My daughters noticed them first. “What are those, Mama?” Circling my upper arm were five small fingertip-sized bruises, remnants of the argument from the night before. He had scared me and grabbed me and forced himself on me, but, I told myself, he hadn’t hit me.
My head was often tender from being banged against a wall. My hip sported a large bruise and it hurt to walk after he shoved me hard to the ground. My back bled from a cut I received during a struggle. But, I told myself, it was just a small cut. He wasn’t violent, right? He didn’t hit me.
My husband’s rages increased in frequency and lasted for hours. His nose would touch mine as he screamed profanities in my face. He threw things, punched walls, and spit on me. He threw things, punched walls, and spit on me. I lay still and silent and scared beneath him as his heavy hands found their way to my throat during sex. “It’ll turn you on if you can’t breathe,” he said as he squeezed.
These were his favorite things to say: I was worthless garbage, a whore, a waste, a piece of trash, so terrible in bed that no man would ever want to touch me, a c*nt. My husband told me that I was such a nightmare that he’d have to kill himself to get away from me. Then, as I began to grow depressed, he worked on convincing me that I needed to kill my own self.
The verbal and physical acts of aggression typically started once the kids were in bed and last long into the night, causing me to sleep less and less. I began to find places to hide myself when I knew he was going to be home. At first I chose our walk-in closet. I’d stock it with water and snacks, pillows and blankets, and sleep in there at night. Eventually, my husband took to sitting outside the door, calling me names and yelling at me. Then he started forcing his way inside, where I’d get injured in the scuffle. The closet was no longer safe.
I began leaving the house. I’d drive all night long, from TN to GA or KY. Sometimes I’d stop and take naps at rest stops, hospitals or in a Walmart parking lot.
If I wasn’t driving all night, I was walking. The world is a different place under the covering of night, quite beautiful and serene. The moonlight bounces off the fallen leaves on the ground and makes them glow. I’d wander through the park, hike in the hills, maybe find a comforting cluster of bushes I could curl up behind if I needed to sleep a bit. Imagine, a grown woman sleeping in the bushes. But I was safe!
I’d be out all night and arrive back home in enough time to take care of my kids, clean up, and make it to work on time for my job as an office manager. My boss, co-workers and clients never had an inkling of what was going on at home; they never suspected I was living off so little sleep and so much fear. It’s amazing how good you get at hiding things; it’s how you stay safe.
I developed health issues. I couldn’t keep food down and my weight plummeted. I was exhausted. I grew depressed. I approached my husband with my concerns and asked for help. His “help” was to begin a campaign to convince me to kill myself. I will never forget the first time this man, whom I loved dearly, looked me straight in the eye and very calmly and matter-of-factly stated, “Why are you still breathing? You’re nothing but trash. You should be dead. You need to kill yourself.” He fully meant what he said, and I was devastated. As the months passed and he continued to say this, the concept became absolute truth in my mind. He was right; I should be dead. Therefore, I took the pills he gave me, found my own, and planned my foul-proof suicide, for by that point I would have agreed to do anything if he would only stop hurting me.
I don’t know that I ever would have left him on my own. I did not recognize the violence for what it was, and I was too ashamed to tell anyone what was going on. I’d suffered much worse physical violence in my childhood and in previous relationships. My husband was better because he didn’t hit me, remember? It took a gun-related incident to encourage him to move out. After he left, I went to a counselor and begged for help – I wanted to know what I needed to do to be a better wife so he’d come back and not be so angry with me. Thankfully, the counselor helped me realize that him leaving was a blessing.
I had no idea how physically and emotionally sick I’d gotten until my husband was out of my life. It was amazing how quickly things changed. The suicidal thoughts vanished. The depression was gone as if it had never been there. I began sleeping and was able to eat without throwing up. As I babied myself, my health began to come back.
In the years since my ex has been gone, he has left us alone – he hasn’t even seen the kids. The divorce was finalized quickly and was surprisingly drama-free. I threw myself into self-care and into making sure my family remained intact. My kids are homeschooled, heavily involved in sports, and are doing wonderful. We are a close and happy family. I’ve deepened my relationships with my best friends and opened myself up to making new ones, including men. Having male friends has been challenging at times because of my experiences, but ultimately these men have made valuable contributions to my healing.
I struggle with PTSD, but with counseling it has gotten so much better and is very manageable. Currently I am participating in EMDR therapy to see if that will further lessen my PTSD triggers. For instance, I am 37 years old and have lived at 11 different addresses. I recently realized that EVERY home I have ever lived in was riddled with physical and/or sexual violence. The lesson learned after 37 years is “Home is not a safe place.” Even though my husband is long-gone, I am still incredibly frightened to be in my own house when I feel upset and default to wandering in the park in the middle of the night so I can feel safe. I am confident the EMDR will lessen this fear.
Throughout this incredible journey, I have discovered that I am strong and beautiful, courageous and glorious. I’ve also discovered that life is very, very good and I believe we have an obligation to live our lives fully on behalf of those who cannot. Therefore, I make sure to get together with friends and family and value my time with them. I push myself to step out of my comfort zone and try new things. I seek to learn who I am and be a better version of myself. I am pursuing my goals of being a photographer. I also found I have a gift for ballroom dancing and it has become my passion. Dancing has made a tremendous impact on me both as a source of joy and a source of healing. I can feel the effects of trauma leaving my body as I dance, and the better I get at it, the more whole and complete I feel.
If you are a victim of domestic violence, I am here to tell that there is another path you can follow that does not include violence and fear. I am evidence of that. Recently I was able to lace up my shoes and go running again. My kids and I have peace. I laugh, and I laugh, and I laugh. I am filled with the joy of the Lord, for I am now free!
photograph by Scott Walker | These Hands Photographic Project
