More Than Once

More Than Once

He hit me. With his fists closed and my eyes open, he hit me. I sat there alone, crying out for help in inconspicuous little words typed letter by letter on my desktop computer. I entered a chatroom that evening. I entered the chatroom because I needed comforting words to occupy the silence. Fear can lack sound. I found someone to strike a conversation with. I described my feelings of detriment to this complete stranger. They were kind enough to stay with me. My husband [at the time] took our vehicle to go visit his mother. He was still in the process of getting his driver’s license renewed, so I was concerned about his whereabouts and his safety. I knew that if he were pulled over I would hear his voice on the other end of my phone, pleading for me to bail him out of jail. I also knew…I would have to hang up and call someone whom I’d be reluctant to share this humiliating news with, so they could give me a ride to the county detention center. Because if he were arrested while driving our car, our car would be towed and lost forever.

I had the AC on in the southern heat. I was cooled off from my recent shower. My shoulder-length brunette hair rested upon my shoulders and was partly tucked behind my ears. It was hot and I was thirsty. I also quenched the cold and fizzy texture of a beer sitting in our fridge. After several swallows, I was relaxed enough to be liberal with my online conversation. The beer burned my throat and stomach so I put two-thirds of it back in the refrigerator. I had the slight thought that he would be happy that I hadn’t drunk all of it. The bedroom lamp was on and I was beginning to feel relaxed and eased that evening. That feeling was interrupted with a large thud in front of our apartment complex. Not even three seconds beyond that disturbing sound, I heard my front door slam shut. I quickly turned my computer off and sat fearfully and patiently on the edge of our bed, waiting for him to enter the room. Our bedroom door swung open and before I could utter the word, “Hello”, he began to pummel me with his large fists.

He was over six feet tall and at least 200 lbs. of muscle. I was [and still am] five foot two inches of teddy bear fluff. All of the former training I had in defensive training could not help me at this moment. I covered my face with my forearms. I couldn’t even scream. He kept asking me why I called the police on him. My mind kept responding that I hadn’t. His fists pounded my head, my ribs, and my shoulders. It hurt…all over. He stopped momentarily to go to the bathroom and as he was walking towards our bathroom door, he was removing his t-shirt. Immediately I heard myself internally tell me to run. I ran. I ran towards our front door as fast as I could and prayed I was able to turn the doorknob quick enough to open it. All I kept thinking was…just make it outside. Make it outside the door.

I made it. I ran to our next-door neighbor and I screamed for help in loud piercing shrills. I banged on her front door and pounded with my fists until she opened it. She cracked open her door and I begged for her to call the police and to help me. She had fear in her eyes. She said ok and shut the door on me and I could see him running towards me out of my peripheral vision. I ran away from her door and continued to shriek through the dark and silent air. The only thing God heard that night, was the sound of my cries. I ran down from the apartment complex and I never looked behind me to see how close he was to capturing, and possibly killing me. I ran head onto a police car facing my direction. The officer rolled down his window and his partner asked me where I was going and what happened. They followed me back to my front door. We all could hear my ex-husband running through the woods adjacent to our complex. He ran away. He ran away like a coward. He wasn’t tough enough to face the police.

That night those officers were my angels. I never heard them coming down the street. It was as if God had them in his hand and just placed their car right in front of the direction I was running toward. They asked me if I wanted to press charges and I agreed to take action against him in court. First, I had a protection order filed against him. I then pressed charges against him for domestic battery. Additional moves were made for our divorce. I wanted him washed out of my life immediately. I called my mother. She came and picked me up from my home and helped me gather my things. The loud thud I heard outside of our apartment the night he attacked me, was my car hitting a tree outside of our front window. Luckily, the car only had a small scrape on it. It was a 1989 Chevy. When I was able to sit and talk to my mother about what happened, I explained the details, just as I have for you.

Over the years I’ve retold this traumatic experience more times than I could count. Each time the experience was retold with more and more bravery on my part. I was a champion in my own mind for women everywhere. Unlike so many other women, all it took was for me to be hit one time by my husband and I was out of the door! I left quickly, never looked back, filed criminal charges on him, and divorced him! But this version is not entirely true. There were other times. It did happen more than once. It began with verbal abuse and emotional abuse. He would order food for me when we went out. He begged me for sex several times a day. He watched my every move and made sure to accompany me everywhere.

Being naïve to this depth of a relationship ended up being my blindside. I was unable to see and understand that I was then, currently experiencing various forms of abuse. He worked his way into secluding me from my family. He made them seem to be my enemies and influenced me into believing they wouldn’t be there to support me. He even emotionally and physically separated me from my best friend. He poisoned the well of our friendship. In turn, I abandoned my friendship with her because I didn’t want my best friend to see me so weak and vulnerable. Part of our common bond was our strength and determination as young women.

This emotional and mental abuse I endured, started to take a turn towards physical manipulation. I remember sitting on the couch with him. We may have been watching a movie. My body was leaned back into his and he was holding me. Unexpectedly, he would begin tugging at my hair, gently pushing me off of him, or pinching me. I understood it to be a form of male bonding or rough love play. He was grooming me to become his victim. Why did it feel like he was tenderizing his prey? It was like he was tenderizing me so that I could be weak enough to rip apart at a later date.

The first major physical contact was the actual first time for me. The earlier attack that led to our divorce, was the second attack. We had a planting area near our back patio. I remember telling him that I wanted to plant fresh herbs in this area. I’m a sucker for sweet basil, lavender, and rosemary. A male family member came to our place to talk to him and help him fix the engine in my car. He didn’t have a problem with me leaving at that time because he was preoccupied with his company. So, I went to our local super grocery store’s garden center. I picked up my plants and decided to spend a little extra time looking at clothes, hygiene products, etc. at the store. Time slipped away from me. When I arrived home and pulled up I could see the glare in my ex-husband’s eyes. I got out of the car, said hello to his company, and entered the home with my plants. He walked in behind me and shut the door. His company remained outside the front door. I heard the door lock. I sat the plants on our dining room table. As soon as I sat the plants down, he slapped me across my face. He hit me so hard that I fell onto the floor and I felt the hot sting of his heavy hand across my face. He yelled at me and berated me with questions about why it took me so long just to get plants. I began to cry and plead my case of how I just went to get the plants and look at clothes.

He went back outside and I went into our bedroom to continue crying. I washed my face with cold water to help numb the stinging and burn on my skin. I wanted to die. Several weeks later when he was in a good mood, I told him that if he did that again to me that I would leave him. He grabbed my face and began to roughly kiss me and told me that if I left him he would kill me. Thank God he never had the chance. The second was the last. I kept my word. I kept my word to him and I kept my word to myself.

I can’t help but feel as though I let so many women down. These are the women that I personally know. I had to make this my confession to reveal just how vulnerable I have been. Sometimes I even felt like I had to keep this secret to myself because I didn’t want other men to think they could also abuse me. Part of my protection was being able to tell the next man how my ex-husband hit me once and I immediately had the police called on him and I had criminal charges pressed against him. In most cases, this half-confession persuaded them to not mistreat me. That’s what I would like to believe. But maybe it wasn’t my story. Maybe they didn’t have that nature within them. Most likely I learned how to perceive the signs and warnings of an abuser and I began to choose better mates. And they were better to some degree. For the ones who didn’t physically abuse me, womanizing came in as a close and present option.

My story, had I chosen to be honest in the beginning may have helped more victims of abuse. My story could have been more realistic to them and inspired them in a better way than my limited story has. In the end, I still came out of this abuse as a victor. A quote by Crissi Jami states, “To share your weakness is to make yourself vulnerable. To make yourself vulnerable is to show your strength”. I could only hope that from this confession forward, more women come forth in honesty and unfasten your cape, allow it to succumb to the stability of the world under you. Show us your beautiful vulnerability. Your cape has been removed…so the world can see the expansion of your wings.