This story starts out in a pretty dark place, but leaves me catapulted high atop a mountain where I proudly stand strong. I can now see the world through clear, coherent eyes. Cool zephyrs wisp by…a welcoming reminder that I am here and present.
Disastrous from the start, I was in my mid-20s when we got together. Five months in, I discovered he was secretly dating another woman with the same first-name as me. I screamed at him, pushed him out of my apartment, and then threw a glass vase of flowers at him from my balcony that shattered as he walked down the sidewalk to his truck. And a week later, we were back together. This wasn’t the only time he cheated nor was it the only time I broke it off and took him back. I am neither perfect nor flawless. And I am partly to blame for existing in that dark place.
"Stupid for staying."
"It takes two to tango."
“There are two sides to every story.”
Unfortunate catch-phrases synonymous with domestic violence. However, never earning victims’ stamp of approval. Many of us--victims and survivors--admit that our own insecurities and involvement played a part. Yet, we are innocent in many regards. And many struggle to make sense of why the madness continues, and of why they stay. I have finally found myself in a place where clarity has assisted me in making sense of my own story and sharing that is a necessary step in the processes of recovery, closure, and rehabilitation.
I invested eight years into us. There were good times, but I have repressed most memories in my attempt to move on. The bad times though, they seem to be imprinted in my mind, which is forever scarred. I hide them well, so that no one realizes what I've been through. The impression people have about me is important; I now take pride in both my senses of accountability and self-respect. But, in the past I didn't. Who I was then is nothing like who I am now.
Verbal abuse warped the majority of the eight-year relationship. History was merely repeating itself when my ex-boyfriend had successfully obtained a career in law enforcement, just like his daddy before him had done. He was once a child who had witnessed rage ravage his world as fights ensued between his parents and mutual threats—to leave and to kill—became commonplace. And then we had a child who was a sitting duck for the same undeserved, unfair environment. I knew I had to be the one to say STOP. I suddenly wanted to seize control of my life. And discover the volition to leave. A list of daunting tasks.
I left many times, but always came back. To this day, I don't know why. My parents continuously offered me a roof over my head and my good friend offered up the financial means to support my new endeavors. I had an income and a sound career as a public servant, however I think that may have been one reason I feared change. I worried that the professional community I was part of would discover the nightmare that would inevitably become reality. I didn't want the harassment I dealt with on a daily basis or the attempts on my life to be reflected in my public image. I had to walk with my head high and my smile marvelous, as I somehow managed time to deal with filing domestic incident reports and attend meetings with a lawyer and district attorneys, followed by his arrests, court hearings, and short-term conviction. Looking back, I am astonished that my story didn't make the news. I'm thankful that all of the mishegas remained hidden from the media's spotlight, even if on a small-scale.
I left him over four years ago. Not because he had thrown a glass of Kool-aid in my face in front of my child during a heated argument. Not because he had slapped me aside the head at the dinner table in front of my child on account of undercooked sausage and meatballs. And not because he had routinely pulled the car over on the side of the road yelling at me to get out and walk as consequence to my pushing him over the edge. The taunting I endured as a result of losing weight and the accusations I faced when getting my own car had been enough to push me over the edge. But, the reason I left was because I had lost my last ounce of hope. And I left even though he had warned me time and time again that if I left, he'd kidnap our child and put me six-feet under. I wanted our child to be spared the harm and hurt that my abuser had experienced as a child, morphing him into the monster he occasionally was. Staying because we had a child together no longer made any sense.
Leaving wasn’t easy. He immediately forbade me from entering our home and didn't allow me to take any of our possessions. He advised me to petition him to court for child support claiming that he wasn't going to pay one red-cent unless required to do so by law. My parents provided my child and me temporary safe haven and my friend eventually provided me with money for a security deposit and first month's rent for an apartment. My lawyer provided me legal counsel, which was necessary considering I was challenged to take a lie detector test at one point. And the justice system provided me nothing but frustration and injustice; numerous felonies and misdemeanors he had racked up related to domestic violence and breaking the order of protection simply vanished, leaving one sole charge when all was said and done: property damage. State Troopers, county sheriffs, and police officers all conveyed their pity and expressed the truth: they could not protect me. Neither could a piece of paper; however I felt confident that not just one, but two orders of protection from two different counties surely could aid me in my fight for survival. But, bullet-proof they are not.
The damage is done. I was choked and punched in my car as it sat parked in my driveway one early Saturday morning, with our child in the backseat. He turned himself over to the authorities and was promptly bonded out. I was then stalked for months after. My car, as well as an at-the-time boyfriend's car, keyed time and time again. A tire slashed. Calls placed from my child's school and babysitter, informing me that his actions were posing as a risk to others. My cell phone often rang during the middle of the night, marked blocked and unavailable, which in turn led me to change my phone number over and over again. Phone calls to child protective services wherein I reported inappropriate words and harmful actions that my son was victim to while in his non-custodial care. Days I feared going for walks and nights I knew that I was being watched. And lastly, a Christmas Eve on which he nearly ran my car off the road—child in tow—resulting in my first-ever testimony in front of a grand jury. But, here I stand...a survivor.
In the immediate time-span following these events, I developed a sense of safety, for my assailant was behind bars. Time was provided to me in which I could exhale, reflect on and accept what had happened to me and my child, and contemplate my rebirth. A whole five months to work towards putting the past behind me as he sat in jail faced with what he had done, although consistently denying it all. A three-inch binder stuffed with police reports, letters, and court petitions (a documented history that I despised) put away and now ignored. A bank account depleted of savings. A soul to mend and spirits to raise. Counseling appointments frequently attended by our child and with one of the best counselors in our area, who is still in the picture considering nightmares and fears still loom. Not only did our child’s life need repair, but I too had a picture to paint of who I would become and what I wanted my life to be like. There were steps that had to be taken to get me to where I envisioned myself to be. I took karate classes to learn self-defense and secured a pistol license. I let go of the harsh feelings that consumed me, practiced forgiveness, and accepted the tragedy I once lived through. A year ago, I spoke of my adversity at an event that promoted awareness of domestic violence and opened up in front of over 100 people who had graciously contributed to a local organization that supports services for victims in need. These stepped helped me feel safe, secure, and recovered. But, I didn’t stop there. I volunteered in helping plan, promote, and then launch a 5K walk/run in honor of a young college student who had been murdered by her estranged boyfriend. Her story was one of many that I had clipped from newspapers months prior when I was hooked on others’ stories, which made me feel less isolated. I began giving my time to the cause to feel involved, present, and alive. I knew I needed to do so if I were to have a chance at successfully closing the door to my past.
I am happy to say that since last autumn, I have cherished life’s pleasures. I’m newlywed and value every day that goes by in which I look into the eyes of my husband and express my appreciation of his kindness, loyalty, and respect for me. He represents the light at the end of the tunnel. I gave birth to a baby who brightens my world and is the evidence I need to see that proves I did the right thing in leaving. As my older child makes emotional progress, I see that I have indeed survived. I hope to someday act as mentor to both women and men who may be stuck in the dark place where I have been. I want others to celebrate life as I do, for my scars have healed well.
Several people deserve my thanks and appreciation. Shortly after I had left him, for instance, his sibling commended me risking my life to stop the cycle of violence from repeating—a brief moment that will forever be with me. For years now, my child has healthily progressed with the guidance of a well-versed counselor, to who I owe a great deal of gratitude. A state supreme court judge who, once learning of the actual imminent danger my life was in, believed the threat was real. Bail was not set on the last occasion in which he was arrested, which helped preserve my livelihood. And there exists a few friends who stayed by my side through everything, while others turned a blind-eye and carried on without me. To them I give thanks. And lastly, I must salute myself for realizing change was needed and taking a risk in leaving, no matter how drastic the cost and severe the pain.
-A survivor
I celebrate myself, and sing myself....
....now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,
Hoping to cease not till death….
....now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,
Hoping to cease not till death….
There was never any more inception than there is now,
Nor any more youth or age than there is now….
And will never be any more perfection than there is now….
All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses….
Nor any more youth or age than there is now….
And will never be any more perfection than there is now….
All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses….
Selected excerpts from Walt Whitman’s Songs of Myself
