Remember
Prelude:
"FBI STATISTICS SHOW that a woman is beaten by a man every twelve seconds in the United States. Its studies estimate that one in two women will be assaulted by a male partner during her lifetime, and every six hours a woman is killed in an act of domestic violence.
Unless a woman dies at the hands of her abuser, it is likely that her abuse will go unreported. This is especially true when the abuser is her husband or boyfriend. Most physical abuse takes place behind closed doors, and fear and shame often keep battered women silent."
October is Domestic Violence awareness month. Cities and towns all across America will be holding vigils to remember those who have passed on by the hands of an abuser, and celebrate those who somehow escaped.
Last year was the first time that I spoke openly about the scars that are still left on the skin of my flesh and on the inside of my soul. A friend came to me, she knew that it was not a subject that I was not able to talk about, but she also knew that I needed to. Everyone needs an outlet, and sometimes those first steps to any recovery is easiest when confined with those who have faced and dealt with similar issues.
Over the next few weeks, I sat down many times trying to write what I would say. To say it without revealing to much, without exposing to much. Because once you do, it becomes real. Then you have to face it all over again. Many nights I sat with a black screen, trying to come up with something. Anything. I spoke to a professor, who is also the coordinator for the Women’s Resource Center here. I spoke to other survivors, but something in me refused to allow everything to come to the surface. Then, one night while looking through old photographs I came across some from when we were happy. Before the first time. Seeing those broke something in my heart all over again. Then I did something I had not done since before my son was born. I got out the other pictures. The ones taken at the police station once when I tried to get help, and then others that were taken after I finally got up enough will to leave.
Those photos made all the memories come flooding back. That night I called my friend and told her I would speak, but I needed her to come over, I had to talk to her first. That night, as I cried while reliving every bruise, every cut, every penetration, every humiliation, every scar left on the outside, every one on the inside, I began to finally heal. Before that night, I merely saw myself as a victim, afterwards I saw myself as me. While there are still things that I cannot talk about openly that happened during that breakdown that took more than a year of my life, I am healing. I will never forget the looks of anger, and need for power over me, but they do not define me anymore.
Taken from Stop the hurt:
“A Survivor's Story: Scared”
If you have ever been in gym class at school and have been hit in the face with a fast flying basketball, this is how I felt the first time my abuser hit me. It was swiftly and out of nowhere. I remember being stunned. It was so out of character.It was over who was going to drive to an auto parts store. I reached up to feel if I had a lump and there was not only a lump but blood on my hands as well. He backhanded me right in the nose. I just was in so much shock I didn't know what to do or say.I had heard about women who get hit or beaten by their partners but never thought it could happen to me. Immediately my abuser was sorry. He actually cried.. I remember thinking maybe I was too demanding too I actually felt sorry for him. I remember thinking I should have just let him drive to the stupid store! Most of our arguments were over extremely petty issues.One day we were in my car on our way to a movie. We had a small disagreement over which movie to see. I hated to be scared and he wanted to see a very frightening movie. He slammed the car into reverse as I was driving 55 mph on the freeway! I nearly lost control of the car then he called me a stupid bitch because I almost wrecked the car.I asked him what the hell was he trying to do? He then punched me in the mouth. I drove right to the hospital with him in the passenger seat. I knew I wasn’t going to tell anyone I just wanted to scare him.”
I picked this story to post, because it describes what I felt in the beginning. The astonishment that after close to four years, that he would hit me.
It is not easy to leave. Everyone who has never been in that situation says “You need to get out. I would never let a man hit me.”
Until the first time he bloodied my lip, I also said those words. The first time that he choked me till I passed out, I still said them. Because in my mind I was not being abused.
It is hard to explain. The emotions one goes through. The way it is learned to excuse it away. It is hard to say, I am a victim, and I need help. It is hard to believe that they will not change. It is hard, after being so happy, that your world is falling apart.
Honestly, if I had not gotten pregnant, I may not be alive right now. Twice he tried to kill me. Twice he almost succeeded. I had actually left before I found out I was pregnant. I knew in my heart that what was happening was no longer love. But one night, I wanted things to be right with us again, for us to be happy. To be the high school sweethearts we once were. That night changed my life.
The day I found out I was pregnant was the saddest day of my life. I knew that there was no way I would bring a baby into what I was living. But still I moved back in. In the back of my head, his lies swirled. The house we picked out still lives there. For a month things were good. Then came the day to change everything.
The last time he hit me, rage built in me. Rage mixed with fear. I had already moved back out of the apartment, but we still had to pay the rent together. I went to get his share from him. He was at a friends. I knocked on the door. He stepped out and asked me what the fuck I wanted. I told him I just needed his share of the rent, so I could get my name off of the lease.
My head spun with the blow that he delivered. Inside my mouth I could taste the irony blood springing from my lip. I could already feel my flesh begin to swell.
I took off down the steps of the apartment complex that he was at, I could hear his steps behind me. All I wanted was to be able to get into the safety of my truck and lock the door, so that I could leave. I realized too late that the driver window was halfway down. As I tried to roll it up, his hands were there pushing it down. I could hear the grinding of glass, being forced to do something that it could not escape. I could hear my own silent screams in my head. His hands wrapped around my ponytail, and he slammed my face into the steering wheel. The next thing I know, he had already unlocked the door and drug me out of the truck by my pony tail. The words he screamed, still wake me up at night all these years later. Somehow, I got out from his grip, away from his fists and ran to the apt. managers door. Knocking and screaming for help. The man that opened it, said that he did not want to be involved. As he tried to shut the door, something in me broke. I cried and told him I understood, as so many have refused before. I asked if I could just please use his phone. After hesitation he handed a cordless and promptly slammed the door.
I called 911, and then realized that he had stopped yelling. Chenoa had came down the steps and was talking to him. They were laughing. In my mind they were laughing at me.
I sat there, watching them waiting for the police to come. I could hear him saying, she did not call them, she just wants to start trouble, the fucking bitch. My tears streamed from my face as I saw this person that I loved so much exhibit so much hate towards me. In my mind it was still my fault.
Within minutes the police were there. Then the paramedics. One look at my blood stained shirt over my three month pregnant belly and he was placed in handcuffs. I remember the paramedic cleaning the laceration on my forehead and carefully wiping the blood from my face. The look of sadness in his eyes allowed me to see that someone, anyone, cared.
As they read him his rights, he screamed, “Are you sure you want to do this, you know I will get out.” Then he smiled. And I knew. I knew that the next time he layed a hand on my, it would not be like his past attempts. The ones where I could hear him begging the person that pulled him off to please let him kill me. I knew that not if he got out, but when he got out, I would not be able to see my child’s face. I knew that he would not try, he would succeed.
He asked the officer why he was arresting him. He said, “Don’t I have rights, where are my rights.” The officer said, you beat a pregnant woman, you do not have any rights. As they were lowering him into the car, two things happened. Chenoa began getting in her car, to meet them at the station, and he once again told me that he will see me again.
Fear gripped me. Deeply. That day I left. The only thing I took from that life was a suitcase of things that I had bought for my unborn child. That suitcase and the clothes on my back. I left. The entire drive back to WV I cried. My tears fell, because I had to admit what I allowed to happen, and for the love that was lost over the last year. I cried for the unknown. I feared starting over, but feared losing anymore of me more.
I am telling you this, because I was one of those people who just said, “Leave.” I am telling you this because the time is coming to remember those who have dies at the hands of an abuser. To remember their children they left behind. I am telling you this because that could have been me. I am telling you this because it helps heal the hurt that will always be inside.
This Oct. even if you do not go to a vigil, remember those who could not just leave. Who had no where to go. Remember the children who have lost their mother at the hands of their father. Those whose mother was taken by an abusive boyfriend that she could not escape.
Remember.
"FBI STATISTICS SHOW that a woman is beaten by a man every twelve seconds in the United States. Its studies estimate that one in two women will be assaulted by a male partner during her lifetime, and every six hours a woman is killed in an act of domestic violence.
Unless a woman dies at the hands of her abuser, it is likely that her abuse will go unreported. This is especially true when the abuser is her husband or boyfriend. Most physical abuse takes place behind closed doors, and fear and shame often keep battered women silent."
October is Domestic Violence awareness month. Cities and towns all across America will be holding vigils to remember those who have passed on by the hands of an abuser, and celebrate those who somehow escaped.
Last year was the first time that I spoke openly about the scars that are still left on the skin of my flesh and on the inside of my soul. A friend came to me, she knew that it was not a subject that I was not able to talk about, but she also knew that I needed to. Everyone needs an outlet, and sometimes those first steps to any recovery is easiest when confined with those who have faced and dealt with similar issues.
Over the next few weeks, I sat down many times trying to write what I would say. To say it without revealing to much, without exposing to much. Because once you do, it becomes real. Then you have to face it all over again. Many nights I sat with a black screen, trying to come up with something. Anything. I spoke to a professor, who is also the coordinator for the Women’s Resource Center here. I spoke to other survivors, but something in me refused to allow everything to come to the surface. Then, one night while looking through old photographs I came across some from when we were happy. Before the first time. Seeing those broke something in my heart all over again. Then I did something I had not done since before my son was born. I got out the other pictures. The ones taken at the police station once when I tried to get help, and then others that were taken after I finally got up enough will to leave.
Those photos made all the memories come flooding back. That night I called my friend and told her I would speak, but I needed her to come over, I had to talk to her first. That night, as I cried while reliving every bruise, every cut, every penetration, every humiliation, every scar left on the outside, every one on the inside, I began to finally heal. Before that night, I merely saw myself as a victim, afterwards I saw myself as me. While there are still things that I cannot talk about openly that happened during that breakdown that took more than a year of my life, I am healing. I will never forget the looks of anger, and need for power over me, but they do not define me anymore.
“A Survivor's Story: Scared”
If you have ever been in gym class at school and have been hit in the face with a fast flying basketball, this is how I felt the first time my abuser hit me. It was swiftly and out of nowhere. I remember being stunned. It was so out of character.It was over who was going to drive to an auto parts store. I reached up to feel if I had a lump and there was not only a lump but blood on my hands as well. He backhanded me right in the nose. I just was in so much shock I didn't know what to do or say.I had heard about women who get hit or beaten by their partners but never thought it could happen to me. Immediately my abuser was sorry. He actually cried.. I remember thinking maybe I was too demanding too I actually felt sorry for him. I remember thinking I should have just let him drive to the stupid store! Most of our arguments were over extremely petty issues.One day we were in my car on our way to a movie. We had a small disagreement over which movie to see. I hated to be scared and he wanted to see a very frightening movie. He slammed the car into reverse as I was driving 55 mph on the freeway! I nearly lost control of the car then he called me a stupid bitch because I almost wrecked the car.I asked him what the hell was he trying to do? He then punched me in the mouth. I drove right to the hospital with him in the passenger seat. I knew I wasn’t going to tell anyone I just wanted to scare him.”
I picked this story to post, because it describes what I felt in the beginning. The astonishment that after close to four years, that he would hit me.
It is not easy to leave. Everyone who has never been in that situation says “You need to get out. I would never let a man hit me.”
Until the first time he bloodied my lip, I also said those words. The first time that he choked me till I passed out, I still said them. Because in my mind I was not being abused.
It is hard to explain. The emotions one goes through. The way it is learned to excuse it away. It is hard to say, I am a victim, and I need help. It is hard to believe that they will not change. It is hard, after being so happy, that your world is falling apart.
Honestly, if I had not gotten pregnant, I may not be alive right now. Twice he tried to kill me. Twice he almost succeeded. I had actually left before I found out I was pregnant. I knew in my heart that what was happening was no longer love. But one night, I wanted things to be right with us again, for us to be happy. To be the high school sweethearts we once were. That night changed my life.
The day I found out I was pregnant was the saddest day of my life. I knew that there was no way I would bring a baby into what I was living. But still I moved back in. In the back of my head, his lies swirled. The house we picked out still lives there. For a month things were good. Then came the day to change everything.
The last time he hit me, rage built in me. Rage mixed with fear. I had already moved back out of the apartment, but we still had to pay the rent together. I went to get his share from him. He was at a friends. I knocked on the door. He stepped out and asked me what the fuck I wanted. I told him I just needed his share of the rent, so I could get my name off of the lease.
My head spun with the blow that he delivered. Inside my mouth I could taste the irony blood springing from my lip. I could already feel my flesh begin to swell.
I took off down the steps of the apartment complex that he was at, I could hear his steps behind me. All I wanted was to be able to get into the safety of my truck and lock the door, so that I could leave. I realized too late that the driver window was halfway down. As I tried to roll it up, his hands were there pushing it down. I could hear the grinding of glass, being forced to do something that it could not escape. I could hear my own silent screams in my head. His hands wrapped around my ponytail, and he slammed my face into the steering wheel. The next thing I know, he had already unlocked the door and drug me out of the truck by my pony tail. The words he screamed, still wake me up at night all these years later. Somehow, I got out from his grip, away from his fists and ran to the apt. managers door. Knocking and screaming for help. The man that opened it, said that he did not want to be involved. As he tried to shut the door, something in me broke. I cried and told him I understood, as so many have refused before. I asked if I could just please use his phone. After hesitation he handed a cordless and promptly slammed the door.
I called 911, and then realized that he had stopped yelling. Chenoa had came down the steps and was talking to him. They were laughing. In my mind they were laughing at me.
I sat there, watching them waiting for the police to come. I could hear him saying, she did not call them, she just wants to start trouble, the fucking bitch. My tears streamed from my face as I saw this person that I loved so much exhibit so much hate towards me. In my mind it was still my fault.
Within minutes the police were there. Then the paramedics. One look at my blood stained shirt over my three month pregnant belly and he was placed in handcuffs. I remember the paramedic cleaning the laceration on my forehead and carefully wiping the blood from my face. The look of sadness in his eyes allowed me to see that someone, anyone, cared.
As they read him his rights, he screamed, “Are you sure you want to do this, you know I will get out.” Then he smiled. And I knew. I knew that the next time he layed a hand on my, it would not be like his past attempts. The ones where I could hear him begging the person that pulled him off to please let him kill me. I knew that not if he got out, but when he got out, I would not be able to see my child’s face. I knew that he would not try, he would succeed.
He asked the officer why he was arresting him. He said, “Don’t I have rights, where are my rights.” The officer said, you beat a pregnant woman, you do not have any rights. As they were lowering him into the car, two things happened. Chenoa began getting in her car, to meet them at the station, and he once again told me that he will see me again.
Fear gripped me. Deeply. That day I left. The only thing I took from that life was a suitcase of things that I had bought for my unborn child. That suitcase and the clothes on my back. I left. The entire drive back to WV I cried. My tears fell, because I had to admit what I allowed to happen, and for the love that was lost over the last year. I cried for the unknown. I feared starting over, but feared losing anymore of me more.
I am telling you this, because I was one of those people who just said, “Leave.” I am telling you this because the time is coming to remember those who have dies at the hands of an abuser. To remember their children they left behind. I am telling you this because that could have been me. I am telling you this because it helps heal the hurt that will always be inside.
This Oct. even if you do not go to a vigil, remember those who could not just leave. Who had no where to go. Remember the children who have lost their mother at the hands of their father. Those whose mother was taken by an abusive boyfriend that she could not escape.
Remember.
posted by Syren
at 9:31 AM
