Selaen
People see me as assertive, strong, quite scary. I’m very good at my job. I’m bloody awesome at shouting orders and giving abuse back to customers. I can give back as good as I get, and nothing will scratch the surface. Yeah?
How on Earth I ended up here, I don’t know. I can take care of myself. I’m strong and I’m independent. I don’t need anyone. So I thought.
“My mother said that it’s a complete waste of police time.” Your mother is thick.
“It’s not like you were ever in danger.” Yup. Never.
“You pissed me off so much.” I’m sorry.
“You beat me up, see this bruise here? That’s you biting me.” I’m so sorry.
“You got me in trouble with the police.” I’m so, so sorry. Forgive me, yeah?
It’s a massive burden, carrying around this story that nobody knows. She doesn’t remember because she was drunk. The neighbours are long gone after I moved out. Her current partner doesn’t know because she’s told her that I abused her. I cannot tell the story because I’m strong. Fuck it. I’ll be weak for you.
I was in love. I was young, and I was in love. We had a flat together and all that mattered was that we were together. The world was our oyster, and nothing would hurt us. We had discussions about everything and anything. We seemed compatible.
If you got pregnant, would you keep it? No. I couldn’t afford it, I can’t even take care of myself, I couldn’t do it. So what, you’d kill your baby? No. It’s not a baby. But yeah, I couldn’t do it.
I never used to be scared of heights. Being trapped in a balcony on the sixth floor, being pushed against the railing with a drunken person shouting at your face will do that to you. I will always live on or below the ground floor.
We were happy. We had arguments, but we had a future. I was in love. She cheated on me, but I forgave her. Because I was in love. But I became jealous. And possessive. Because I just wasn’t good enough. She’d go away and I would be alone….
Did you ever play the scene from The Shining all over and over again because it was funny? You know the one, the bathroom one. “Heeeeeeere’s Johnny!” Yeah, not so funny when you’re living it. With you naked in the bathroom, screaming your lungs out, this person you love. No, this body of the person you love with a mind of a madman, breaking in. They want you, but not in a good way. Alcohol is a saviour you know, because there’s that point when they pass out and you can speak to the police. But see, everything’s fine. The neighbours two floors above you were just being silly because you had a quite a loud fight. It’s fine. It’s fine. Really, it’s fine.
I think I was still in love. But I no longer wanted her. I’d been cheated on so many times, and I couldn’t help but think that she shouldn’t get drunk. We were young, but after two years, how can you leave? It’s such a long time. It’s a lifetime.
“My mother said that you wasted police time because you were being stupid.” That’s what she basically said. When I phoned 999 from the corridor where I stood in my underwear, I was stupid. My throat was all sore from where her once-loving hands had been. My neck was sore from when my head whipped back as she was banging my head against a wall. My back was hurting because she threw me down a few steps, against a concrete wall. I was alone and scared. But I did grab my phone. I did I did I did. Thank you, God.
Yes, I was stupid. I was stupid because I still loved her. Because I still wanted to be with her, because she still meant so much to me. I was stupid because if she hadn’t hated herself for what she did, we would’ve stayed together and I probably wouldn’t be here.
My tailbone never healed in the proper position.
My back still hurts when I sit for any longer than two hours straight.
I cannot tell anyone about my past.
My mother will never know how close she was to losing her first-born.
I’m still alive, if this is what you’d call living. When will it end?
***
Selaen blogs at Out of the Ordinary.
New feature! Wednesday Q&A: I suspect my neighbor is being abused, what do I do?
Each Wednesday we feature a Q&A with an expert. This column is not legal advice, nor is it intended to take the place of legal advice, professional counseling, crisis intervention, or safety planning. For legal or emotional support or for safety planning specific to your situation, please access help from the National Domestic Violence Hotline or from a domestic violence agency near you. This column is intended for educational purposes only.
Please exercise the same safe, supportive, non-judgmental restraint in the comment section of the Q&A as you do for survivors, as many of them are reading.
Our volunteer expert, Carrie K., is a trained advocate who has worked with survivors of domestic abuse and sexual assault, as well as their families and friends. Her background includes hotline advocacy, community education, and awareness and prevention programming around issues of domestic violence. She currently works for a domestic violence intervention and prevention program in Wisconsin. She blogs at rageisgood.blogspot.com
If you have something you have always wanted to know about domestic violence and/or sexual assault, please email your question to maggie [at] violenceunsilenced [dot] com.
Question:
In the last 6 to 8 months I’ve been listening to my across-the-street neighbors fight vehemently, several times a week. I’ve seen him lock his wife out of their house late on night. I watched him ram his baby’s stroller into the back of his toddlers big wheel, telling him to ‘hurry up and get up the hill’. I heard and seen him scream at wife and his children, every day, for offenses I can’t detect. He’s totally comfortable doing so in full view of me on my porch, in my driveway, getting my mail.
Today, half working on a project for my job, half watching “the view” and half-listening to my young dog and a friends puppy scrap in the backyard I heard something that made me drop everything and run to the front door. Someone was being hurt. I couldn’t figure out where it was coming from., no one was on the street, either direction. Then it dawned on me, it was them, and it was from INSIDE their house. I listened for a minute and heard her, “Go away, Go away, Go away.”
I thought of your writers, of how the plea has been for someone to see, to acknowledge to reach out. I called the police.
They came and left., and as I watched the police go from door to door, I watched him close the window and pull the blinds. I have spent the day worrying that I have put her, them in more danger., I can only hope not, hope I did the right thing, I could not block out the words of your writers. I heard and I refuse to stop hearing.
I am sick with worry. I want to hurt him., but mostly I want him to know I am watching., and to think twice.
I think I want to thank you and your writers, because I fear that had I not been reading, I would have pretended not to hear and maybe done the worst thing of all, nothing.
Response:
First, I want to commend you for your instincts. You listened, you noticed, you spoke up. There are interventions that can cause more harm for victims than help — however, if you suspect an assault is in progress, you should ALWAYS call the police. Immediately. Ignoring a possible assault should never be an option. And calling 911 is far safer and more appropriate than attempting to intervene yourself.
We talk a lot in this movement about bystanders — the people who see and hear, yet do nothing, sometimes out of fear, sometimes because they don’t know what to do, sometimes because they don’t recognize what is happening as wrong. We encourage people to speak up — in ways that are safe and appropriate to the situation — when they are aware of someone being harmed. This is what you did. Thank goodness you were not a bystander.
From your letter, it sounds like you are wrestling with whether to do more, and how you can be of further help to your neighbor. If you are considering approaching her, please be aware of her safety, as well as your own. For example, do not approach her when there is any chance her husband may be home; ask her if it’s a safe time and/or place to talk.
Also, be aware that your neighbor may at first minimize or deny the abuse. She might react with anger or embarrassment. She might ask you to leave. But it is still important to communicate to her that she is not alone, that someone else cares, and that help for her and her children is available.
Some tips for approaching victims of domestic violence include:
- Start by expressing concern. (“I am concerned someone may be hurting you, and I am worried about your safety.”)
- Take the time to listen, and believe what she says.
- Be sensitive: Do not accuse, diagnose, or judge her choices; do not draw conclusions about what she may be experiencing or feeling; do not judge or criticize her abuser.
- Communicate that you care about her safety, that she does not deserve to be hurt, and that the abuse is not her fault.
- Remember that you are not the expert. Do not try to provide counseling or advice, but do connect your neighbor to trained people who can help, by sharing with her the number of your local or national Domestic Violence Hotline and/or other agencies that can help.
- Consider calling the hotline yourself — not on behalf of the victim, but to learn more about the kinds of help available, to ask questions specific to your situation, and to learn how you can be the most effective ally and friend.
A helpful list of do’s and don’ts when helping a friend who is experiencing domestic violence can be found here.
One critical point to remember: There are reasons your neighbor may be choosing to stay. It is possible her abuser has threatened to hurt her or their children if she tries to leave. He may control all of their finances and may have isolated her from friends and family, leaving her with very few resources of her own. He may have promised to change, and she may still love him. It is important to respect her choices.
The truth is, leaving is very, very difficult, and it usually takes very careful planning. Victims are six times more likely to be killed by their abusers when trying to leave. As a result, it is never as simple as encouraging a victim to “just leave” – but by all means, communicate to your neighbor that help does exist, and that people in her community care about her and her children and want them to be safe.
And finally, please be sure to take care of yourself. This clearly is causing you significant emotional strain and anxiety (how could it not?). Many people in your position often feel guilty that they can’t single-handedly save someone else from the pain and degradation of domestic violence. But the truth is, no one person can. In your community, most likely there are trained domestic violence advocates waiting and able to help. Connecting your neighbor with a hotline number and communicating to her that she is not alone is a huge step. That is the first step to safety.
***
Carrie K. is a trained advocate who has worked with survivors of domestic abuse and sexual assault, as well as their families and friends. Her background includes hotline advocacy, community education, and awareness and prevention programming around issues of domestic violence. She currently works for a domestic violence intervention and prevention program in Wisconsin. She blogs at rageisgood.blogspot.com
Lucie
I grew up with a single mom who transitioned from dirt poor to middle class. I went to a good high school and took all advanced courses. In college I worked multiple jobs and got all A’s. Now, I am a law student. I am a mother to three boys. I have an amazing partner, great friends, and a healthy relationship with my family. People look at me and think, “Wow, that girl really has it together!”
The problem is, she doesn’t.
Somewhere inside, where you keep secrets locked and buried, there is a fifteen year old girl reeling from her first love gone wrong. Horribly, horribly wrong.
I met Him when I was in middle school, and it was puppy love at first sight. He was beautiful, and artistic, and just moody enough to mesh well with my teenage angst. We started “going out” (middle school terminology for boyfriend-girlfriend). It was great, for awhile. I lost my virginity to him, and then I started high school (though we were the same age, he was a year behind me).
Once we were in separate schools, things changed a little. Just minor things, things so seemingly insignificant my teen mind paid them little attention. He liked me to wear my hair down, so I did. He liked me to wear certain kinds of clothes, so I did. He didn’t like some of the people I hung out with, so I stopped. Like bark from a tree, he began peeling away strips of who I was.
One day I didn’t want to change one of the things he asked of me, and he twisted my arm all the way behind my back until I agreed to do as he said. That bothered me, but I wasn’t sure what to do. Not too long after that he hit me, and it continued like that for about a year.
I don’t know how to explain why I stayed. I thought I was madly in love with him, and I was terrified he would leave me. His trick was slowly but surely chipping away at my self esteem, my identity, and my friends, until one day I woke up and realized I had nothing. Nothing but him. I remember staring in the mirror in my bedroom, knowing something was wrong, knowing I was in too deep, but having no idea how to get out. Things got worse after that. We were now in the same school. He threatened me with a gun he kept in his room. He slammed my head into a wall and choked me. He slammed a skateboard into my knee and it still clicks to this day when I run.
One day we were at a local music shop looking at guitars. I said something he didn’t like and, in front of a store full of people, he dumped a huge ashtray on me. Don’t ask me why, after all the pain and fear, this enraged me like nothing else. I stormed out of there, and later went to his home to break it off with him for good. He beat me pretty badly, and forced me to have sex with him (to this day I have a hard time saying “rape” even though I know that’s what it was), but he didn’t kill me. I walked away.
I was sixteen with not a single friend and not an ounce of self-esteem. Luckily, by chance soon thereafter I sat at a table in art class with some amazing girls who would eventually bring me back to life. They saved me, and I love them for it.
It has been ten years since that relationship ended, and I carry it with me like a big ugly scar you can’t see. I feel ashamed of what happened, sometimes. Other times I am made to feel like it wasn’t that big of a deal since we were both kids — it’s not like I married an abuser. Some days, when I think of Him and the fact that I have a public blog and he still lives in my city, I feel such an overwhelming fear that after all these years he will come find me that I have to fight the urge to delete the blog and more to Albuquerque.
Even worse, I have seen spurts of violence in myself. One day I threw a book at my partner and bloodied his lip. I was horrified, as was he. The lesson I learned is that a result of my first relationship being violent is that I have internalized some of that violence and carried it into my other relationships. Every time we get into an argument, I have to be aware that somewhere inside me there is a monster waiting to explode.
I don’t think domestic violence is something you ever “get over.” I think it is like any scar — it becomes less painful, but it is a part of you forever.
***
Lucie blogs at UO.
Anonymous
Today’s survivor is dealing with these thoughts for the first time. She wrote to me with only a few lines, and I encouraged her to write out as much as she could. We’ve had submissions and comments in the past that address the sort of “survivor’s guilt” many of you have felt after witnessing the abuse of a stranger or friend; I can’t imagine what it would be like to lie in bed and listen to my sister being raped. I can’t imagine, but I have no doubt it is its own powerful form of abuse.
Today’s survivor is anonymous because the family members who still speak to her are readers of her blog.
***
My memory goes way back to the time I was first able to walk. It doesn’t include being happy that my father was home. I’ve tried to recall ever feeling love for him, and I think I was a very smart little girl to freeze the natural love a child feels for a parent because he was a violent, scary man.
I wish I knew how to reverse the process. It has crippled me emotionally. I really only feel safe loving children and women. Pity I’m not attracted to women.
I coped by just leaving the house, even when I was three. I would visit the old people in my small town. They were always glad to see me and made sure I had cookies, pie, and cake. Sometimes I visited at mealtime and also scored some regular eats. It was safer than home, even though one of the old farts molested me. My mother didn’t believe me when I came home sobbing to her. (He was rich. I guess that made him magical in her eyes.) I learned I wasn’t going to get help from my mother.
When we moved away, I would just wander off in the woods to explore. I always managed to find food so I wouldn’t have to come home until dark.
Home is where the monster lived, when he wasn’t out spending grocery money on very young women and drink. When the money ran out, he would turn his attention to my older half-sister.
I knew where everything in the house was. I also heard most everything that went on when I was home. I listened quietly, intently, piecing together the sounds much later. I was ten years old when I became aware that he was being sexual with her. She was ten when it started. I recognized the quick, heavy breathing from my encounter with the rich old fart. I was terrified to make any sound, to even acknowledge that I knew what was happening. I always felt my older sister was treated worse (by both parents) than the rest of us, and I had no power to improve her situation. I had no voice. All I could do was endure with her. A ten-year-old kid blames herself for not doing something to help. Every time Mom wasn’t around, I had knots in my stomach. I knew he would be at her soon. And that afterwards, everyone would carry on like nothing had happened. Including me, because I couldn’t think about it. It was like the old fart all over again.
Where was my mother while this went on? I don’t know. They weren’t big on explaining anything to kids. I expect she escaped the house as often as possible, same as I did.
Many years later, my older sister thought she might be going crazy and had imagined being repeatedly raped. I confirmed my knowledge of what went on, and shared my helplessness at being unable to stop it. Nobody crossed the monster. Nobody.
I encouraged her to write him a letter to tell him how it affected her life. His second wife saw the letter and arranged a meeting between the two of them. While they talked, his wife told me, “You know, until now, I had a nice little life.” I could only gape at her in horror. How could she say such a thing when my poor sister didn’t have anything remotely resembling a nice life? Apparently, I ruined her nice little life.
He didn’t admit to anything, although he asked me privately if this was about that time we stayed in a motel. Lovely. I don’t have any memory of that. Thanks a lot for planting that one in my brain. Prick.
My sister didn’t really get any closure from this. The only validation she ever got was from me because I was a nosy kid.
I became a pariah in the family for encouraging my sister to speak her truth, and for bursting my stepmother’s lovely little bubble. I changed my name shortly afterward. The family name felt shameful to me.
None of his younger children (with the second wife) have any clue why he and I do not see eye-to-eye. Now he is near death, and terrified to die. I just attended a family reunion (without my raped sister) and everyone pretended to make nice because it may be the last time we were together before his death. I wanted to go to meet my younger brother’s daughter that recently located him. She didn’t know what to expect, so I told her we were all very good-looking, funny, and smart, and most of us were assholes.
His violence against my sister scarred me as much as his and his wife’s shunning of me until the old bastard was at death’s door. I feel dirty that I even attended, but I love my deluded half siblings.
