Heather
This was originally written on August 5, 2009. It was titled, “I Remember.”
***
Today my divorce was final. Today I close a chapter of my life that I wish I had closed years ago. Today I was set free in one way, but have never really been freed in another.
For many years, my life was dark and ugly and filled with negativity and fear. I was that woman you see on the lifetime movies who puts on the act for her family but lives her life in fear of her husband.
I was the woman who would do anything not to be alone. Put up with anything to be with this person I was “in love” with.
Until one day, several months ago, I just couldn’t do it any more.
We have a slogan in Al-anon: You are only as sick as the secrets you keep and I can’t keep these any more.
You see, I remember the arguments. I remember being thrown down. I vividly remember being picked up and thrown across his parents’ kitchen. Being picked up and thrown across our front lawn. Being shoved down in a struggle over car keys and drug paraphernalia. Being attacked while I slept in order to get access to those same car keys.
I remember being tackled to the ground while he told me that he would kill me before he would let me leave. I also remember staring down the barrel of a loaded shot gun and watching him pump it thinking he was going to make good on that threat.
I remember the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach every time he would peel out of the driveway, and I remember even more the panic attack I had every time I would race down the stairs out to my car and try to follow him. Chase him down. Make him stay where he clearly didn’t want to be.
I remember screaming into the phone at his father the night he ripped me from my car and tried to run me over. I can vividly remember the look in his eyes when he ripped the keys from the ignition and I can see him hitting my car, pushing the unlock button while I sat in the drivers seat frantically pushing the lock button until he stuck the key in the door and then ripped me from the car.
I remember his dad trying to hug me and my legs giving out, standing there in the parking lot trying to figure out what the hell had happened to my life.
I remember trying to make it less than it was. Lying to the police, lying to my parents, lying to everyone. Just wanting it all to go away so he wouldn’t leave. So I wouldn’t be alone, so my life could continue in this perfect little show I was putting on for everyone.
I remember being on my honeymoon and going flying down a hill because he didn’t get his way. I remember what it felt like to be on the other side of that door when he was pounding to ask me if I was ok. If I would just open up, if we could fix this… it was our honeymoon after all….
I also remember being on the other side of that door when it was broken down. I am on my second bedroom door. The first one was kicked in. I am on my third bathroom door. In my head I can still see his fist coming through the bathroom door. It was like a scene from a horror movie only it wasn’t a movie, it was my life.
I remember spending my entire pregnancy alone. Every belly picture taken with a timer, every doctor appointment (except two) attended alone. All the planning, all the happiness I was supposed to have, gone.
I remember being 7 months pregnant on Thanksgiving day trudging through a field in the snow, climbing barbed wire fences, all in an effort to find him and make him come just so no one would know what was going on.
I remember being alone in a hospital room with my son, only four hours old, not having any idea where my husband was and being angry that I had to stay there instead of being able to leave and chase him down. I remember lying to everyone; telling them he was out pushing snow, running errands, anything to never let them know the truth.
That I was alone.
.
.
.
Alone and scared.
I remember him being pulled from a hotel room with a prostitute on the night he was committed and me spending all of my time trying to justify to everyone that they were just doing drugs in the room. They didn’t sleep together… except for the part where they did.
I remember being head butted and backhanded. I remember him spitting in my face, calling me names, and the pure hatred that spewed from his mouth during every argument we got into. He may not have been violent sober but his mouth did all of the hurting during the last two years.
I remember there were moments when I just wished he would lash out because I thought that it might hurt less to have him hit me than it did to hear him call me names and tell me how much he hated me.
I remember every little bit of this and so much more and as much as he or his family would like to pretend it didn’t happen, it did. And as much as they would like me to keep quiet, I have taken a pledge to myself that if anything I say can help one other person, I am going to say it.
I am never going to just be quiet again.
####
Heather blogs at Unwritten.
Kelly F
The abuse started out small. We didn’t exactly have a healthy relationship to begin with. We were always arguing and he was always belittling me. I guess, to be honest, the emotional abuse started long before he actually raised a hand to me. We were arguing, as usual, and I sat on his cigarettes. He was enraged. I told him to get over it and he slapped me across the face. I sat there stunned for a second and then pushed him away. It hadn’t exactly hit me what had just occurred. Then he slams me against the wall and holds me up by my neck. I couldn’t breathe and he was in my face telling me how big of a bitch I am. It didn’t feel real. I couldn’t even react, I mean this happens in lifetime movies, not to me, right?
He pushed me into the hallway and slammed the door to his room. I stood there gasping for air. And that is when the first wave of shame hit me. I was embarrassed. I felt so ashamed that my boyfriend had just humiliated me like that. It was going to be a reoccurring feeling, but the first time was the worst. I was not sure what I should do. I went and found his roommate’s girlfriend and told her what had just happened. She just kind of stared at me. At first I thought it was because she was just as shocked as I was, until she said, “It will be ok. He probably didn’t mean it.” I was in disbelief. Then his roommate walked in and basically said the same thing, telling me that it would be ok. Not once did anyone mention calling the police. Not once did anyone even act like anything horrible had just happened. They made me feel like I was being a drama queen, that I was overreacting. I started to tell myself that maybe they were right. Maybe I should just stop crying and get over it. So, that is what I did.
But it didn’t stop there. One night I was scared he was going to kill me. We had gone out to a local bar with friends and while we were there a guy had said hello and, being friendly, I had said hello back. When we got back to his apartment, he confronted me about talking to the guy at the bar and started getting angrier and angrier. I assured him that it was no big deal, but he was just so mad. He hit me across the face and threw me onto the ground. He told me to get up and get out. I was in the middle of Chicago, it was 3:00 in the morning, there was nowhere I could go right now. I crawled into the living room and sat down on one of the couches. He comes storming out of his room a few minutes later and starts hitting me again. I try to push him away and I end up getting pushed onto the ground again. He stands over me and starts kicking me. He kicks me in the head and the stomach multiple times. I am pleading with him to stop and he just keeps going. I am yelling for help at this point, but none of his roommates hear me. He drags me up and throws me out the front door of his apartment.
I know that you are reading this thinking, why didn’t you run for help? I was so broken down and I had been told so many times that I was being a drama queen, that I believed it. I felt like I deserved this and that no one was going to care if I told them. I mean, I had already told multiple people and no one seemed to think it was a big deal. I started banging on the door. He let me in and was starting to go off again when there was a knock on the door. His landlord who lived upstairs had come down to see what the noise was about. He lied to the landlord, said sorry, and then he just walked past me and went to bed. The next day my arm was covered in bruises in the shape of hand prints from him holding me so hard and shaking me. I couldn’t wear sleeveless shirts for a week because I was afraid of people seeing the bruises.
I could list more instances that he hurt me physically, but I think the emotional damage that he caused was almost more painful. I am slowly recovering and becoming the person I used to be. I have a lot of sadness and anger that I am still dealing with. This has affected me deeply, but I am not going to let it dictate how my life continues. I just hope that anyone reading this will never be a bystander of abuse.
####
Kelly F. blogs at Invisible Pedestrian.
Tatiana
I’m seventeen.
His hands tighten on my throat. I’m not trying to breathe, nor to escape, nor to fight back. If I hurt him, he’ll hurt me more. My eyes flutter shut – I do it so he can’t see the life fade from them, because he’s going to kill me. I’ve accepted that. I don’t care anymore. It’d be better than living like this.
He releases me. Spits in my face. “I’ll never kill you. You aren’t worth going to jail for.”
*
He’s in a rage. It’s my fault. He’s knocked over my computer desk and his. He’s thrown my monitor across the room. He’s pushed over the entertainment stand, sending our TV crashing to the ground, where it still buzzes. I’m shrieking – stay away from me – or maybe I’m taunting him – come and get me, you pussy. He hates being insulted with ‘feminine’ words. It’s one of his triggers.
In all the chaos, something has bruised my arm, badly, but I ignore it. He’ll grab that bruise if he knows it’s there.
For a moment, silence, as he stares across the wreckage of our living room at me. Upstairs, where his parents live, is silent too. That never happens. His dad watches television all day. His four-year-old nephew is up there, playing. His mom is cooking at the top of the stairs. I can smell something frying.
I know they’ve heard us. As he starts moving towards me, stepping on the crooked pieces of furniture, I realize my back is to a wall. But they’ve heard us. Someone will come investigate.
“Let’s go outside,” I hear his mom say. The sound of his nephew’s footsteps shuffling across the floor are followed by the back door closing. The volume on the television ramps up, impossibly loud.
And then, the way a child does while pulling the wings off a butterfly, he smiles at me.
No one is coming.
*
I’m eighteen.
He never cleans up after himself. His mom does it while I’m at work. She’s missed something though, because I can smell it.
He’s stroking my hair. I’m lying naked on the carpet in front of him.
Something’s rancid. I wish he weren’t touching me.
His fingers tighten in my hair. They twist, and press my face into the floor.
The stench is a tall glass of spoiled milk he’s hidden in the cracked entertainment center. He pours it over me, from head to toe.
“Sleep well, you slut,” he sneers. I’m just grateful he doesn’t kick me as he stands up and heads into the bedroom.
I sleep, but not well.
*
I’ve worn a turtleneck to work every day for two weeks. Beneath it, my pale white neck is a collar of mottled amber, ghastly purple, sickly green, and startling red – the hickies he gives me to camouflage the bruises his hands leave.
My coworker looks at me. I see her steel herself. I see the way she licks her lips, nervous about what she’s about to say: “Tatiana, he’s hurting you. Please let me help.”
I’m insulted that she knows. I’m insulted that I haven’t hidden it well enough.
“What? He is not,” I laugh. I turn my back on her and walk away, wishing I had half the courage she does.
She never offers help again.
*
I’m nineteen.
He’s finally fallen asleep, and I’m going to take a shower. My bruises are fresh. I’m wearing a new necklace, the silver stark against his stained-glass hand prints.
The light is on in the kitchen. His mom is there in her nightgown, a glass of water in her hand. She barely glances at me. “I like your necklace,” she says.
I rush out of the room before I start to cry.
*
I’m twenty.
“You’re so fucking ugly. I hate your nose. Wear this hat while you suck my cock so I don’t have to look down and see you.”
If that line were in a movie, people would laugh at it. Some people would laugh until they cried.
Tears roll down my cheeks as I oblige him.
*
“You don’t sound happy,” my mom says, during one of our rare phone calls.
I’m too tired to dissemble. I don’t even try to hide the tremble of my voice as I reply, “I’m not.”
“Then come home.”
*
It’s been nearly seven years since I heeded her advice.
Thanks, Mom.
####
Tatiana blogs at A Very Good Year. Today is her birthday.
