Daisy
Really it’s hard to tell my story because I feel the need to defend the fact that not only am I still with Jonez (nickname), but we are getting married in a few months.
So I am going to tell you from the start that he is not the same man he used to be. He has grown and is taking responsibility for all of his actions in a way that was never even given consideration to. He was never one to apologize.
We started out pretty strangely to begin with. I brought a girl over to his house (still lived with his mom being that he was 16) so she could have her way with him. I had to hang out in the room to block the door in case his step-dad decided to come in. I didn’t know this guy and barely knew the girl, but ended up watching 9-ball on ESPN for a while with my back to the bed area.
Somehow we ended up seeing enough of each other that after only a few months I moved out of my mom’s house and into my step-mom’s rental and he moved in with me. He was all of 16 at this time and I had just turned 19.
Jonez slowly trained me to just not care if he came home. If I cared there were fights, all of them both of us yelling, loudly. After more than a year I found out I was pregnant. He was big into being a father since he didn’t really know his. As a father he has always been all I could ask for and more.
He cheated on me multiple times. Generally with people I knew. I think the worst of those was when I was pregnant with the child I didn’t keep (my step-sister adopted him). He was cheating with someone I thought was a friend. She was going through some stuff at home (she was married w/a little girl) and I told her she was more than welcome to stay with us until she got her feet back on the ground (I had no thoughts of being cheated on at the time). Turns out that just made things easier. I found out by reading a misplaced letter from her to him. I kicked him out.
Two weeks gone and he came back. He’s never cheated since.
It’s hard to remember when the violence bled into things. I remember a few instances, but not all.
There was the New Years I went to go get my car so I could go to his mom’s to hang out with the kids. He busted my lip in front of his buddies’ parent’s house and their mom wouldn’t let the boys come out to help. If there was something wrong it was obviously my fault, being a girl and all.
Then there was the 4th of July that when we left the party we were attending, he had me drive around to entertain him. He put his gun on the glove box and told me if I thought I was faster than him, to go ahead and try it. We were dog sitting for a friend at the time and somehow we ended up over there to let the dog out and got into it enough that I fought back, putting him through their wall, then being put in my place because I wasn’t really enough of a fighter to keep him at bay.
I don’t really remember any other specific events until the last time.
Somehow a fight was started between him and my brother at a bar and continued on long enough for him to get good and worked up. He got home and decided to make me call my brother. Once I got my brother on the phone (he had been asleep) Jonez proceeded to fire 2 rounds into the floor of our kitchen (I thank God he fired down instead of up – daughter’s bedroom was directly above and this time she was home). This got my brother out of bed and over to the house in a hurry. So Jonez dragged me out into the driveway while he opened fire at my brother in his car. The whole time I was on the phone with my brother’s girlfriend / baby mama. The neighbor called the cops at this point (thank God). My brother wasn’t touched (thank God again). A friend of mine came over to get us (my daughter and I), and we left.
I used to wish not that he would die, but that that part of him would die, because him sober was everything I wanted in a man.
The next day I called and told him he needed to find somewhere else to stay so that we could come home. He moved out that day, and lived with his grandpa for almost 6 months.
During that time he got the help he had needed for years. He has been sober for over a year now. He has since told me that his first conversation with God happened the first night on his grandpa’s couch.
His transformation has been beautiful to behold. If it wasn’t real he wouldn’t be anywhere near us.
It is still so very hard to know that my brother almost lost his life before Jonez wised up.
My brother still can’t be around him and sometimes still wants retribution.
Sometimes I wonder how it is possible for me to still be with Jonez after all of this, but I have seen the changes and they can’t be denied.
Update: I am pleased to say that I am learning that it is okay to have feelings again; that I don’t have to push down the feelings until I no longer feel them. We are married and everyday I am shown how awesome his change really is.
It has been over two years that he has been sober. He attends AA regularly completely voluntarily, attends church with us as a family and we have separate and together small groups. He now recognizes his pattern of thought and catches his thoughts and gives them to Dad, as he calls God.
My brother didn’t press charges and is now able to at least talk to me about Jonez; he actually came very close to coming to the wedding. He thought it over very carefully and decided that he wasn’t altogether certain that he wouldn’t get upset, so he stayed home rather than chance it.
I wanted to get this out there for women who have witnessed miracles and stayed. Just so the guilt of staying doesn’t overwhelm. I have that guilt still when I talk to my brother and think to myself, “How can you still be with the person that put your family in so much danger?” Then I remember that not only am I allowed to be upset and annoyed and angry I am also allowed to be happy and experience joy.
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Daisy blogs at Totally Tattoo’d Mother.
My daughter wants to say that she is rilly glad [sic] J that her daddy is ok now. She has some of her own anger issues and I have begun telling her that she needs to talk to her daddy to find out how he is dealing with his.
Sorry this update was so long, but I wanted to get you up to date with those involved.
Kimi B.
I had a loving family growing up. We were all close. It was a wonderful environment. We lived right next door to my grandparents, and loved every minute. My sisters and I were very much like a modern day ‘Little House on the Prairie’ story. The family farm had only other farms for neighbors, and they never bothered anyone. We were free to roam the property at all hours of the day, all of us, including our parents, sure that we were perfectly safe anywhere we roamed.
Then, one morning in June, my sister and I decided to race out to the garden near the back of the property to pick some strawberries. She wanted to take out a 3-wheeler, and waited for Dad while I ran ahead, barefooted in my sundress, without a care in the world–like any other soon-to-be second grader. As I made the corner into the garden, I was nearly knocked down by an older boy that I did not know standing in the middle of our field.
He wasn’t supposed to be there. No one was supposed to be there. I told him my sister was on her way, and to leave me alone. He held me down, and covered my mouth with his dirty hand. I kicked, and screamed, and tried to bite. I hit him and pinched him trying to get him to let me up so I could really hurt him. I didn’t understand what he was trying to do, but I knew it was bad.
Then, by some miracle, my sister and my dad came down the trail on the 3-wheeler. He jumped up & hid in the bushes at the property line–or maybe he ran… I can’t be sure since I ran straight for my dad and just wanted to go back to the house. I was covered in dirt, muddy, and crying tears of frustration and shame. Dad was worried about me and took me straight home. My sister was confused and scared.
As soon as I got in the house I ran into the shower and would not come out. As it turned out, my dad and my sister had seen the boy but didn’t know for sure what had (or had not) happened. My parents were scared. I was ashamed and angry. Who the hell was this person anyhow? Who was he to come onto our home and hurt me? Why couldn’t I hit him any harder than I did? How could I be so weak?
My folks asked me what happened. Wanted me to explain in detail. I tried my best, but was ashamed that I didn’t defend myself so I lied about some of the details, trying to assure them that I was OK. They never called anyone. They never told anyone. They just didn’t know what to do.
I was afraid to go out alone. Even to the backyard, or next door to my grandparents. My parents knew something was wrong, but didn’t know how to approach it. I tried to get tough. Dared myself to go out alone, a little further every time, but never again without a weapon. I would be ready next time. A baseball bat, a garden hoe, stick, bb gun.
Then, my grandfather noticed I was always carrying something. He asked if I was afraid to run into someone while I was on the farm. I told him I was, and he empowered me. He was in the Navy during WWII, a member of the Scouts & Raiders. He taught me how to defend myself that summer. Taught me how to incapacitate anyone that tried to harm me. I can still hear him when that shiver runs up my spine when you’re in a dangerous situation–just punch them in the throat, hard as you can. If it doesn’t kill them, you’ll at least be able to run. When I was 10, he taught me to shoot. I owe all of my sass and confidence to him.
It seems like once you’ve had a bad experience, they tend to pop up again later in life. I have been attacked no less than four times since high school. All of the altercations ended with one of my grandfather’s lessons being used.
It took me years to think that I’d go beyond that day in the field. It could have been worse, I know that. But, if it wasn’t for the lessons afterward from my grandfather, any one of the other altercations that went down during high school or college might have been far, FAR worse.
I encourage every woman to learn to defend yourself. Don’t rely on pepper spray or whistles. Learn to cause them the kind of pain that they would inflict on you if they’re given the chance. Take a class, learn Tae Kwon Do, and keep those lessons in the forefront of your mind. Practice them until you know you can use them without running through your mind what you need to do.
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Kimi B. blogs at Never a Dull Moment.
A Girl Who Knows a Boy
I know a boy.
I met him when he was 7, during the summer before he began 3rd grade. He was a little short for his age and he was struggling with a bunch of recently diagnosed learning disabilities. But he was a happy kid.
I didn’t get to see him as often after that first summer ended. He lived with his mom during the school year, only getting weekends with his dad and step-mom, who were the ones I saw regularly. I saw him on a few weekends and holidays, glimpses into his life. I saw him grow up, fight against the learning disorders that held him back in school. I saw him struggle, but succeed. He was small, but he was strong.
I know a boy.
When he was 10, his mother had another baby, another son. He was a big brother for the first time.
I married into his family that year. I was so happy to be a part of that boy’s life, to be able to care for him, to be able to help him.
That Christmas we got a frantic phone call from his step-mom. The boy was spending Christmas Day with his mother, but he hadn’t received any presents. His mother had bought her new son, who was less than a year old at the time, a pile of gifts, wrapped in beautiful holiday wrapping. She had told the boy I know that Santa had come to his father’s house instead. So he called his dad and asked if Santa had left him gifts there. His father didn’t know what was going on, but said yes, excitedly, anyway. And the boy’s dad and step-mom spent their Christmas finding any place that was open to give the boy a Christmas.
I know a boy.
When he was 11 he started failing his classes at school and no one could figure out why. When the teacher asked, the boy cried. The boy I know told his teacher that he wasn’t doing his homework because his step-dad wouldn’t let him. Because each night his step-dad took him into the garage of his mother’s house for hours. And to this day, the boy I know has never told anyone what happened in the garage.
He can’t tell, he won’t tell.
That was the first time he was removed from his mother’s home and sent to live with his dad.
His grades improved, but his attitude, his spirit, was never the same.
I know a boy.
When he was 12, both his step-mom and his mom both had babies, sisters, both of them. The boy was a wonderful big brother, again. And the boy I know was able to go live part-time with his mother again. Things seemed better for the boy.
I know a boy.
When he was 13, his dad got a call from school. He was being suspended. But child services was there too. You see, the boy I know had done something that he knew he’d get caught for. When the principal asked him why he’d done something so obviously foolish, he had responded, “because there was no other way to get someone to listen.” This time, it’s wasn’t his step-dad, it was his mother who was abusing him. Abusing him mentally. Abusing him physically.
He was taken from his mother’s house, again. And he was put in counseling. Counseling he refused to participate in, because the boy I know learned that every time he shared his story, he got in more trouble with his mom. The boy learned that telling his story made things worse.
I know a boy.
He’s almost 14 now. He’s back to living with his mother on weekends because she told him she was sorry that she had changed, and he is a boy, he doesn’t understand. He trusts his mother, even though she has betrayed him before.
This boy that I know is changed. He cannot focus in school, he isn’t keeping up with his peers. He’s failing.
I know a boy.
I know a boy who was just diagnosed with clinical depression and suicidal tendencies.
I know a boy whose life has been so miserable, that he wants to die.
Who feels so worthless to his own mother that he can’t remember what happiness feels like.
I know a boy.
And this is his story.
I know a boy.
Do you?
Megan
Here is my story. I would like to finally let people know, to have a voice. To let my family know.
I found this site today. I bravely clicked on it. I read story after story. Reading their stories, but seeing mine in them.
There are things buried deep inside me. That no one knows.
I fell deeply in love with a boy. It was so intense, so perfect. Until that day…
I don’t remember the first time. I do remember running down my parents’ stairs when I should’ve been at school. Oh how I wish I was at school. I was running from him. He caught me, as he always did. Pulled me back upstairs. Bottles were being thrown at me. I was lifted up in the air by my neck. It got black. I was thrown on the bed and punched in my legs repeatdly. I told him I loved him.
We were in my car at Barnes & Nobles. Arguing. He put his hands around my neck. I couldn’t breathe. I honked the horn. He let go, ran away…. I followed. My guardian angel was there that day. He called the police. That was the day I could no longer lie. That was the day he went to jail. It was over, or so I thought….
I wrote him in jail, I took his calls…. I visited him. I needed him so bad. I was 17.
It wasn’t long before I needed another man’s approval. Another man to love me. I went from man to man… being used, being sexually abused. Thinking, knowing, that I deserved it.
One night I was date raped. I woke up with a man inside of me. Hurting me. Only to finish and let another man do the same. My parents “know” about this. I made it seem like it wasn’t that bad. I dropped the charges. The kids at school were talking… I was a “slut.” It was my fault.
These secrets are so deep inside of me. No one knows. They have became a part of me. They have made me who I am. They have made me flinch from a man’s touch. A man who I trust. Who I married. Who thinks I don’t love him because I don’t want to have sex sometimes.
These secrets, I have made myself believe I wanted them. That I said yes. But the truth always comes up. I didn’t. I said no. But I push that truth down, deep down inside of me, and replace it with lies. Lies that sometimes I almost believe.
I have two daughters, two beautiful daughters. I am scared shitless. This world I brought them into isn’t so kind. I want to raise strong daughters. Strong women. To raise girls that know what they are worth. To know they don’t need to have a man to make them whole. But how can I do that if I’m still trying to figure that out myself?
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Megan writes at Our House of Pink.
