Why I Stayed

At the end of the hype of the announcement of letting everyone know you have been a victim to domestic violence, the one question lingers: "why did you stay?" With the stigma that the abused is part of the problem for being a coward and staying.

Why?

Because psychologically, I was broken. It's easy to think, he hit you, leave. It would be that easy if that's all that happened. My abuser just didn't decide one day to hit me, like an accident. No. I was slowly broken down to the point of believing that violence was an accepting way of communication.

Thinking back now, I can see the obvious signs, because I know all the little tiny changes were leading to an ultimate doom even my closest friends couldn't predict. My abuser was used to stalking the night for that one broken girl with issues only a knight in shining armor could fix. Well, in the end, I wasn't broken and his armor was made of rust.

I was vulnerable. I basically gave him the recipe to my heart. He said all the right things at all the right times, he acted endearing, protecting, like he had never loved someone like me before. In the midst of my depression from my divorce, he came in like an angel sent just for me and took me away from all the bad. What I thought was a protecting move was really isolating me from my family by moving me across the country. That way, I only had him. He fed off everything negative and easily manipulated my mind into thinking he was the only one with good intentions. Even when I felt that feeling where you knew something wasn't right, I ignored it, because he "got me" and loved me unconditionally.

I was told he had a drinking problem from his family, which in the end was used as, "I told you so, so stop acting surprised." I find that irresponsibly upsetting. Because I was told he had a drinking problem, is the excuse that made all his wrong doings accountable. Bullshit. When I stopped drinking is when I started to wake up. Slowly, I looked at my fake life and realized how unhappy I really was. But his poison ran deep. The verbal abuse only lasted a short while until the first time he laid hands on me. "It was only a shove," he would later say, "and you slapped me first." That was how he manipulated me; he wasn't wrong, I did slap him first, which was wrong of me. A 100 pound girl slapping a 300 pound man isn't a green light to physically hurt anyone, but what did I know at the time? He would slither his way back into bed the next morning with his empty promises of changing, fake "I love you," and sharing half the blame with me.

The day would go on and I was forced to forget, because if I didn't, I was the one "beating a dead horse." I learned later why it was so easy for him to move on after a night of terror. He was so drunk, he didn't remember. While I crawled to the bathroom, licking my wounds, crying myself to sleep with the nightmare of him standing over me saying, "get up and stop being dramatic." I'd wake up some times and watch him snore on the living room couch. Drunk and disgusting. The hands that promised to protect me were the ones that hurt me. I'd be lying if I said I didn't look into the kitchen, scanning the room for something to help me get revenge. But in the end I just stood there, a broken, confused, weak, worthless girl who was accepting that this was her life now and she had nowhere else to go. You can be told something over and over, but until the day you actually believe it, see it for yourself, and accept that you were wrong, nothing will change. Obviously my friends and family wanted me away from him and knew he was hurting me. But until I decided I wasn't OK with it, I couldn't make a change. I started to get fearless; I don't know if it's because I was over it or because I wanted him to kill me. He'd get drunk and I would tell him no more drinks for the night. That look, which I knew was coming after saying that, was the look of death. His eyes would narrow as his eyebrows expressed, "who do you think you are," and he'd order another drink. I knew I was in for it, but I didn't care. I went through a grieving process of hating myself for that: why couldn't I just let it go? Why did I feel so compelled to set him off?

The night I really stood up for myself was the worst and last night he put his hands on me. He sat there behind me, slurring every word and making my blood boil. I lost it. I turned around and slapped him. He stared at me and I slapped him again. He stood up and grabbed my wrist, and I punched him with my other hand. He grabbed my neck and threw me through the door. I naturally lost my killing motivation and focused on my throbbing skull. His words of, "oh boo boo, get up, you baby," set me off again. I sprung up swinging. He grabbed me by the neck and crashed through the next door and landed on the bed. He let go for a moment and gave me the "stay in your place" look, and I punched him. His hands quickly returned to my neck and his grip was tighter than it had ever been.

I stared at him as my vision blurred and continued to kick and spit as I felt his grip loosen. I wheezed "just do it" as I gasped for air. I only had two thoughts in my head.

1. If he kills me, he will finally go to jail.
2. I wanted my mom.

He didn't kill me, and the night ended with me trying to apologize and beg for forgiveness from my wrongdoing. I was so psychologically manipulated, that I thought I needed him to love me. The next morning I wasn't the same. I was still brainwashed, but my core took over and went into survival mode. For the next six months, my hidden drive was to get away from him and out of the three miserable years I finally felt in control. I had to break the chains and start to reboot my manipulated mind. Even after getting away from him, it was hard not falling back into his scam. I never went back to him fully, but he could easily manipulate me still. And even when I cut off all communication he still lingered around the corner. The PTSD I've experienced made it hard to sleep peacefully at night and trust men. The after affects of my concussions have physically damaged my beautiful brain.

It's easy for people to send you "good vibes," "prayers," and "we are here for you" when you finally seek help. But in the end, their life moves on and you're still stuck with this traumatic event replaying in your head. When people started to doubt me or not understand, it was easy for me to take three steps back into his arms. When you are not the bones being crushed under your husband's hands, it's easy to say "leave." Until you go through it, you will never understand how just leaving is more complicated than you think.

Why I didn't leave? Because I allowed myself to be the easiest victim to the perfect monster.