For most couples, pregnancy is a wonderful time when they become closer to the prospect of becoming parents and embarking on this amazing journey.
The word “No” doesn’t mean “convince me!" I just wish I lived by that saying. Today, I want to call 911 and tell them how my boyfriend has been using me as a slave instead of a girlfriend for three years. He beats me. He calls me ugly every time I put on makeup to hide the scars and bruises he leaves me with. He calls me a hoe even though I’m the one catching him, exterminating the term “fidelity” from his vocabulary. After he beats me, he always says, “I’m sorry, you know I love you,” but those words have lost meaning for the both of us. If he loves me, then what was the point of using me as a punching bag? Is a black eye supposed to resemble his love for my eyes? Is my broken nose supposed to say he thinks I’m beautiful? Is my beaten up face supposed to let people believe that he’s abusing me out of love? Abusing me didn’t make me love him more, it made me stop. He made me afraid of him and ashamed of myself.
You’ve finally managed to get the courage and support to leave your abusive partner. You think you can breathe again and start rebuilding your life. Think again. Immediately post separation is a very dangerous time for abused women. Your ex is now furious; you have escaped his control and left without his permission. He is desperate to get his control back. You belong to him and you have dared to think otherwise!
If you (or someone you know) are a survivor of or are experiencing domestic violence whether it be physical, mental, emotional, sexual, some, or all then you know how hard it was/is to actually leave. Everyone has their own reasoning—well excuses (I’m no exception, you’re about to read my excuses).
This story, and others like it, for that matter, is a hard one for me to tell. Namely because it involves divulging personal feelings surrounding people who've left a few scars emotionally, as I am the type of woman who has never wanted to give these types of people the time of day. However, in my healing process, I have found it necessary to call attention to these things in an effort to help women find (and keep) their own voice.
Before I begin, I want you to clearly understand that this isn’t about you.
This isn’t about you, because you’re not the only one. This isn’t about you, because you hardly left any scars on me. I do write about love, but sorry, you’re not worth a whole post.
A Letter to A Black Man
To Whom It May Concern:
Although, I don’t know where you are at in life of thought, I would like to say that I love you. And contrary to what may think about white society and who bares the actual burden, I would like to let you know how I feel.
My first week of college, I was raped. For the longest time, I could not bring myself to say that I was raped. I started off by denying that it had ever happened to me. Yet when I finally did begin to accept that it had happened, I could only call it sexual assault. I denied myself the reality of what had happened in order to protect myself, but it only hurt me more.
Many people dream of becoming a star one day. Whether that is to become a singer, model, CEO, Astronaut etc., we all have a moment. My moment started when I was just six years old, from the time I could remember I was happy; laughing, smiling, a bright little girl around family and friends. That light dimmed at the touch of my step grandfather. I never told my mom, family, friends, anybody. I sat with that pain for so long, acting out. I was angry, sad. I finally told my mother when I was 13 years old. She took me to the police, counseling... I had to draw out the picture of the things that took place. I remember seeing him standing in the bathroom door saying, “Come get in the shower.” Coming into the room, sitting at my bedside and licking my ear, rubbing my chest. I woke up and didn’t want to get out of bed. He and my grandmother were leaving. As they were walking out, he winked at me and smiled. I was never the same. At the age of 13, I was then again molested by my cousin until the age of 16 or 17. That was very hard for me. I didn’t tell anyone because I didn’t want my immediate family to go to jail, or worse. I finally told my mom at the age of 28, when I wrote it in a magazine article. I want to believe that I will get better, after holding things in for so long... feeling alone and broken. There has to be light at the end... right?
Being a woman, I wouldn’t trade it for the world!
Being a human being with a sensitive heart and kind spirit in a world full of energy-drainers, THAT I would definitely trade. Aliens, beam me up!
This is my story on suffering mental abuse in a relationship. I guess I will just start from the beginning. I met a guy in a time of my life where I felt I absolutely needed someone to be happy. I didn’t truly love myself or believe myself to be worthy, and jumped at any guy who came my way. This is when I started dating my first long-term boyfriend.
I LOVE female relationships. I love sleepover rituals of face masks & Love Island reruns, the unspoken solidarity of passing a tampon to a girl in a pub toilet.