He was a senior. I was a freshman.
He was everything I thought I wanted. He was tall, handsome, smart, and funny.
He said the things I wanted to hear; he promised me forever, with a big house, and four kids, who I could stay home with while he worked to provide for us. At fourteen, it was a fairy tale.
He didn’t let me talk to other guys, but that didn’t matter to me, because I believed him when he told me that he was the only man I needed in my life. As he told me once, after seeing me hug one of my best friends (a boy), “The next time you touch another man, besides your dad and your brother, will be at our wedding, and it will be to shake his hand and thank him for coming.”
He quickly drove a wedge between me and almost every one of my friends, male and female alike. Instead of spending our free period with all of our friends, we spent it together in secluded corners of the school, having intense conversations about our future together. In our minds, we lived in a world where nothing mattered but our relationship.
One day, we went to lunch with his best friend. He told an offensive joke, and I play-slapped his hand. It was barely a tap; it wouldn’t have hurt anyone.
He didn’t pause. He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t think it over. He just slapped me, hard, in the face. I was in shock, and my ears were ringing, but I remember hearing his friend say, “I cannot believe you just hit her.”
My mother was an advocate and case worker for victims of domestic violence. She was (and still is) married to my father, whom I had never even seen lose his temper. But for some reason I just accepted it.
I also made no protests the time he punched me in the shoulder in the school stairwell, for reasons I can’t even remember.
And I didn’t question him the time he picked me up and slammed me against his truck, then dropped me on the pavement because I teased him about something he said.
Not one time that he hit me did I stand up for myself. Only once did he acknowledge, to my face, that he had really messed up. All the other times, he bought me a Sprite, a toffee nut cream Frappuccino, or a pink carnation. He would hide it in my locker. Then I would find it, thank him for it, and we would never mention it again.
The relationship lasted an indescribably intense six months, during which I began to self-harm, because I felt I had no other outlet for all the angst and turmoil inside of me. When he found the fourteen straight-edged cuts on my wrist, his eyes filled up with tears. All he said was, “I forgive you.”
We looked at every trial in our relationship as a “growing experience” that would make us closer, and more independent as a couple. We cried together, a lot, and thought it was healthy. My parents didn’t approve of us dating, so every time I stood up to them on our behalf, it just made us “stronger” and more determined to stay together.
Meanwhile, he continued to hit me and slam me into walls for everything I said or did that he didn’t like.
On Friday, March 18, 2005, he sexually assaulted me. Being the master of manipulation he was, it only took a little bit of sweet talking to convince me I wanted it, even though my broken zipper and missing blouse buttons begged to differ.
That day marked the end of our relationship, but it didn’t stop me from wanting to be with him. He strung me along for months upon months after we broke up. Even after he met the woman who is now his wife, he continued to contact me on a regular basis. Twice, he cheated on her with me. He called me on several holidays while he was dating her, to tell me that the winter always reminded him of me. Tearfully, he asked me on New Year’s Eve, 2005 – 2006, “Why did I ever let you go?” He gave me hope for two years, and I couldn’t move on. Although I could admit, as time passed, that the things he did to me were not acceptable, there was not a single person who could have talked me out of my feelings.
When I was a freshman in college, working in a restaurant on campus, I met a girl in a relationship with a man much older than her. When she got candid with me and with our coworkers, she said enough to give it away; he was abusing her. Everyone we worked with told her to leave him, but her reaction was always to shrug, blush, and shake her head. I couldn’t let a girl as sweet as her get pushed around like I had been. I asked her if we could get coffee and talk.
I called my mom for a couple pointers from her days at the Safe House, but for the most part, I had no idea what I was doing as I walked into Starbucks that day. So I did what I do best–I talked. I talked for over three full hours. I told her my story. I told her about the way my feelings for him stuck around, even when I knew what he did to me was absolutely inexcusable. It was like reliving the worst days of my life. I got choked up. I fidgeted. My palms were slick with sweat. I stared at my feet and out the window. I repeated myself. I swirled my iced coffee around and around in the clear plastic cup. I said everything I could, and then some, explaining to her that I really did know what she was going through. That I knew I couldn’t talk her into leaving him. Nobody could.
At the end of our talk, I handed her a piece of printer paper, filled with copy-and-pasted names and phone numbers for local resources offered to women in abusive relationships. I begged her to hide it from her boyfriend and not tell him about our conversation, but more than that, I begged her not to get rid of that paper.
A few months passed, and I was sure everything I had said that day had fallen on ears that were simply deaf to every voice but his. I knew the feeling far too well. But one day, out of nowhere, I received a message from her. It was a short, simple message, in which she thanked me for taking the time to talk to her, and credited me for being the person who “changed her life.” I was speechless.
Through Facebook messages and late-night, broken-hearted text messages, I did my best to help her through the dissolution of her relationship. They are finally not together, and not in contact with each other.
It’s far too late for me to seek any kind of justice to be done to my abuser. I have to hide my identity and censor the details I reveal in order to avoid being accused of defamation of character, even though I was the one who used to get beaten. This doesn’t have to be the case for you, and it doesn’t have to be the case for anyone you know.
If my relationship sounds familiar, I pray you find a friend to confide in and lean on; someone who can help you find a way out of your situation.
If you, like me, are watching a relationship like this move further and further into the past, while the memories remain as vivid, and the scars remain as deep, and the baggage remains as heavy as the day you acquired them, I beg of you, speak up. You have no idea the power of your story until you share it with someone who needs to hear it.
-Anonymous.
If you are someone you know is in an abusive relationship, know you aren’t alone, and they are people waiting to help you.
Thank you for sharing this. I am a third-generation (as far as I know) relationship-abuse survivor. I learned a lot earlier than those before me how to fight back as I watched those that were suppose to protect me having to protect themselves and REMAINING in dangerous situations. Even though I knew first hard how wrong that sort of relationship was, I told myself that mine were different because I fought back. It was mutual so it was different. It wasn’t until the day I stopped fighting that I became scared. Scared of myself and scared for myself. I left that lifestyle, as in over 250 miles away in a very large, different city. It took me years, but I learned to live my life for myself. I learned what a real relationship is and insisted upon it whenever meeting someone. The only man that could live with my terms took years to find but I did and we’ve been happily married for 7 years. I know am working towards a degree and license that will let me work on multiple levels with youths raised similarly to myself. Those that share these sorts of traumatic experiences feel compelled to help others get out and stay out of them. It’s a special club that many of us wish we didn’t belong to but none-the-less are stronger for. Again, thank you for sharing your story.
I told myself that it wasn’t abuse because he didn’t ever hit me. He just made me feel worthless, ugly, stupid and alone with his words. He lied, he cheated, he controlled, he manipulated, but since he never hit me, it was just objectionable behavior. *wry smile*
Oh, and thank you for sharing this. I know how hard it is to talk about this sort of thing. I never do.
Great story!
Great story. The tough things we’ve been through can really help others….if we are willing to tell our stories. I’ve been through so much abuse by so many people and I do beleive my stories have helped others. Thank you for telling your story. We all need to tell our stories.
Thank you so much for sharing this story. My hope is that someone who needs to read this finds it before it’s too late for them. I wish my 20 year old cousin had someone like you in her life, before she was killed at the hands of her abuser. Your message is so important to young girls. I’ll be sharing your post every way I can.
I read this and I think about my daughter and I cringe. I’m very thankful that I’ve never had to experience this, but I’m so scared someone will do something like this to her. I wish I knew a way to prevent it.
I had a ‘but he doesn’t hit me, so it’s ok’ relationship. Twice. With two different men. Looking back I’m embarrassed by how I stayed and put up with the horrible comments, controlling rules, and occasional guilt induced intimate moments. “If you really loved me…”
Thank you for writing this. The more we talk about it the less stigma there will be and maybe our daughters will know they don’t have to stay.
Less stigma is the key. you hit the nail on the head with that statement. There’s a stigma to talking about traumas. Rooms become silent and the crickets are cued when someone mentions past abuse or violence. I know it’s a sore subject but it should be talked about. 1 out of every 4 women in the country have experienced sexual trauma of some sort within their lifetimes and only about 10% will EVER talk about it. Physical, emotional, and mental abuse are no less prevalent, an STILL no one talks. We NEED to talk. Knowledge is power, people, the more we know of each other and how to help, the more power we have against the abusers and attackers!
Sorry, a bit of rant. I’ll step down from the soap box now and give someone else a turn. Thank you everyone who had commented and shared on this blog. It’s enlightening and uplifting to see so many speaking out!
Thank you for sharing this story. It speaks volumes of the type of person you are and how strong you truly are. I pray that someone in this situation finds the story and gets the help that he or she truly needs.
http://violenceunsilenced.com
Thank You
So much of this is familiar to me. At 14, I started dating a 19 year old senior. He was the first boy to pay attention to me, and was nothing but sweet for the first month or two. Then he started telling me that my friends were all talking about me, and made snide remarks about how ‘lame’ the people I liked were. After a while I started believing him and stopped talking to everyone but him. Once I was disconnected from my friends and family (my parents tried to keep me away from him, but I would sneak out to see him) he started ‘roughhousing’ with me. He’d pin my arms behind my back so hard that I would be yelling for him to stop. He would tell me to try to block while he came at me with kicks and punches, or would hit my pelvic bone as hard as he could and then laugh it off when I would cry from the pain. I couldn’t be mad because he was just kidding… Soon he was telling me that he had people watching my every move. He would call me and say he knew who I’d f&#$ed the night before and call me a slut just to have me cry and beg him to forgive me even though I didn’t do any of the crazy things he accused me of. And then, of course, was the sex. I was too afraid to say more than a half hearted ‘no’. So it happened. And it was painful. And afterwards he would mock me because I would ask him to use a condom. For years afterward, if I would run into him (small town) he would call me the Safety Girl and laugh with his friends. This was 15 years ago. Every few years he tries to contact me. He tells me it’s easy to find me, that he thinks by now I should’ve gotten over being mad at him. He sent me letters from prison. I wish I had been the one to put him there. Unfortunately, my inaction made it possible for him to father two little girls and sexually assault and beat them. I don’t know that I’ll ever forgive myself for that. It’s so hard to speak out. My family STILL doesn’t know. Just my incredible husband and closest friend. Even after all the years of therapy, I feel shame. I hope that someday we’ll find a way of teaching our girls to expect more from men that really sinks in. I hope we can find a way to remove the shame and stigma if something like this does happen.
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