Quick (unexpected, awesome, amazing) Announcements
Two days ago I emailed the folks behind Alltop, the coveted and respected online magazine rack of feed aggregates. I told them about ViolenceUnsilenced, and asked if they’d consider adding our feed to one of their channels, perhaps “Good” or “Feminism.”
They one-upped me; They created a new channel.
Can you believe that?!
Be sure to check out domestic-violence.alltop.com today, and then close your eyes and imagine me doing the happy dance to end all happy dances. Because I am.
Many thanks to Alltop for recognizing the need and immediately stepping up.
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Do you know about BlogNosh? It’s an online magazine and, unlike a feed aggregator, it features the handpicked selections of oldie-but-goodie posts from bloggers all over the ‘sphere. BlogNosh, up for a 2009 Weblog award, is all kinds of awesome — and the publisher and editor-in-chief, Megan, has placed a ViolenceUnsilenced badge in rotation on BlogNosh for free, and placed the video (graciously made by Mojo, have you seen it yet?) on the NoshTube channel. HUGE thanks to Megan for her support.
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Speaking of Mojo, I swear — there is nothing that man won’t do for this site. He’s been a champion for ViolenceUnSilenced since the day I announced it was coming, writing post after post, creating badges, putting together that video, and even fielding tech-related emails for me this week. I know many of you had trouble with placing the VU badges on your own sites (I even broke a blog or two, ugh) — Mojo stepped up and created a page on his own blog with new codes, and he even designed some additional badges if you’re interested. I don’t know what I would do without you, my friend. Thank you.
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Finally, thanks to all who have submitted survivor stories this week. I’m especially grateful we were able to feature a man yesterday, and I want to take this opportunity to make it clear that this site is open to submissions from all survivors, regardless of gender and/or sexual orientation. As one of the men in the comments said so eloquently yesterday, “Only with a concerted, cooperative, co-ed movement will we finally eradicate violence in our homes and communities.”
My thoughts exactly.
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There’s still time to enter Monday’s launch contest, be sure to check it out. New survivor story will post in 15 minutes, and then regularly on Mondays and Thursdays from here on out.
BHJ
Men are often lost in the shuffle in the conversations surrounding domestic violence and sexual assault. I want to make it clear from the start of this project that not only are there many men behind it, there are a few that have their own stories to share. Tuesday’s survivor, Cary, wrote to tell me how surprised and pleased she was that so many of the supportive emails she received came from men. That’s why I’m so grateful for today’s poster.
You won’t see the following survivor story posted on this man’s own blog; Sometimes old pain can cause fresh new wounds for our loved ones.
I’m not spelling out his name here either, so that I can protect him from Google searches — but many of you reading this today would have recognized this blogger by his distinct voice anyway, whether I had written his name out or not. Most of you “know” him. He is a popular blogger, he is a beyond-talented writer, and I am proud to call him my friend.
Domestic violence affects men as well as women, children as well as adults. It has a ripple effect, and it is devastating. It goes on and on and on.
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Memory’s an issue. It can’t be trusted. Where’d you put your car keys? See. Then there’s that deal about whether or not you dreamed it. Oh sure you remember it. But you remember dreams too so did she really say Thursday night? Or did you really visit Rome on a flying carpet? Now, blend in your childhood and it gets even muddier. It’s a whole mess of faded memory, dreams, and wild imaginings. There’s no way you can ever know what really went down. Descartes grappled with this. Freud too. Do you? Do you have any memories that haunt you in spite of their questionable reality? Like, let’s say you’re in a closet and your Step Dad is beating up your Mom. Well, you might not even remember that because did you know your memory can even block things out? It’s like your mind can delete memory. See? It’s questionable. Memory’s an issue. But let’s say you remember you’re in that closet. You can’t actually see your Step Dad beating up your Mom. But you hear yelling and crying and crashing. Then you imagine the rest. See? There it is again. You imagined your memory. There’s no firm handle for any of this. Then let’s say your Step Dad stood outside the closet and yelled for you to come out. Let’s say you remember him threatening to kill you. He says “Get your ass out of there or I’ll fucking kill you I will fucking kill you I will fucking kill you I will fucking kill you.” But then you question yourself. You question your own memory. No one really talks like that, with that weird echo, so there you go wondering again: did this really happen? Is this real? But maybe it is real because what you remember the most is the indecision. You have to get out of that closet because you’re afraid you might die. But all you want to do is push yourself deeper into it, to somehow merge into and become part of the dark and disappear. You want to be the dark. You wonder if your Mom is OK. And something somewhere falls from a table and smashes on the floor. Something broke but you don’t know what it is. You wonder “What just broke? What just broke? What just broke?” Do you have memories like that? They don’t have any context, no before or after. They’re just there like strange paintings hanging in a museum. And you’re not even sure if they ever really happened. I wanna know. Do you have memories like that? Because I don’t.
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There is still time to enter Monday’s contest to win the awesome necklace. Don’t forget to enter, and thank you for continuing to spread the word so well.
my friend whose name I won’t type here
I have been reading this woman’s blog for ages. I’m not typing her name out here because her situation is fresh, ongoing, and dangerous — and I don’t want to add to her Google-ability.
The interesting thing is, her blog falls into the comedy category. She’s a make-you-spit-coffee-on-your-laptop kind of blogger. If you appreciate a laugh, you’ll appreciate her rare gift for impeccable comedic timing. All this time she rarely, if ever, mentioned her relationship on her blog. She always kept it light and funny.
Those who have followed her have seen a change in the last month or so. They know that she ended her relationship, moved out with her children, and started a new life. They don’t necessarily know the whole story.
I’m so honored that she is telling it here today.
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As I sit here typing, I am shaking because I know if he finds this, there will be consequences. He will come after me and my friends and my family. That’s not just the fear-I’ve-been-trained-to-live-with talking. That’s a proven fact.
He’s already done it, about a month ago, when I didn’t come home one night and he drove by my apartment all night. Waiting for me. But I also know this story has to be told because, if you saw me on the street, if I was your co-worker, your friend or your daughter, you’d have never known that for a year I was being abused.
It was the best kept secret in town. As far as anyone knew, we were the perfect family. He showered me with designer shoes, purses, clothes, and lots of romantic gestures that made me the envy of every woman I knew. Even sales-ladies at the stores would tell him they wished their husbands were as thoughtful as him. My kids adored him and he was involved in all their school activities, so all the teachers adored him, too. We were going to have the most romantic wedding since Princess Diana and Prince Charles.
What no one knew was that behind closed doors, I was living in terror. I was scared to leave the house, scared to speak and scared to go to bed at night because I never knew what was going to set him off.
I don’t remember why it started, but I remember when. Early Christmas Eve morning, 2007. We’d been together for a little less than a year. We were fighting after a party we’d just attended where we’d both been drinking. I made him angry, and he came at me, hand balled into a fist. I thought he was coming at my face and I ran. He put his fist through the wall. Then he kicked my daughter’s mesh laundry basket across the house, showering me with socks and underwear. I barricaded myself in my son’s room with boxes I still hadn’t unpacked from our move and he still busted through the door and told me if he wanted to get to me, I’d never be able to keep him out. I laid awake the rest of the night waiting for him to come kill me and thanking God the kids were gone.
It slowly escalated from there with lots of intimidation, mental and emotional abuse. He would wait until I fell asleep each night and he would rip me from my sleep, screaming at me about what a total piece of shit I was. He would come at me like he was going to hit me but would stop just short of doing it. He would attack everything I said and did. The first actual physical incident came when he picked me up and threw me into a wall. Then he choked me. He hurt my back and bruised my arms. Then he apologized and promised to never do it again.
But he did, and I thank God he did. Yes, I know that sounds strange, but I thank God he slammed my head into the wall so hard that it woke my daughter from her sleep on the second floor. I thank God he threw us out in the middle of a cold, rainy night in the middle of December because that incident gave my eleven-year-old daughter the courage to look me in the eyes and say, “I’ve been praying for God to help us mommy because I didn’t feel like I could protect you from him and I needed you to be safe.” That gave me the courage to finally leave for good.
Until that final incident, I hid all of this from everyone. From my friends, my family, my co-workers. No one had a clue. I was always perfectly dressed and made up, with a smile on my face and a joke for anyone that would listen. When I had to tell, I was mortified. That’s right — I was humiliated. Here I am, a smart, college educated woman who has spent most of her adult life raising two kids totally alone, and I let someone abuse and intimidate me for a year. I felt like such a loser.
I’m still scared and I still wonder how I let this happen to me and my kids, but I at least I am free. And I know, without a doubt, I will never be a victim again.
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Quick editor’s note: Unfortunately, I’ve had to turn on comment moderation. I will try to clear comments as often as possible.
Cary
The following survivor story was written by Cary, a registered nurse. Her blog is Big Grey Birds.
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“Violence, Domestic or Otherwise”
I am a Registered Nurse with a Bachelor’s degree. My peers respect me; I have been inducted into Sigma Theta Tau, the Honor Society of Nursing. I have raised a terrific, compassionate, hilarious son. I live in a very nice neighborhood in a good-sized home with a terrific husband. Prior to this awesome life, I lived another one.
I have suffered at the hands of another human being who hurt me intentionally. I have been throttled. Literally hands around throat, head banging on the steel door behind me when I was a 105-pound teen girl. I have been terrified of a loaded weapon in the hands of an angry man threatening to shoot my boyfriend. I have been intimidated by a loaded weapon in the proximity of an abusive spouse. I have been demeaned, belittled, hit, kicked, cussed out and stifled. I have been sexually abused. I have been all of these things and most people who know me are completely unaware of it.
I am just like you.
I grew up a tomboy in a medium-sized Iowa town on the Mississippi River. I did not come from a broken home; in fact, my parents have been married 45 years now. I was not born from an accidental pregnancy. My family comes mostly from Midwestern farms. Everyone in the family graduates high school, many go on to college. We have multiple Master’s degrees and even a PhD. Many of my family members are devoutly religious. They are not drug users, they have good teeth, and they are polite. My relatives are the neighbors who help you with a basement flood or watch your cat while you are out of town. They are normal.
When I was a kid, a family member molested me. I am unusual in that as an adult, I confronted this person. I experienced recovered memories and thought perhaps what I remembered wasn’t true until the confrontation at which time my molester admitted what he did and blamed it on my child self. I am unusual in that the person who beat the hell out of me and called me names while I was growing up, who threatened to kill my boyfriend and me, apologized and got counseling. Too late for me, but not for others he might meet. I developed post-traumatic stress disorder and bipolar disorder. These were both likely triggered by the abuse I experienced.
This type of childhood echoes through a lifetime. I chose partners based on what I perceived as normal male behavior, thus carrying abuse willingly into my adult life. I had no close female friends because I couldn’t relate to women. I drank and abused drugs for a while, considered killing myself many times, and forced myself into therapy, which I have no doubt saved my life and probably others. I was angry from the time I can remember. I wanted to hurt other people when they upset me. I wanted to kill my parents, beat my sister, burn down and destroy property. Counseling helped me deal with these feelings, which I often did not understand.
In US culture today it is okay to see violence on TV or in movies. It is entertainment. It is all right to preach against violence in a general way. It is seldom acceptable to admit publicly specific details of having experienced abuse personally. It is a source of shame. I have felt ashamed. I have felt that shame for varying reasons over the years; it was my fault, I deserved it, he couldn’t help it, I encouraged him, I should have stopped him, what will people think of me? Will my family disown me? The list can go on indefinitely.
I have known people of multiple faiths who were abusive. I have known atheists, lapsed name-your-religion here; I have known people from all walks of life, all socioeconomic backgrounds who were abusive and abused. Let me tell you something: it happens everywhere. It can happen to anyone. We need to get over the shame, get over the fear of tainting ourselves as victims or whiners or anything other than strong, determined survivors who have experienced abuse and put it in its place.
You know someone who abuses others. You know someone who is or has been abused. Help end the acceptance of personal violence, domestic or otherwise.
As for me, never again.
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Huge thanks to Cary for being my brave first poster. Don’t forget to enter yesterday’s contest, grab a badge for your site (if you had trouble yesterday I believe they are now fixed), and spread/Share/Stumble/Tweet/email/Kirsty/Digg this word far and wide. Many, many thanks.
