At the age of 37 I can look back and be grateful that I am a survivor. At 32, when I finally divorced my husband I had spent nearly my entire life enthralled in domestic violence. As a young child my earliest memories involve being a witness. From about the age of 9, I was a victim. Out of the 23 years I languished as a victim, 16 of those were spent with my ex husband.The very first time he put hands on me we were sixteen. He choked me in the bathroom of his grandmother’s basement. At the time that action was wrapped up in a convoluted idea of how much he cared for me. Having grown up in and around such violence, even though it registered as wrong, I still told myself it was okay.
Our relationship was wrought with warning signs that I knew nothing about. He was controlling, the clothing I wore, where I went, who I hung out with and where; all things he had his hand in. Even when I went places without his knowledge he would report back me to me with where I went and what I wore. I thought he was looking out for me, but in actuality I was being stalked. To this day there are very few places I can go or things I can do that he won’t tell me about. He was also irrational and jealous. My male friends were off limits, and my female friends were all subject to approval.
My first major beating occurred when our daughter was about 6 months old just before Christmas. I came home to find another woman in the apartment we shared. I had spent the night before at my mother’s house washing laundry. I decided that day that I wanted to leave. I was embarrassed and ashamed. Initially I had gotten back into my mother’s car to go back to her house. On a whim I had her turn around so that I could retrieve my baby’s belongings. While I was in the process of getting her things he came home. He immediately went to the car in an effort to get the baby out. I had my mother lock the doors and that was enough to set him off because he was no longer in control of the situation. He drug me upstairs by my neck and forced me into his bedroom where he pulled out a gun and held it to my face.
As I stood there completely terrified, the other woman walked in, saw us and smirked as she walked out. I don’t know if she was nervous or she found it amusing but either way I have never forgotten the look on her face. He proceeded to hold me against my will for the next several hours, at one point moving me to one of his friends apartments close by where he proceeded to beat and choke me, tearing my clothes and ripping more than half of my hair clean off the scalp.
When I finally was able to escape and made my way home I was exhausted and afraid. I remember asking my mom what should I do and she said it was up to me to decide. I chose to call the police.
Within the hour the officers came and took pictures along with my statement. They also made an attempt to make contact with him. Over the course of the next few days charges were formally filed and an arrest warrant was issued. Not too long after the harassment and the threats started. He threatened me, the kids, my mother, any and everything that held value in my life. He also apologized and promised things would be different. This series of events was a pivotal moment in the course of our relationship. Everywhere that I turned and reached out for advice there was none.
I searched for the answers I needed, but had no idea where to find them. My prayers seemed to be going unanswered and I was lost. Eventually I caved and recanted my story to the DA’s office in a long methodical series of lies to explain every injury and the ‘true’ reason I called the police. All the while he hid out at the other woman’s house only semi-confirming to me the humor she probably found in it. I moved out of his apartment and got my own, but because of the children never fully separated myself. I continued to be a victim to him despite being independent. He still controlled my life and my finances from a distance.
Shortly after I moved out the power was shut off because he wasn’t actively employed or job seeking. He called my job repeatedly blaming me, cursing and yelling at me until I was sent home crying. When I returned to work I was released from my position. Over the next 2 years I would continue to pay his rent, and other bills despite having my own. I lived in constant fear of him, him hitting me, him leaving me, and accepted his version of who I was and why no one else would ever love me. In my mind I was convinced that he was right I would only find someone that would treat me worse. When I became pregnant in 2001, he told me I would be having an abortion. I did not want to have another one. Just 3 years before he had forced me into an abortion. This time I promised myself it would be different.
I avoided him, and the issue as much as possible. When I was about 10 weeks he came to my house and very matter of factly let me know that I would either have the abortion or he would kick the baby until it was out of my stomach. I had an abortion the following week. I was so ashamed I lied and told everyone I had another miscarriage. Over the course of our relationship he would force me into 3 abortions, and intermingled with those I would also have 4 miscarriages. I tried various forms of birth control to no avail.
By 2002, I could no longer afford the burden of two households and we moved in together once again. It had been a while since he had physically put his hands on me, so I figured I could endure the cheating, and being degraded so my children could have their father. I was also convinced that this was what love was going to look like for me. Within months of moving back in together the physical abuse resurfaced. I found myself working more and more so that I could avoid being home with him, and so that I could cover his extensive spending habits. He kept my debit card in his wallet, and would use it at will often times drawing my bank account into a negative.
On one particular evening after he came home late from drinking I was crying and generally depressed. I proceeded to tell him that he didn’t love me. I no longer believed people who loved you treated you this way. He proceeded to beat me in the kitchen, swelling my face, bruising my ribs and choking me all the while angry because I had the audacity to say that he didn’t love me. I can still remember the anger in his voice while he was choking me almost mockingly saying ‘oh I don’t love you?’ The next day when the children questioned my bruises I made up a story about something. I had learned to create various lies for my children as to how I got this or that bruise. It wasn’t until after I left him that I learned they were smarter than I gave them credit for and knew the truth.
Despite my newfound understanding that I wasn’t loved or respected I stayed in the relationship. I grew up without my dad so I felt it was a necessity for them to have him around. I still thoroughly believed that it would not under any circumstances get better for me. That no other man would love or want me. He had instilled fear in me that if I left he would take my children from me, and he would make sure that they hated me. Or worse that he would kill us all. He had already showed me that he could affect my ability to provide for myself and my children by costing me a job. I felt trapped and I resigned to just make the best of my shit situation. In 2008, after the birth of our third child we were married.
By the winter of 2010, I reached an unprecedented level of depression and asked for a separation, and begged him to go to counseling. I truly felt that because I made the commitment of marriage that I needed to work through the issues that were a long standing part of our relationship. He refused, instead he asked me if I was asking for an open relationship and proceeded to start an affair openly with a family friend. We went back and forth over it until March of 2011 when I officially filed for divorce.
At this point I’m sure you’re wondering why didn’t I leave before? Where did this resolve come from? What changed in my mind? All I can say is nothing much changed except the fact that I was no longer afraid to die. When I filed for divorce I figured one of three things would happen: 1. He would kill me, 2. I would kill myself or 3. I would actually get a divorce; and I was fine with all of these outcomes. During the course of the process from the divorce filing to it actually being granted, my life was threatened, the lives of my friends and family were threatened because they were believed to be the cause of my decision, and everything got worse. He became more controlling and unpredictable in his behavior. So much so that at one point my job provided extra security for me during my shift. About half way through our divorce, after being raped, I was prepared to commit suicide. I just knew I would never be free.
I took a leave of absence from work and started seeing a therapist as well as taking anti-depressants. Both of which were good and bad decisions for me. The antidepressants actually just increased my depression. I stopped eating and stayed in the bed for days at a time. I had no will or desire to get up and even try at life. Finally after about 3 weeks I refused to take them. My doctor insisted they just needed more time and that I needed a larger dose, but I couldn’t see how more of the same would make the problem better. There are some people that these medications may be affective for, I just am not one of them.
I saw three different therapists before I found one that understood and was helpful to me with working through this process. My ex in an attempt to manipulate me attended a few couples session with me as well. Therapy was a life saving and life changing choice for me. Through my therapy session I was able to determine why it was so easy for me to accept the type of relationship I had. I was able to get a more in depth understanding of how the abuse I witnessed, in addition to the abuse I endured as a child had attributed to my easily being a victim.
Through my sessions with her I was able to reckon with myself, my situation and my past. I was able to come to the sad understanding that I will have to one day also reckon with the fruitless seeds I had planted for my children. I, unlike a lot of domestic violence victims, was essentially able to walk away from my marriage. That in itself is a miracle. I didn’t make a clean break though. I brought baggage with me and potentially some life long issues in PTSD and Anxiety. For the first 2 years after we divorced I was terrified he was going to come and kill me. I had night terrors, and my son was not able to wake me up out of my sleep by touching me because of the associated fear. I couldn’t be around him for long periods of time or even consecutive days without having an increase in the number and intensity of those night terrors. Even now five years later when I notice certain patterns in his behavior it causes me to feel anxious.
My relationship with my ex-husband was a climbing vine slowly strangling the life out of me and everything I loved. Five years later I am not the same woman. I have made a commitment to myself to never live in fear of any man again. I have also made a commitment to ensure that my girls, and others as well know the signs, and understand that there is help and hope out there. It is not an easy road, and there are many challenges including how DV victims are treated/viewed in the eyes of the law, but it is so worth the journey. Through therapy I was finally able to dig up the roots of the pain in my life, and plant self actualization, love and worth in its place.
Originally Published 10/5/16
Letting go of things has always been either extremely easy or difficult with no real in between. The one element that has always made it hard for me to let go is my desire to keep my word, which sometimes dissolves into loyalty. Loyalty, that at times was often misdirected and one-sided. Despite the anguish and turmoil of my marriage I remained loyal and committed until, to my detriment, I became suicidal. I also maintained friendships, and even employment in amidst unacceptable treatment and circumstances.