DISCLAIMER: This post contains references of domestic abuse and suicide.
It was a fairytale. Or so I thought. I shared my secrets, everything I kept hidden from others because I had never trusted someone the way I trusted him. I told him about the teasing I endured from kids at school and the shame of growing up poor. How I was teased for wearing crazy clothing, but that is what made me happy–bright-colored clothing and something I could control and find joy in. How my childhood crush mocked me behind my back for not having money, even while pretending to admire me to my face.
I shared the abuse I suffered at the hands of my stepfather, the near-death experiences, the day I walked into the police station to get a protective order when things had gotten too bad to hide anymore. He shared his stories, too. They weren’t good either. He told me he would always protect me—and I believed him. Because he had been hurt too.
The Love That Softened Me
He was gentle, he was kind. He never yelled. I didn’t know what that felt like—gentleness. During an argument, he’d plead, “I’m your love!” And I’d drop my guard and melt. No one had ever been able to read me like that. How did he know exactly what to say?
Fast forward a year. He had raced out the door, jumped into his truck, and drove off. I was left on the phone with the suicide hotline. “Hello? Miss? Look—if he’s not willing to help himself, there’s nothing we can do. Let us know if anything changes.” *Dial tone.*
The police showed up and I went into protection mode. I told them he was struggling and upset about losing time with his kids. “Miss, he just did a burnout in an attorney’s parking lot. It’s past 1:00 a.m.”
I pleaded with them. They let him go with no charges. He thanked me, and his eyes lit up. He was happy again. Then he told me I was the Bonnie to his Clyde. I didn’t quite understand then . . . but I do now.
The Justification Game
Years later, we’re married. He told me I was abusive. I thought, “Well maybe I am? After all, I yell when I’m angry. And if someone touches me in a moment like that, I react physically.”
He jumped out of my moving car once because I was upset with him. Yet, he left bruises on my body trying to hold me in place when I wanted to leave and cool off. And still I thought, “This is my fault. I’m a product of my childhood. Poor him for having to endure me.”
Not Again
My son was born and my focus shifted to one soul: he was my priority now. My little rainbow baby. Another argument began, yet this time while I was nursing my baby. After 30 minutes of drawn out arguing, I finally told him, “I’m not going to Chicago with you this weekend if you’re going to act like this. It’s too much!”
He ripped the wedding ring off my finger. It got stuck halfway, yet he pulled harder. I braced so the movement wouldn’t affect my son who was nursing. Tears rolled down my face. And I thought, “Just as I thought. I am alone in this world. No one to protect me. But now I have someone to protect.”
Shards of Bone
Another year, more bruises, more suicide threats if I leave, excuse after excuse as to why it was my fault, and another argument. This time, we had a guest sleeping in the basement. I tossed the remote to him, begging him to just stop. “Find something to watch,” I said, desperate for the fight to end. He glared at me and I didn’t back down.
I never do. Maybe that’s the problem. I didn’t move an inch. As he grabbed his keys, he unhooked the key fob and chucked it hard, aiming for my face. I stared straight into his eyes and refused to move.
Crack. Pain. Blood. Collapse.
I knew what to do, but I was frozen. My shirt soaked in blood, I ran to the bathroom. I panicked, cried harder, and thought to myself, “It’s his dad . . . my son.” Next, I ran to the crib–my son was asleep. I thought that the police would take him to jail. He was still yelling in the background of my thoughts. I was numb, but I mustered up enough fight to yell back, “You’re not even helping me and you broke MY fucking nose!”
His response was, “You threw the remote at me on purpose. You have bad aim.” Did he really believe that? Did he honestly think I believed that he actually thought that? I was baffled.
In a panic, he shoved me in the shower. In that moment he realized what he had done. I cried harder. He was supposed to protect me. I screamed it silently inside my head. I wanted to ask our guest for help, but I was afraid for their safety.
Physical Abuse Stops Forever for Me; For Us
I went back to the crib and I looked at my baby. Then I made a vow: It will not be the same for you; you will never know how it feels to see this violence in your home. I heard him again. He was on the floor with a knife, cutting himself. He said he was going to kill himself. With a broken nose, with blood on my shirt, with a baby sleeping just a few feet away—I had to handle it again.
I locked us in the room, away from the knives. Away from the yelling. Away from him. He was in bed crying. I sunk to the bedroom floor and locked the door. Then, I collapsed against it while I held the door and my bleeding nose simultaneously.
Because who protects me? I have to protect him from himself, the guest from the chaos, my innocent baby boy from all of it. But who protects me? Me. It’s always been me and now I’m not a child being abused, I’m an adult with a child and I have a choice to make.
To My Son . . .
To my son: I’m sorry little baby. I know I promised you the world, a dad, a family all together, a dream I always wanted as a child. I love your daddy more than anything.
Anything except you.
A special note from the author:
I want you to know if you are struggling with this, I know the feeling. The deep ache of pain when you finally realize and have to pry yourself from the person you want most to build your whole life with, because they won’t own up, take accountability, and get help.
I know the feeling of trying to save them from themselves because there is hope afterwards.
I know.
But I also know this: without a shred of accountability, there really is no hope. There is just despair, cycles of abuse passed down from generation to generation.
I wish it was easier but it’s not. Unresolved trauma is a monster that dwells so deep within and is rooted in every fiber of our being. Without accountability and progress, it takes over.
