I've been thinking a lot this past week about blame.

As a victim of emotional abuse, I'm trying to put pieces together in some sort of time line, trying to see which came first, my metamorphosis into a raving lunatic or the put downs, accusations, and control.

As a child and teenager I can clearly remember throwing things and raising my voice. Threw a rollerskate at my brother when he called me a name. Rode my bike head first into the garage wall when I was mad about something around the age of 9. Threw a lawnchair when my best friend decided to cancel our day together at the last minute when I was probably 19. I still do it occasionally at 43. Just a few months ago after buying a board game, my 12-y/o son started pitching a fit because he didn't want to play by the rules, so I overturned the board out of anger, said we just wouldn't play and the game could go in the trash. (It didn't. We still have the game).

OK, so I have a temper as a bit of background info here.

At the age of 20, enter my future husband. Before he'd even asked me out, barely knew me, he follows me and some of my friends several hours into the Rockie Mountains to "rescue" me from these people he claimed were a bad influence on me. He just shows up on the sun deck after I got some hot chocolate. He'd checked out two other resorts trying to track me down. In hindsight, that should have been a tip off, shouldn't it? Well, it wasn't.

I remember always getting frustrated when it was time to get ready to go somewhere, but not until after this guy entered my life. Before then, I could slap on the war paint with no problem. Afterwards, it felt like torture. I wanted to look nice for me, but if I looked too good, he would say I was doing it to look nice for other guys. If he'd say "You look really nice today" I'd cringe, wondering what it was he wanted out of me. If things weren't going just right for me, hairbrushes would go flying, my temper would go off the chart, and I'd refuse to go with him. It was always something he wanted to do - his family, his friends, his business gatherings. He'd stand there talking to me, watching me get ready. It felt creepy. I'm not sure why, but it did. To this day, I can't have anyone watch me get ready. I even have to ask the kids to leave the room and not talk to me so I can get ready undisturbed.

The more I balked, the more control he tried to exert, and the more I'd balk. And then my depression started to take even more hold. And then more emotional manipulation on his part took place. And I finally couldn't take it any more.

At one point, I threw a camera that I loved at him and broke parts of it, a camera I can't easily replace or repair. Why did I throw it? Because that camera represented to me how he'd entered my life. I joined the Army as a photographer, and we met in the Army.

So, how do I come to grips that some of this may have been in some way brought about by my own doing?