I didn't even attempt this last year, but feel motivated to do so now. In addition to Breast Cancer Awareness (which I honored by participating in Race for the Cure, doing my monthly B.S.E., and scheduling a very long overdue Dr. appt. that will probably include 'mommy's first mammogram' given my age-oh goody!) October is also Domestice Violence Awareness month. I blog about this here and there, but when I write those words I often feel like I am more worried about impressing my reading audience than I am writing from my heart. So tonight, I'm going to try that instead. You see, this year has changed my perspective a lot from what it has been in years past. I hope I can share that eloquently and effectively with what I write here.
Any long-time reader of this blog will know that I am a domestic violence survivor. I am going to try and explain how that happened to me, how I escaped it, and what I had to do before I could truly recover from it. As it turns out, I wasn't the only victim-even though previous narratives have always been written that way:
When I was little, my parents felt like I wasn't very nice to my younger sister-born when I was five. So, they continually tried to put me in my place. My mom, in particular, relished this. She constantly told me how selfish I was, how mean, and how jealous. My younger sister Janet was dubbed her "sweet girl" and I was the "ice princess." I was 5! I didn't know what I was. But I didn't like myself very much by the time my next sister was born just before I turned 11. (I was very helpful with that new baby, and it was my younger sister's turn to get the ugly labels.)
Time went on, and mom made sure to point out to me how little I was developing compared to the other girls in my class. When all the friendship shifts of junior high came along, she made sure I understood the friends I lost were a direct result of my undesirable personality. It was also at about this time that she began oversharing WAY too much about what her life had been like as a teenager and later a college student. Apparently, she had a violent boyfriend at OU and I remember distinctly how she told me "You never know love until it has pushed you down a flight of stairs." It sounded insane to me even then, but I guess somewhere, somehow I internalized it.
I thought I was ugly, I thought I was underdeveloped, and I knew I was undesirable. The first time a boy noticed me, it was at a Rainbow/DeMolay dance; but he lived too far away for anything to come of it. The next one was a year ahead of me, but we were already tired of each other by the time school started. We were also friends with all the same people. It didn't make for a fun morning meet-up before the bell rang to start the day. We were a junior and a senior respectively, and I was glad he wasn't smart enough for Algebra 2; which was my first hour class. I started leaving our little morning huddle earlier and earlier each morning. And I guess that's how I met him. He was in my Algebra 2 class, he sat one seat up and one row over from me. My earlier arrivals allowed for just a bit more socializing time than other classes. We were both shy at first, but then one of my friends just had to see her boyfriend in Edmond. Her mom insisted that I go along, and after being the odd-gal out on the last date; desperation sunk in as Fall Break approached. Not wanting to be the 3rd wheel for four whole days of Edmond dates, I invited him along.
Even in the early days, he was aggressive. You wouldn't have thought it of him, had you seen him. On the surface we looked like the perfect pair, but underneath we never were. I was fairly innocent, he was not. He wanted to change me. I liked me the way I was. I had my best friend to back me up until he came between us. My other friends were younger, less threatening, and they stayed in the picture. He "needed" me, he said. He was lonely, tortured; my goodness could "save" him. In the end, I barely saved myself.
The relationship became physical before I was ready, I stayed with him to save face. I was in over my head and didn't know what to do. After all, he wanted and needed me when I thought no one else did. Without my best friend, I wasn't sure who else I could trust. My other friends were so young, I didn't want to scare them with how things really were. They thought we were happy. My mother always worried more about herself than her kids, and if she noticed I was miserable, it only made her happy. My Dad had finally gotten a job after his PhD and was busy building a career and paying off student loans. I didn't want to bother him. And if he really and truly "needed" me, who was I to leave him alone?
And sometimes...it wasn't bad to be with him. Sometimes he was funny. Sometimes we laughed. We saw good movies together. We read good books. We rode 4-wheelers. We dreamed about our futures. His home felt like one, mine didn't. His parents were sweet. His family was welcoming. He thought I was pretty when I thought no one ever would. He said I was sexy and I thought he was the only person in the world who noticed. And sometimes I wonder...if he hadn't pushed, if he hadn't coerced, if he hadn't said he was the only person in the world who would ever find me attractive, if he had let me have my own voice instead of a mirror of his, and if I hadn't lost my best friend and a lot of my trust in the world, maybe...but he did and I did and there was and is no changing it.
Another year passed. I spent some time away that next summer. First in Tucson, then at my grandmother's. It gave me a bit of perspective, but I missed him. He had isolated me so successfully I wasn't sure how to function on my own anymore. Grandma gave me a biography of Ted Bundy (a little extreme), Anne only heard the details that I wanted her to hear and was happy for me. I was glad to see him when I got home. Once school started, I began to question things, but ultimately decided I would stay with him because I was no longer "good enough" for anyone else. One friend challanged my take on that, dared to see HE thought I was pretty, and that I was a better person than I realized, and then he died shortly thereafter. I took it as a sign. The first time he raised a hand to me, it was because I was crying over that friend's death. The guy was dead and he was still jealous. It was a long time before I cried again over anything.
The rest of that year was numb...a "break" in the relationship over the summer brought joy, but no closure. We were back together and living together by the time we were college Freshmen. But then...it happened. Another weekend fight, another beating, all pretty commonplace by then. Only now, my younger friends were starting to notice and he was starting to get sloppy at hiding things. One night he was angry, too angry to drive...so I thought. I took his keys, I threw them at the roof. They landed there. He pushed me. I fell. In my mom's eyes, I "knew love." But all I knew that night was that my arm might be broken. And there was nothing to love about that at all. My mom was needed at the ER for insurance papers...she knew what was up and seemed OK with it, but the Dr. on duty didn't, and neither did Chris who drove us there. And slowly but surely over the next month, neither did I. And I wanted it no more.
In my moments alone I thought 'no more.' As I went about my day I breathed 'no more.' And on nights spent more often in my dorm room than at ihis place, my bedtime prayer was 'no more.' And as the days passed, I gained courage. I stopped thinking it, stopped breathing it, stopped praying it; and started saying it out loud. I started living my life out loud and out of his shadow. And so finally, just before Christmas and just over two years after that fateful Fall break; it was over. It wouldn't really be over for many years, and in some ways it will never be over. But he and I? We were over. Finding direction was hard, finding my own voice was harder; but I've never looked back at the end of things with regret-except that the end didn't come sooner. I am peaceful with the situation and hope that one day, I'll truly be at peace.
Author's Note: That used to be the end of the story, but in the last year, a new chapter has been written. After the big break-up, he and I have gone on the live in the same town. Big by population number, but still very small in who knows who. We've had contact on and off, mostly off by my choice. He saw that I had married, I saw that he had lost his great-grandmother. I sent flowers on my married-for-a-year-with-a-new-baby-budget, and the terse 'thank you' from his grandmother convinced me it was OK to be done with even that kind of correspondence. Eventually he married and I hoped it was for the best. It wasn't. Then, his dad died. His marriage failed, and one of the few mutual friends we had left suggested that maybe a few kind words from me might help him. Me? Help him? Why? And then I saw the big picture. I have spent years speaking out about the damage domestic violence did to me without ever once seeing him as human enough to be suffering for what he had done. She pointed out that as someone who had received some pretty big forgiveness herself, just maybe I could pay it forward. And she was right. And so, I did. I put off reaching out to him until I knew for sure that his wife had moved out, and then I knew that I just had to say something, to do something; I had no reason to be kind, but my heart was broken for him anyway. I knew what it was like to be forgiven, and to be forgiven for something bad; and I realized that I owed him the same. He responded and we corresponded briefly. I think we are both at peace now. At least I hope he is, and I know that I am.
I do, I have, and I always will speak out against domestic violence. But what I have realized in the last year is that the victims are not the only ones who hurt. Most of the time, the perpetrator does too. I'm not saying everyone who suffers from this type of abuse should run out and embrace his or her abuser, but they should forgive them and, if possible, let them know they are forgiven. In my case, it went a long way in fixing two of us. In any case, it will always be good for the one who offers the forgiveness. And that's what I have to say about domestic violence this year.
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