Merritt
I was 17 when it started. He was older, 19, tall, dark and handsome. When he was good he was wonderful, but when he was bad, he was a monster. The first time we had sex, he wrapped his hands around my neck and smiled while I tried to squirm away. He whispered that he knew I liked it rough and laughed when I told him he was hurting me. The first time I disagreed with him, he slapped me so hard my lip split. I never knew what would make him so angry, or what would set him off. Once we had seen a friend of his at the movies, and I’d somehow “embarrassed” him. I spent the ride home crouching on the floorboard of his truck, fielding kicks and punches while he told me how disgusting, unworthy and stupid I was. As the cliché goes, he never hit me that he wasn’t sorry afterward.
My parents were clueless. They didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, and I certainly didn’t tell them. I stayed with him because they disapproved of him, my friends were jealous of me, and no one was going to tell me what to do. I stayed because I was too proud to ask for help and too proud to admit I’d made a terrible mistake and was in serious trouble. At times I think I honestly loved him, at times I hated him, but a part of me believed that he was right. I was worthless, and I deserved everything I got. I spent the next nine months using makeup to hide bruises, wearing long sleeves and turtlenecks in the summer, and hating the person looking at me in the mirror. I hid until I couldn’t hide anymore.
My parents had gone away for the July 4th weekend. He and I were supposed to go watch fireworks. We were laughing and joking, it’d been a good day. I was looking at a pen he’d won at work. He told me to give it back, I playfully said no, and put it behind my back, playing keep-away. He seemed so happy, I thought everything was ok, but it wasn’t. I can’t remember everything that happened next, most of it was, and still is, a blur. I remember him picking me up by my ears and throwing me against the wall. I remember covering my face when I saw his fists coming at me. I remember him choking me so hard I lost consciousness. When I woke up, hot angry tears were streaming down my face, stinging on their way down. I was humiliated, I was furious, I was completely broken. I came clean to a family friend who told my parents. They never said anything about the bruises when they came home that Sunday afternoon, but their eyes told their story. They were filled with sadness, regret, and pity.
I’ll be 30 in two weeks, and even though the bruises are long gone, I’ll never forget what I felt that night on the kitchen floor. The person I have become is nothing like the girl lying on the floor all that time ago. I am strong, independent, and un-breakable. Even though I wouldn’t recognize that girl anymore, I can’t forget her. For my daughter, I can’t forget her. I have to remember, and I have to tell her story.
***
Merritt blogs at Miss Merrittocracy.
What have you always wanted to know about domestic violence and sexual assault?
When I started this website you people stepped up in a way that blew my mind, and you have continued to amaze me. You nurture a forum that supports our survivors, and if you ever wonder whether or not you are making a difference in the lives of these contributors believe me, you are. Just read the comments they leave in response to yours. Naimhe‘s response to the comments on her own post had me bawling like a baby, I’m not ashamed to say it — and it’s not the first time, either. We are doing something here, something good and important. Trust.
Today I’m reaching out to you once again. Because I know you’ll rise to the occasion, again.
I know you’ve got questions. I know this because you email me privately, or you gently ask them in the comments. Those of you who have reached out have gotten the same wistful response from me: I don’t know. I’m not an expert. I wish I was, but I’m not. I don’t know what to do. I’m so sorry.
So.
I have enlisted the help of a true expert, and she has agreed to host a weekly Q&A in this space. From here on out we will devote each Wednesday to answering your questions. You can ask as a survivor, or you can ask as a supporter. What counts as abuse? What do I do if I suspect abuse? You get the idea.
I am closing comments on this post because I’d like you to submit your questions via email. I think we’ll all be more honest this way, and we don’t risk making the survivors uncomfortable — which is always my first priority.
So, please. Email me at maggie [at] violenceunsilenced [dot] com with your questions, and we’ll see how it goes. From the very beginning we’ve been figuring this out as we go along and this new development is no exception, so I don’t know exactly how it will turn out; I just know and trust that you’ll continue to make this space yours. If I haven’t told you lately, I am so unbelievably grateful for what you have done here, for what you continue to do. Thank you, once again.
Ask away.
Kristina
I honestly do not remember anyone in my family feeling shame over his behavior; maybe embarrassment. Unspoken words and feelings, we all shared the pain without any vocalizations. People of our generation and the generation before us simply did not speak of such things. We hid them behind our closed doors, relegated to accept our lot in life. We smiled and enjoyed the rare moments of quiet and solitude while he was either at work or passed out in his favorite chair. We lived for the moments we could laugh and play; not nearly enough of them.
We lived in a middle-class suburb on a quiet street in an unassuming house with its perfectly manicured lawn. To the outside world our family seemed normal; a respected father, adored mother and well behaved children. We played normal so well. We perfected our escapes from realities. We lost ourselves in the abyss between silent misery and stolen moments of laughter. He lost himself in the contents of the refrigerator in our garage, believing we were oblivious to his problem. His increasingly staggering gait gave proof to his drunkenness. The alcohol could have been the excuse for his anger and violence, but quite frankly, he was cruel without the aid of the beer. Also, sadly, we welcomed the moment he became so intoxicated that he ended up incapacitated.
For myself, ironically, I felt lucky. His cruelty was never directed towards small children. I was the mascot of the family, providing entertainment to the rest. He was my grandpa, Papa, and I lived with him a relatively short period until my mother rescued me from this home she had fled from years before. I had been untouched from the physical violence. My scars and bruises were never evident to the naked eye. My wounds were internally deep. I witnessed the beatings and cruel words.
Some of my most vivid memories were scenes of intolerable cruelty witnessed from a dark corner of the hallway or wrapped safely in my great-great grandmother’s arms, her attempts to shield me. He beat my Nanny, grandma, until she wept out loud. He beat my aunt and uncle until they pleaded for him to stop. All the while, he spat out obscenities and insults. After the violence ended, we never spoke of them. We mindlessly continued to move through our lives. We were resigned to the fact that nothing would come of speaking out. Our community would never believe that this man could terrorize his own family. After all, this was the man who supported his wife’s elderly grandmother, cared for a mentally retarded son who was not biologically his own and nursed his physically ailing wife.
Because I was taught to hide my feelings, I believed that this was normal behavior. I was destined to repeat the cycle. The cycle of allowing another human being to control and abuse me. For many years I did allow the men in my life to physically and mentally tear me down. Thankfully, I finally learned to break the cycle and respect myself. Allowing myself to speak about my childhood, working through the pain and believing that no one should be treated so horribly, has been the vehicle to my recovery.
***
Kristina blogs at Live, Laugh, Love.
Pamela
Editor’s note: I get a ton of emails from people saying things like, “My story is not nearly as traumatic/intense/important as the other stories I read on this site.” Pamela herself sent one just last week, with a twist. She wrote:
I keep reading and re-reading all of the VU stories, and I am struck by each and every one of them. Maybe I should use a different word than ‘struck’… but those stories have burned an impression on my soul almost in the way my own experience has. So many of those women have faced certain death and have lived to tell about it. I feel so lucky, so blessed, that my life was not on the line in the way that theirs were.
The thought has crossed my mind that all of them have so much more right to tell their stories, as the physical and emotional pain they must have endured was so much greater than mine, their lives were so much more dangerous.
But the truth of the matter is that any violence, any hitting, any rape, any kicking… ANY and ALL of it is wrong. And ALL of it is less than we deserve, no matter the scope of the problem. I’m glad I sent you my story, because maybe there’s a someone, a victim, who is living what I experienced, who is reading Violence Unsilenced and thinking that the pain she is enduring is not great enough to report, compared to the stories she’s read.I would tell her this: Yes. Your pain is valid. This is not safe for you. Pleasepleaseplease know that there are people who love you and want you to be safe and healthy and that all abuse is abuse.
Yes. Exactly.
Here is Pamela’s story:
***
I pursued him.
We had both picked up a very part-time job raising money for a local not-for-profit’s capital campaign. I was finishing a bonus semester at college (bonus because I needed one more class to be able to graduate), and he needed to supplement his freelancer’s income. He was quiet, almost shy, unassuming, polite… and I pursued him.
I initiated our relationship. I sought him out. I thought I knew the sort of person he was.
Shortly after we started dating, I was pretty much moved into his apartment. Things were going well, mostly, for a while. Then little things started popping up…. He started asking a lot of questions about where I was going, who was I going with, needing specifics. He would be annoyed when I would visit my family out of state, when I’d see my girlfriend across town. He told me so many times he wanted to take care of me that to this day it makes me want to pound my head through a wall when I hear someone say it.
I am not a person that needs to be taken care of. I never have been.
I don’t even remember the first time he raped me. I was asleep, and I woke up to him all over me. I pushed him off, or at least I tried…. I told him to stop. He was taking care of himself, and when he was finished, he rolled over and went to sleep like nothing happened.
Again and again and again it happened. It’s not even a little bit accurate to say “it happened” because it didn’t just happen. He did that to me. He forced me to have sex with him. He raped me so many times I lost count.
It took me a really long time to get out of that relationship. It’s been almost ten years since I’ve seen him. I’m married to a wonderful, gentle man who knows I was raped. And while he’s never told me he’s going to take care of me, he does, in countless ways that are kind and loving; ways that do not require me to be smaller or hurt or less of a woman; ways that are uplifting and genuine and true.
And I am thankful.
***
Pamela blogs at The Dayton Time
