by slamming it so hard. He yelled and screamed for most of an hour, refusing to allow me to work on the room or leave. I remained relatively calm . . . When we were downstairs, he grabbed me by the arm, squeezing as hard as he could, and stomped on my bare foot (I’m black-and-blue today as a result), and he would have done more had Carlton not come and screamed at him to stop.
The minister then turned to my husband, himself an ordained Bible church minister. What could he possibly say in the face of such accusations? I expected him to show anger and call me a liar, as he had done so often previously (a term, by the way, I had never used of him). I had expected him to say I was making up stories—that he had never beaten me or threatened to kill me. Lies. Lies. Lies. Rather, he calmly spoke of my disobedience. His focus was on my refusal to leave Fifth Reformed Church, a “liberal” church where we both had been members. Perhaps he assumed he was scoring points with this minister, himself part of the Independent Fundamentalist Churches of America (IFCA). When the minister asked in what ways the church was liberal, my husband carried on for ten minutes about the anthems the choir was now singing, as though anthems by their very nature were liberal.
Appearing a bit confused, the minister went on to his marriage counseling script. He turned to Ephesians 5 in his Bible and read how wives must submit to their husbands, and how husbands must love their wives. He then reached over to his desk for two small pieces of paper, each one having appropriate Bible verses for us to reflect on. He concluded by arranging to meet with us separately the following week. That was it. My husband stayed behind as I walked out in the cold December wind to the heaterless, broken-down van I had gotten in the separation agreement. I wadded up the little paper the minister had given me, stuck it in my coat pocket, and never looked at it again.
When I returned the following week, I had three pages of material for the minister relating to my ex-husband’s domestic abuse, arrests, job firings, and child sexual abuse. I asked the minister to read them aloud while I followed along on my own copy. He did, and we discussed some of the charges. He said he would speak to my husband about those issues. But his only real concern for me was that we discuss the verses he had given me on wifely submission. I argued that I had already gone way too far in so-called “submission” by not reporting crimes—particularly a crime he had committed against a young girl. He responded that a wife’s first loyalty was not to the legal system but to Christ—and to Christ by way of submission to her husband.
The winter sessions, which were more than I could afford and too far to drive with a vehicle with no heat, lasted for several more weeks before I simply informed the minister in January that I would be unable to continue. Yet I felt guilty about dropping out. Then some months later, I ran into a longtime acquaintance who had become aware of my situation. She piled on guilt in the other direction. “Codependency is your problem,” she insisted. “You need to find a good counselor who can do some in-depth codependency therapy with you. You’ll never heal until you have gone through an intensive program.” I was too poor and too busy, but she wouldn’t get off my case until I refused to talk with her further.
And then another woman studying psychology at Fuller Seminary heard about my situation. I was teaching a summer course at the school in Pasadena, and Carlton came along to work at odd jobs. She sought me out and wanted to subject me to her free therapy. She was a smart student near graduation, highly respected by several faculty members, so I took the bait. She analyzed me quickly. My problem: I was in denial. Although she didn’t say it, she implied that I was hopelessly in denial.
By this time, I was gaining my own voice when it came to therapy, essentially acceding to Carlton’s assessment that the therapist was crazier than I was. My response to this well-meaning, about-to-graduate therapist was to respond to her diagnosis that I was in denial with a firm “Yes! That is the only way I survive.” Indeed, how does any single mother raise a strong-minded teenage son without a good dose of denial?
And I was also in denial about the terrible violence and abuse in my marriage. The journals I had written were set aside. I was on the road with my dear friend Paul, not considering myself healed, but forgetting what was behind me during those difficult years and reaching out for what was ahead, I pressed on toward the goal. Paul, in Philippians 3, was seeking “to win the prize for which God has called [him] heavenward in Christ Jesus.” For me, my goal at the time was often no more than to get through another day without drama with an impetuous son and to cherish each exhilarating moment we were able to enjoy together.
Did I need therapy? Do all individuals who endure domestic abuse need therapy? For me, getting out of the situation was incredible relief enough. Forgetting what was behind was exactly what I needed.
For some people, therapy may be exactly what is needed. But not all patients heal the same way. I was reminded of that recently when two people close to me had a similar hernia surgery, both being told it would take at least six weeks to begin to really feel healed. One was up and about and off meds in a few days and raring to go; the other, much younger, was laid up for two weeks. The one for whom the pain was more serious should not be criticized for needing the extra rest and meds. The same is true for those who have endured psychological trauma. We should not judge those who require more or less doctoring. Our bodies and minds and emotions and psyches heal differently.
But if I managed to survive without a lot of doctoring, I often wonder how women manage to survive the doctoring accompanied by bad advice. I truly do not believe this happens intentionally. Rather such doctoring is given by those who truly believe it is the best medicine. I put John Piper’s counsel in this category. He writes:
Several years ago, I was asked in an online Q&A, “What should a wife’s submission to her husband look like if he’s an abuser?”
One of the criticisms of my answer has been that I did not mention the recourse that a wife has to law enforcement for protection. So let me clarify with seven biblical considerations.2
As others have pointed out, Piper’s confession ominously suggests that for several years, any wife following his advice would not have sought out law enforcement. In his lengthy clarification, he does not apologize to any woman who may have been gravely harmed by that oversight. Here is a representative piece of his clarification:
A wife’s submission to the authority of civil law, for Christ’s sake, may, therefore, overrule her submission to a husband’s demand that she endure his injuries. This legitimate recourse to civil protection may be done in a spirit that does not contradict the spirit of love and submission to her husband, for a wife may take this recourse with a heavy and humble heart that longs for her husband’s repentance and the restoration of his nurturing leadership.3
I often wish that John Piper, author of the bestselling book Desiring God, would not share so much online. I like him. He’s actually a very kind individual. But it seems he almost sets himself up for criticism. Indeed, there is something terribly wrong in even his clarification. He is asserting that a husband who demands that his wife “endure his injuries” is still the rightful head in the marriage. She must be submissive to him unless the authority of civil [not criminal] law overrules. How does civil law overrule without a court case? How does a wife seek civil protection and at the same time make sure “it does not contradict the spirit of love and submission to her husband”?
It’s almost as though Piper is living in a parallel universe. He just doesn’t seem to get it. Does he have any understanding at all of the law or of tyrannical husbands? The only civil protection a wife can obtain in such circumstances is a restraining order, and until the matter goes to court, she would be expected to flee the dangerous home. There is no such thing as “civil protection” that arrives at the beck and call of a beaten wife and hangs around her home to protect her. And let’s not be naive. Is the abusive husband really going to give her permission to leave him and perhaps take the children with her? The scenario has no relevance to the real world and carries dangerous implications.
Of course, Piper is not alone in this kind of counseling of women who experience domestic violence. What if a woman is seeking help at Rick Warren’s Saddleback Church? A temporary separation and marriage counseling are the answers. The standard for separation, however, is that the abuser has the “habit of beating you regularly.” Such counsel does not come from a woman who has suffered domestic violence. This is the advice from teaching pastor Tom Holladay. “How many beatings would have to take place in order to qualify as regularly?” asks Jocelyn Andersen, a domestic violence survivor and the author of Woman Submit! Christians and Domestic Violence.4 Too often, the counsel women receive is as dangerous as the abuse itself, subjecting them to a submissive role in the face of violence.
But what about the value of marriage counseling for couples who are embroiled in very serious conflict where there is no physical violence? Here is not the place for a marriage manual or even advice on how married couples should work things out, though my final chapter in this book is largely devoted to how issues have been dealt with by one couple, namely, John and me. But how might my previous marriage have been saved had my husband not beaten and terrorized me? Is it possible, for example, for a strong egalitarian and an equally strong complementarian to live happily together as husband and wife?
I’m not a counselor, though my students have often asked me for advice and occasionally for long-term mentoring. I consider myself a good listener and a good questioner, but I’ve rarely served in this capacity for more than a session. If I were to hang out a shingle, it would simply read, “Dr. Ruth,” and I would most certainly charge more for my services than Lucy’s five cents, per the Peanuts comic strip.
The advice I typically gave my students was by way of recommending a book, most often a biography. A student came to me once, having been raped some years earlier. A professional therapist had not helped. I suggested a biography of Helen Roseveare, a missionary who had been repeatedly raped during the Simba Rebellion in the Congo—a woman who had come to terms with the terrible violence. My student found the book very helpful.
The book I would recommend to married couples who have strong differences of opinion on major issues is one I have just finished: Love and War: Twenty Years, Three Presidents, Two Daughters, and One Louisiana Home by Mary Matalin and James Carville.5 As a halfhearted political junkie, I have been fascinated by their politics and their relationship for more than two decades. He was considered the brains behind the Bill Clinton presidential election in 1992, and she held a similar campaign position on the opposing side for the reelection of George H. W. Bush.
How have they managed to live in harmony for more than two decades? Actually, they have not, and the book details very difficult periods—some that lasted for months. Their problems related not only to serious differences in politics but also to personality differences. He, the liberal Democrat, operates on strict rules and schedules with absolutely no tolerance for her “yak-a-thons” with friends that sometimes extend into the wee hours of the morning. She’s a spender; he’s a saver. Observers find this more than a little humorous, since the favorite Republican accusation against Democrats is that they are big spenders.
Yet despite the differences, their marriage was based on mutuality. And they vowed “till death do us part.” In fact, they tell of getting married three times—their first being a New Orleans civil marriage complete with a Mardi Gras “dancin’ in the street” atmosphere. They emphasize, however, that their marriage was anything but a stunt, as some reporters had suggested. The second was a surprise tenth-anniversary wedding that James had secretly planned, with oldest daughter Mattie, then eight, performing the ceremony. When she got to the point in the script calling for words “with the power vested in me,” she stopped and with a confused shake of her head innocently said, “I don’t have any power.” This was the most memorable line at wedding number two. The third wedding was a small, serious affair conducted by a priest after Mary had joyously converted to Catholicism. James considers himself a “cafeteria Catholic” who argues endlessly with the monsignor. Mary, the convert, takes her faith much more seriously. Both of them, however, take the vows of their marriage with extraordinary seriousness.
This is a book I would gladly give to any couple who is contemplating the abandonment of their wedding vows and filing for divorce. Mary and James demonstrate not only how a couple can rise above serious differences but also how they were able to put things in place that brought them closer together. A complementarian marriage model would not have worked. Even if James had shown loving headship and had very kindly informed Mary that she must submit to him and follow him into Democratic political activism, it would have only exacerbated the situation. She would no more support Democrats than I would have supported George Wallace at my husband’s command in 1968.
Their decision to move from Washington, D.C., to New Orleans and to gradually move away from direct involvement in partisan politics was a major turn toward marital harmony. Finding common ground was critical. Together they began working with both Democrats and Republicans in rebuilding New Orleans after the devastation of Hurricane Katrina. Toxic differences abated as their abiding love and laughter held firm.
In a December 2009 interview on CNN’s State of the Union, host John King invited questions about how James and Mary managed to stay married. An Indiana resident texted in this question: “Can you show both houses of Congress your secret for compromise?” Mary responded: “Well, we’re not a democracy. We’re an enlightened MOM-archy. That’s what we are.”
James, trying to get a word in edgewise, summed up their mutuality: “I don’t have a position on anything domestically. So I just say yes, and then go on and do it. I mean it. I would say the three ingredients to successful marriage are surrender, capitulation, and retreat. If you’ve got those three things—.”6 Laughter quelled his final words.
From the bottom of my heart,
Mary and James,
I wish you well.
Yes, till death do you part.