A teen's story: At fifteen she met her abuser. She did not know it then, but she would marry this man who would emotionally and physically abuse her for more than a decade. She did not like him at first. She avoided his phone calls. Told her girlfriends to tell him she wasn't home or that she was sick, just so she wouldn't have to talk to him. But with his persistence, his gifts, his complementing words, she began to change her mind. She began to fall in love with him. She decided, he must really like her, since he wanted to be with her all the time. And of course, since he was jealous of her being with anyone but him, how could he not in fact like her. We are at a "50's" dance in the year 1985. Reaching out to grab me, he misses. I tell him not to be jealous. I tell him I love him. I tell him that I didn't look at the guy across the dance floor. I tell him to stop twisting my arm, for it hurts me. His hold on me tightens and he twists it more. Everyone around us is immune to the pain and discussion he is inflicting on me. As he lets go to instruct me not to talk or look at any man, he then flashes me "his look." The look that means he is going to finish what he started later on tonight no matter how proper I act. Kicking me out of his car after he slapped me around and tore my pants almost off my body, was only the beginning. He drove away, leaving me in a place I did not know. I walked crying, bleeding, not knowing where I was. Then came the sound of a speeding car. I knew. I began to run. I began to run as fast as I could. My running got me nowhere. I felt as if I was in a cartoon when the characters run in place for a while before taking off. When I looked back, he was in sight. He dove along side of me calling me a slut, whore, bitch and told me it was my fault that he hurt me. He said it was for my own good that he gave me a beating. He laughed as he made fun of my torn clothes. Back in the car I got. His arm slowly went around my neck. He pulled me closer to him and told me he was sorry. Told me he loved me and did not mean to call me those words. He told me he would not do it ever again. That abusive event in my life was before I married him. I believed then, that if I could not run from his abuse that night, that I could never run from it, that I had to stay with him and tough it out. How many lonely nights I would cry because my abuser didn't come home? When he did, the fear that rose inside me was unbelievable. The loneliness I felt as he was unlocking the door that's undescribable. I knew, even when I pretended to be asleep, I would take "a beating" or be abused verbally. Verbal abuse is painful. Sometimes I wish my abuser would have hit me instead of cutting me with his nasty words. Words can be cruel. Words can cut deep. Words are powerful tools if you allow them to be. Being abused verbally, I allowed someone to hurt me. I allowed him to mentally abuse me with his words. He would call me a whore or bitch because I put make-up on. He would ask me so many questions if I curled my hair or put on a shirt and didn't button the very top button. "Why are you wearing that?" he would demand. Forget it if I looked at another man, even a man who was waiting on me at a store. It got to the point that even when I wasn't with my abuser I would be too afraid to look at a man or not have all the buttons on my shirt buttoned. How sick he was. But worse, how sick was I? It's that time again. Beating time. Sunday morning time, when the cocaine had run out and the beer's all gone, home he stumbles... "Wake up you bitch, move over!" He did not have to tell me to wake up because I never went to sleep. I was absorbed with anxiety and fear since he never came home. Well, he is home now. He's ready to fight and I do not wish to participate. But that doesn't matter, he fights with me even when I remain lying down. He cusses at me to no end, then kicks me in the back off the bed. He gets up himself, comes over to me, lies next to me and starts saying disgusting words in my ear. He wants to have sex with me and of course, I refuse. This only make him more mad. He grabs my hair and drags me across the floor. I cry and plead with him to stop. He lifts me up by my hair and without notice, head butts me, knocking me down again. He leaves me on the floor and goes inside to sleep on the couch. Ashamed. Embarrassed. Withdrawn. Untrusting. Afraid. Guilty. Fearful. Never to be clean again. You feel you can not scrub the filth away after he beats you. Water does wash away the blood, but not the bruises or scratches. Your body aches from the abusive words he lashes at you like a whip. Mental abuse also makes you feel dirty. How dirty I feel just saying these last few sentences, knowing that he hurt me over and over. Yes, it was really that bad! Curled up on the floor hoping he will just vanish. Bleeding, angry, fearful, alone, she lays there. Sobbing until he leaves the room. Staring at the wall and seeing nothing but despair. Breathing heavy she calms herself only to hear him laughing at her. He makes rude comments loud enough for her to hear them. She does not move until she is sure he is sleeping. Using the bed to steady herself, she stands. Dizzy from him pulling clumps of hair out of her head she sits on the edge of the bed. Legs shaking as she stands to go look at herself in the mirror. She has been through this before and only wants to cover her bruises from others. Thinking not of herself. She only thinks about what everyone will say when they see her. Dreaming up excuses for this time so they are different. She also wants to say sorry to her abuser. Say sorry for him beating her. Say sorry for standing up to him. Tell him that everything is okay and that she believes he loves her. She knows his words already. Knows that he will beg her forgiveness and tell her he did not mean to hit her. Tell her he loves her. She questions herself if he really loves her. As she washes the blood away, she washes the experience away too. Maybe she will not have to go out. Maybe she will not see anyone she knows. Maybe she can cover the marks long enough for them to fade. Maybe no one will ever know... Just the thought of the word rape scares me. Telling my husband he had to leave after the holidays, he became more angry and that "look" of the devil in his eyes seemed to never leave his face. (My heart beats faster just trying to write down my thoughts.) For the first time in many years, I went to a company holiday party without him. He stayed home with our son instead of coming. Going alone was new to me. The entire evening was spent thinking about what would happen to me when I got home. Never did I imagine I would be severely beaten and raped by my husband who was supposed to love and cherish me. Never did I think I would be so abused. So hurt. So afraid. So fearful for my life. Back to the party... My husband called numerous times to find out when I was coming home. He even harassed a few of my co-workers over the phone. I took a few of his calls and then decided (for the very first time in our relationship) not to take his abusive phone calls anymore. I was drinking alcohol that night, even though I was only 20 at the time. When the party was over, I left with a few friends who drive me home. I asked them out of fear to walk me inside so they could tell my husband I was "a good girl" and that I was sorry for not coming home sooner. How afraid I became on the ride home. I was so afraid that I can actually feel some of my fears now! I can remember like it was yesterday when he raped me. How my stomach turns at the thought. He gave me my worst beaten that night too. How I cried! Screamed out in anger. In fear. In pain. In need of someone's help. If they only heard my screams. How humiliated I was! How cold were the police officers to me! How disgusting was the bathroom in the hospital they took me to. How the doctor looked at me when he was taking my pubic hair samples. How the nurse hurt me as she took blood from my left arm. These details may not sound of real importance, but they will last a lifetime in my head. A lifetime. How long is his sentence? How long could it be when I was talked out of pressing charges by the detectives, especially the woman officer. She told me that rape is hard to prove between a husband and a wife, even with all my bruises, cuts, blood and the samples they took at the hospital. Why then, did they let me go through those disgusting and embarrassing tests? I could have been home sleeping. I could have been lying in the dark with myself, instead of with those strangers. Strangers that could have cared less what happened to me and the violence that was bestowed upon me. They would have done me more justice if they told me to go home and get some sleep. Instead, they took pictures of my face and made me answer questions for hours. How humiliating is it that we got back together after he did the most terrible thing he could to me? Well, let me answer, "very." Birthdays, anniversaries, holidays and the days I was abused stay in my mind for many reasons. The Superbowl reminds me of unhappy times. A time of bruises and stitches. A day to celebrate was a day to mourn. Sitting in the hospital emergency waiting room with my day brings a sadness to me. Crying and struggling to compose myself. Telling my dad, I could not press charges against my husband for beating me. Even with all the pain and suffering, I still couldn't bring myself to press charges. I was not ready physically nor mentally to leave yet, so back to my prison cell I went. Run in my shoes because there's hell to pay. You'll pay with a put-down, punch or a kick, The feelings of loneliness will make you so sick. Miles of pain, suffering and feeling the blues. Walking and crying and feeling like dying, Will you walk in my shoes and keep trying? After years of abuse that consisted of physical, mental and sexually abuse, my self-confidence, courage and my outlook on my situation decreased. I was at a point in my life where I trusted no one. I questioned my faith in God. I believed that God had punished my for something I did in a previous life. My most asked question to God was, "Why me?" My abuser was told to leave by the police on May 17, 1993, after I filed a temporary restraining order. My children were only six, three and one years old then. I didn't feel I had any other choice left, but to have him ordered to leave. He would not leave voluntarily. He never would leave when I asked him. This took a lot of courage and strength for me to go to court with three young children, wait all day to see the judge, then call the police and have them make him leave. It was one on the toughest decisions I've made in my life. The fears and confusion I was feeling made me cry. I cried when he left. I cried when he called. I cried when I held my three children and told them their daddy was not going to live with us any more. It was okay for me to cry. What wasn't okay for me to do, was to take him back. I had had enough pain from this person. He had caused me plenty of suffering and sadness in my life. Enough was enough! I had finally hit my bottom. Society places much of the responsibility for domestic violence on the women. My experience with the justice system and the police was nothing but tiring and frustrating. I once said to an assistant prosecutor, "Am I not the victim? The abuser gets more justice then I do!" Her response, (yes, a women prosecutor said this) "This is a vicious cycle with these type of men. Keep changing your phone number, have your kids call from a pay phone so your ex-husband can't get your number. We can't put a police officer outside your door." She and other employees of the justice system make battered women feel like their lives are worthless. They are too quick to place the blame with the victim. They tell you they are over worked and underpaid. They leave out the part of them choosing their profession in justice. Their profession to help people and give something back to their community. The months ahead were very difficult for me outside my home. I was with my three young children without my husband for the first time in my life. Or was I? I had to do things all by myself and didn't have him to fall back on. Or did I? But then I realized... I never could fall back on him. I had been married to a non-participating partner anyway. What difference did it make for him not to be in the same house as me? Well, to be truthful with you, it was finally peaceful. I enjoyed coming home without being afraid to unlock the door. All my household matters were based on me. I was the "queen of my castle," even though I live in a five room apartment, it was "my castle." Why did the man who claimed his love for me hurt me? Power. Control. Because of his childhood problems that he carried into our marriage. Because of his alcohol and drug abuse. Because of jealousy and lack of respect for himself and for me. More reasons are not needed, just as a newspaper quoted a battered woman saying, "There ain't no dammed reason good enough." I am no longer a victim of domestic violence. I am strong, no matter what others may think. I am a good person. I am scared, and I am not scared to admit that. I have courage, even if I don't think so all the time. I have feelings, even though many days I can't feel. I get angry. I get upset. I have cried many sleepless nights. I have taken many beatings. I have been called many unacceptable words. I have needs. I have dreams. I have hopes. I am a survivor. I will survive this day. I will take this day that God has given me, to better myself and my situation. Whatever I chose to do with this day, let me do one productive thing for myself, let me live today for me. |
