Yes, You Know a Domestic Violence Survivor

A friend of mine told me: "Being honest about our struggles makes it easier for others to seek recovery and healing." I shared this story on my other social media last week, but so many people encouraged me to share it more widely that I've decided to post it here in the hopes that other survivors will be empowered to speak out openly and to do my part to end the stigma surrounding #domesticviolence, #ptsd, and #recovery. If someone thinks less of me for my experiences with those things, well, that's on them. I've worked hard on all these issues for the last 10 years and I'm in a good place now. More to the point, if anyone out there needs someone to talk to about this, please reach out. It's not your fault. It happens to people from all walks of life. There is hope.

My story:

Exactly one week ago there was an awareness event called Purple Thursday. You’re supposed to wear purple for domestic violence awareness, which I did. No one asked me about it but that was OK. I didn’t really want to think about it. But I ended up falling into my past anyway just from it being Purple Thursday. I’m kind of pissed about that so I just started writing.?

I’m a domestic violence survivor. In 2012, I got into a relationship with someone I thought was a friend, someone I knew from my college days. At first things were really fun and intense. He really loved me. He wanted to talk to me and be with me all the time. But gradually he started getting jealous. Checking up on me. Accusing me of cheating. I figured he had been hurt in the past and tried to reassure him. He chilled out and things got better. He was really in love with me.?

Then they got worse. He started belittling me and cutting me down. Isolating me from my friends. I was a summer associate at a law firm and I took him to an event at a comedy club. He got completely intoxicated and viciously rude to people I worked with. That night was the first time he physically hurt me. Of course, he was very sorry afterward. You know, he had been abused as a child and he was terrified he’d lose me. At least, that’s what he said. I’d known him since we were kids. We had a special connection. I was the only person who really understood him.?

In October he was kicked out of his roommate situation and I felt bad so I invited him to move in with me. The violence escalated immediately. He began punching me hard enough to leave bruises. I showed him my face in the morning to get him to realize how he’d hurt me, but even as he looked right at my bruised lips, he told me it never happened because he’d never do something like that. I invested in some good concealer and forgave him. It was at the end of October that he first tried to strangle me.?

I was terrified, but he broke down crying afterward, talked about his abusive childhood, and threatened to kill himself if I broke up with him or told anyone. I didn’t want him to hurt himself. I had no interest in telling anyone because I was ashamed. It was probably my fault for hassling him so much. It was my fault he got so mad.

This is when my kids — both 16 at the time and living in the house —- started to get scared. They told me to break up with him. My son confided in my dad. But I still wanted to help my troubled, confused boyfriend. A lot of times he was really sweet. He brought me flowers. He wrote poems and songs for me. He told me he had never loved anyone like he loved me.?

The good times always gave way to the violence. And it kept getting worse. He was strangling me frequently now. Most of the time he remembered only to hit me where it wouldn’t show if I wore long sleeved shirts. He also convinced me that I, who’d been sober for almost 7 years, didn’t really have a problem with alcohol and I had made a big deal out of nothing. So I started drinking with him. He wanted me to. Maybe it would help. I started drinking to escape him.?

March 3, 2013 started with an argument. He didn’t like the fact that I was eating tortilla chips because “we” were supposed to be following the South Beach diet. The argument was laid aside for the day but relaunched in the evening. He punched me in the face repeatedly. I began crying and begging him to stop. He told me to shut up and covered my mouth so I couldn’t breathe. Then he put his hands around my neck and strangled me, hard. I definitely couldn’t scream or cry now. I kicked and struggled but he wouldn’t let go. Black spots appeared in front of my eyes and I got dizzy. The room was disappearing.?

My kids had heard the commotion and knew something was wrong. They ran to the bedroom and banged on the door, which he’d locked. He heard them and let me go because he was preparing to gaslight everyone. I ran over and opened the door. Their eyes were big and scared. I didn’t want them to worry. I tried to tell them everything was fine but this clearly wasn’t the case and my son hauled off and punched him in the eye. My daughter called the police.

The cops interviewed everyone separately. My kids and my stories all matched. My abuser decided to tell them that I was upset so he was hugging me. He was arrested and charged with a felony. His mugshot shows an amazing shiner where my son had punched him.?

I had to face my kids and tell them about my relapse. That was one of the hardest things I’ve done. I had broken their trust. It took a very long time to earn it back. I exposed them to this violence and that wasn’t fair. I had thought I could stop it. I didn’t know how to stop it.?

He ended up pleading the felony strangulation down to a misdemeanor and served 30 days on weekends only. The woman he had been cheating on me with paid for his lawyer. He lied to all of our mutual friends. A few believed me. Most believed him. One said “there are two sides to every story.”

I was so confused. Who was he? I obviously didn’t know him at all. I was trying to figure out what in the world had happened to me and reached out to some of his old girlfriends whom he’d deemed “crazy.” Turns out he’d abused them all too. I made friends with several of them. We aren’t crazy. We are all really nice, smart, accomplished women. I think he likes taking down women like that.?

I know he’s kept doing it because a couple years ago his name was in the paper in another state for a domestic violence charge. Because I wanted to know, I did a FOIA request and read the police report. He beat her, of course. He threw her into a wall and destroyed the drywall. He strangled her. He got out the guns that she stored in her basement and threatened to kill himself. The neighbors called the police.?

He got six months for that. I don’t know where he is now. She died about a year ago. I’m not sure what happened.

That’s my story. I thought domestic violence happened to other women. Not me. I was too smart and strong for that to ever happen to me. I was wrong.

I’ve learned a ton. I did counseling at the shelter and everything began to make sense. I haven’t had a drink since that day in March 2013, nearly ten years ago now. I’ve rebuilt my relationship with my kids. I’m married to a man who is gentle and kind. I’m in therapy for PTSD and am doing EMDR. It’s helped a lot. I still startle when my husband says "hi" when my back is turned, but I almost never break down crying because of that anymore. I don't jump into the car, lock the door, panic-breathe and bawl like I used to. It still happens once in awhile, but not nearly as often as it did. I'm not ashamed about my PTSD. It's not my fault I have it. It's a normal human response to being faced with a terrifying situation. It could happen to anyone. It could happen to you. And stuff's getting better for me. I’ve built a really good professional life for myself. I’m happy and my life is peaceful and stable.?

I try not to think about him. I don’t think about him every day anymore. I don’t know how I can ever forgive him even though Jesus said we’re supposed to forgive. When I feel that rage I send it to my Higher Power. It goes into God’s inbox. I say to myself it’s not up to me to forgive. That’s up to God. Giving it to God helps.?

Sometimes I have bad days. Today was hard. But I used to have bad years, so there’s that. Everyone knows someone affected by domestic violence. You know me.