Survivors Rising - Hope and Healing: Inspirational Stories Written by Domestic Violence Survivors

Copyright 2018 by Survivors Rising. 778750

ISBN: Softcover 978-1-9845-2688-5

EBook 978-1-9845-2687-8

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Rev. date: 05/04/2018

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Contents

Dedicated to those who have experienced domestic viol ence.

Domestic violence is an often misunderstood and stigmatized issue. It is talked about with hushed tones layered with attitudes of judgement and shame towards victims. The conversations are often about victims of domestic violence, but rarely do the conversations include the voices of victims. This collection of stories is meant to further bridge this gap, to give honor to the strength of people who defy all odds to survive, and to give hope to those who have been or are currently being abused. We believe you. It is not your fault. You are not a lone.

I was a fourth-grader when I witnessed firsthand the impact of domestic violence. Brutal arguments lingered for months; at different points, both my mother and her boyfriend had declared themselves the winners.

My sister and I were always the losers. We went to school the next day, no matter what. Sometimes we were sleepy from the shouting or cut from picking up pieces of broken dishes. We dared not tell anyone. After all, Mr. (who shall remain nameless, but had already spent time in prison for murdering his wife) was helping pay bills and he was always extra nice after a fight. Hed promise it would never happen again and insisted it was all my moms fault.

People have stigmas about domestic violence how it happens and to whom so let me be clear: my mother was not a shy, tiny or timid woman. In fact, an entire neighborhood on Pennington Avenue can testify to the fact that at almost six feet tall and 200 pounds, she was not easily overtaken. Our 500ish-square-foot apartment could hardly contain their wrestling and the battles often landed in the street where neighbors took ringside seats. I never wanted to talk about it, even when kids reenacted match-ups on the school bus declaring my mom some type of superwoman.

An evening came along when I was certain this disagreement would be her last. During the course of the regular payday argument, Mr. went to his car and returned brandishing a shotgun. For the first time, I sensed terror in Moms voice. We had no car of our own, but lets just go was all I could muster before Mom pushed me out of the way. I refused to leave the room without her; somehow my small mind decided he would not shoot her in front of me.

I closed my eyes, pressing my hands over my ears and humming a song loudly enough to fill my mind. I pretended to melt into the wall, until the arms of my grandfather lifted me off the floor. Someone had called him to pick us up. I was pulled from the room without knowing exactly what happened as paramedics tended to the woman who rarely lost a fight.

The next day, I sat quietly in my classroom. The teachers knew and either instinctively or informed kept asking if I wanted to talk. I remained silent, but this time it was out of shame for wishing I had said something sooner. I thought my mom could hold her own, but I was wrong and so guilt-ridden that I wished I could become a cinder block wall.

It took days before I heard that my mother would survive, but not without lasting injuries. People slipped past me quietly and whispered about the situation before finally explaining. Mom was beaten with the stock of a shotgun. Her ankle was shattered and required surgery and pins. I did not return home for a while and we moved shortly thereafter, leaving Mr. behind.

Even in my own best attempts to always date good guys, I have nightmares about the time I failed to walk away from a furious and controlling man who started taking his frustrations out by beating my furniture. After months of coming home to broken mirrors and busted chairs, I knew I would be next. It has taken time for me to overcome my own pain, regrets, and fears about the first time another Mr. grabbed my arm to keep me from leaving.

Years later, those memories have evolved into poems that Mom and I share. Most recently, If these walls could talk came to mind when a fellow organizer of the Speak Up! Poetry event asked if I would share my story about domestic violence. The brutal reality can be overwhelming from the outside looking in, but I agreed to participate because walls dont talk survivors do.

What are you most grateful for around your survival experience-please include examples if it was what people did? The circumstances? Your own actions or abilities? Etc.?

I am grateful for the woman I became and the strength I acquired. The whole experience actually turned out to be rewarding-having made it through. I may have never known I needed boundaries. I may have never known how to learn to love myself, be self-sufficient, or confident. I may have never known how capable or resilient I am. It was never about what he did (in the beginning) but the seemingly small things I turned a blind eye to; my own willingness to ignore or justify abusive behavior in order to keep him around. Im grateful I learned how toxic my own behaviors can be.

Looking back, what do you wish you had asked for from others to support you?

Anything. I felt so worthless, I was ashamed to accept any help. I felt too big of a burden to follow through with allowing others to help me.

What kept you going when the journey was diffi cult?

My children. Also the fantasy that once we got through this hard time, he would change and things would be different.

What words of wisdom would you be willing to offer women who are still currently in a dangerous domestic violence situation or new to a shelter/lea ving?

There is a way out. The road seems dark now, but there will be light again. You only have to take one small step. You only have to survive the day. You are worth it.

I grew up in a fairly normal home. There were no drugs or alcohol. My self and my siblings were cared for and loved, we were taught respect, moral character and passion for people. We did not go to church every Sunday but we were taught about the Bible and how to pray and rely on God. What we knew to be normal was two working parents with equal respect, my mother was the care giver,disciplinarian and worrier. My father was a hard worker and provider, he was a quiet man, humble and kind. I very rarely had ever seen him get mad or upset. Having this background I felt sure to pick a great husband to spend my life.
In 2012 I married a man that was an only child. His story appeared to be similar to mine, he grew up with both parents in the home. After a month of marriage I realized he yelled and screamed and broke things to express his anger. There were times he would turn on himself. December 25, 2012 he attempted suicide by cutting his wrist and neck. Being the caregiver I was taught to be, I bandaged it up and covered the bandages and went to Christmas dinner with my entire family. That was mine and his secret. In some way it made me close with him. (Sick I know) It seemed like the more I knew about him the less respect he had for me. There were times I would come home from work and he would leave piles of dog facies on the kitchen counter with a note that would say you clean this up. He began calling names and degrading my job, my education. I continued to search for the good in him. After marriage I began to see a pattern of behavior that later was revealed as addiction to meth, crack cocaine and alcohol. Once he knew I was aware of these things he became more secretive and less engaged. There were times when he would destroy our home in a rage. He would point a gun to my face. He would always try to run over me with his truck during his rage. He pushed and shoved me and would laugh if I fell. If I got sick he would stand over me and call me names and say,I wish you would choke and die . There was one time we were in the bedroom and we were arguing about something he reached for a gun out of the dresser. He said he would kill us both. I turned and the gun went off. He had shot a hole in the mattress that went through the floor. As I walked away he said hold me, I scared myself. I knew at that point how sick he was.