Speaking Out Against Abuse

On Monday, one of my scholars was hosting an "Out Against Abuse" event in conjunction with her organization. It brought up thoughts of my painful history. I wish that I was brave enough to attend an event and speak out against abuse, to talk about my experience. After much consideration, I have decided to publish this entry to do just that - to speak out and help myself move past the pain and to help others who may stumble upon my blog. 

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Disclaimer
This post will be one of my most personal ones yet. I'm not writing it in some sort of "woe is me" way, nor am I writing this to bash the person for who I am referring. If the person for who I am referring happens to read this blog, I hope that he knows that this entry isn't about him, but rather the experience and pain. I wish him well in his life.

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I started dating my ex-boyfriend in the summer of 2003. The first abusive attack occurred in the spring of 2004 during my third year of college. I can still remember that night vividly. 

It was a Friday. Per the tradition of our organization, members were at Posse East for Friday B.E.E.R. On this particular Friday, I didn't want to spend too much time there because my "line" (my big, her big, her big) was going to see a movie, and I wanted to join them. I needed a ride home, and my boyfriend said he would finish his beer and then drop me off. That beer turned into another, which turned into another, which turned into another pitcher, which turned into another pitcher. My friends offered to pick me up, but I was worried about my boyfriend driving, so I decided to pass on the movie and drive him home.

Once I finally got him home, he was convinced that he was going out to a party. I told him that he was in no shape to drive anywhere and that maybe he should just go to sleep. He started yelling and calling me a bunch of names. I told him that if he really wanted to go to the party, then I would drive him. Again, more yelling and name-calling. I was holding his car keys and standing in front of his front door to keep him from driving. He kept trying to push me out of the way and grab his keys. I knew he was in no condition to drive, and if something happened to him, I would never forgive myself. So I stood strong. I could see a change in his face as he realized I wasn't going anywhere. It became a game for him - how hard could he push me and how many awful things could he yell in my face before I gave in.

After nearly 20 minutes of yelling and pushing, he finally grabbed me underneath my left arm, jerked me from the door, and flung me across his living room. As soon as he let go, I knew I was in pain. He drunkenly drove me home, yelling at me the whole way as I cried in pain, and then sped off to his party. I ran into my bedroom and pulled off my shirt to see the damage - sure enough, there was a massive black/blue/purple bruise that was quickly spreading on the jiggly part of my arm. I tried to cover it when I dressed, but even t-shirts couldn't hide it when I lifted my arm. A few nights later, a bunch of us were playing poker; I lifted my arms to put my hair in a ponytail, and someone questioned me about the bruise. "Oh, I just fell down."

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And there it was... the first of many lies to hide the truth.

I should have stopped seeing him at that moment, but I didn't. I was so hurt and confused - this wasn't the guy I loved. He did it because he was drunk, but that's not the guy he really was. It won't happen again.

And there that was... the first of many times I should have left and not looked back but convinced myself that it wouldn't happen again.

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As we continued dating, the attacks became more frequent and grew in intensity and violence. While lying next to him on the bed, he would kick and push me off the bed. If I tried to get back up, he would again kick and push me off. He would fling his arm over and continually whack me in the chest, the stomach, my face. He would hit me over and over again on the head while yelling, "What, are you stupid?" I was pulled around rooms by my hair. I was thrown against walls. At times, he would get off the bed and while I was recovering from one hit, he would go to his door, run towards the bed, and then fall on me with his arm around my neck or his elbow in my stomach. It's no surprise that he watched WWE religiously every Monday night.

Then there were the attacks that I really thought I might die. He would lunge for me and wrap his hands around my neck in a chokehold to where I couldn't breathe. I would struggle to get out of his grasp but that would make him press harder. Many times I considered playing dead just so that he would stop. When he finally did release me, I would lie there, struggling to catch my breath. I often had bruises and fingerprints on my neck and chest area. Nobody knew because I covered them up with make-up. Yes, I became that girl.

There were days that he would grab a kitchen knife and chase after me, threatening to kill me and himself. Despite the threat, I couldn't leave. I wish I could say why that was, but I have no idea. Part of me was afraid that if I left, he would harm himself and then I would feel guilty - that I knew he was going to do it and could have prevented it, but I left instead.

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The final attack occurred in September 2005. Once again, I remember that day vividly.

It was a Friday, so as usual, we were at Posse East for Friday B.E.E.R. On this particular Friday, my boyfriend's friends were in town, as they evacuated Houston in anticipation of Hurricane Rita. I enjoyed hanging out with his friends; they were all fun and always so nice to me. But that day I didn't feel like hanging out. I had been in classes all day, followed by work on campus. That semester I was taking a full load of classes, in addition to working three jobs. It was a rare night that I didn't have to go to one of my night jobs. I was exhausted and just wanted to go to sleep.

I told my boyfriend that I would take the Far West bus back to my apartment so that he could stay with his friends. He said they were going back to his apartment so they would drop me off. As we departed Posse East, they decided they were hungry and wanted to stop for food. I wasn't very happy because I could have been home by then had I taken the bus. I wasn't hungry, so I didn't order anything. Apparently that was me being rude. The name-calling began again, and I was determined not to put up with it. I asked his friend for the car keys so I could get my backpack and walk back to campus to catch the bus. The friends decided to take their food to-go so that I could get home.

The entire drive from the campus area to Far West was filled with death stares from my boyfriend and his constant muttering that I was a bitch, that we were done, that he was going to go out that night and hook up with a girl. I ignored him. When we arrived at his apartment, his friends quickly went inside. I wanted to go apologize and tell them bye and that maybe I would see them the next day at lunch. But my boyfriend wasn't having that, as he stood firm to block my way. 

I asked that he sit down and said that if we were going to break up, then we would break up right then and there... that he couldn't drunkenly say it like he always did. I knew we needed to end things, but for some reason I didn't want it to end the way it would have if I had just left.

My hand was touching his in an effort to keep him calm, which he didn't like. He didn't want to be touched. My attempt to have a peaceful breakup went downhill quickly. I was pushed down the stairs. When I stood up, he kicked me in the stomach. I was pushed against the side of the wall and placed in a chokehold. As I tried to run away, I was hit in the back and was pulled by my hair and shirt, causing it to rip. I yelled for help, yet nobody came.

I finally pushed by him and ran into his apartment, hoping his friends would save me. They all looked away, not wanting to interfere. My boyfriend stormed in and pushed me down the hall to his bedroom. He slammed the door and proceeded to continue the beating. More pulling of my hair, being flung across his bedroom, hit in the stomach, choked against the wall.

And then it stopped. I ran past his friends, said bye, ran down the stairs, picked my backpack up off the ground, and ran through his complex and across the street to my apartment. 

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Growing up, I would yell at the t.v. when girls were in abusive relationships. "Geez, how stupid are they. I will never be that girl," I would say. I was a strong, independent girl who wouldn't put up with that kind of relationship.

As people are reading this, I'm sure they're wondering how I could stay in the relationship. I'm sure they're thinking the same thing I once did, "Geez, how stupid is she. I will never be that girl." All I can say is that you don't know how you're going to really react until you're in the same situation. 

I loved him. When he wasn't abusive, we would more times than not have a great time together. All of the attacks would come after drinking, so I thought he needed help. If I were to just leave him, he wouldn't get the help he truly needed. 

This will sound strange, but I think that if he never hits another girl, then I did help him. Yes, it was at my own expense. But I'm saving someone else from the pain I went through.

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I have two nieces both embarking on their teenage years. I have twin nieces that will be born in August. The thought of one day their boyfriends hitting them makes me sick to my stomach. I hope that I can be strong enough to talk to them about my experience. I think it would make a bigger impact coming from me than some PSA on t.v.

But first I have to find the strength to be able to talk openly about my experience. I'm hoping that writing this all out will help me in that way. It is all finally out there for everyone to read. The weight of my painful past is now partially off my shoulders. I will never forget what happened to me, but I would like to turn the experience into something good and help others.

For the most part, I have moved past this. That part of my life is now behind closed doors. But I will always carry the experience with me. My hope is to finally be rid of the pain because even now, six years later, it hurts so much to read the words that I have typed.

To those who find themselves in an abusive relationship, get out! I know it's easy for me to say that now. But trust me, it's best to get out early on before things get worse. I was lucky; like I said, there were days I thought he might kill me. Some people might not have that same luck. But most of all, long after the physical bruises have faded, the emotional ones remain.