“Tell me you're sorry” I whispered.
“I'm sorry” he answered.
I forgave him and life went on…
******************************
Many a night I lay in bed listening for the kitchen drawer to open; that’s where the knives were kept. Fear gripped me and with beating heart I held my breath. The blood pounded in my ears, I squeezed my eyes shut, I was sure one of these days he would actually kill me. Wasn’t it only last week he had tried to strangle me over a bathtub full of water?
We were living in the trailer park in a mobile home that had two exterior doors. Our bedroom sat right next to the back door. I was so scared, trembling like a kitten in a tree who couldn’t get down and afraid to fall. I felt stuck. Somehow, don’t ask me how, I managed to get a hold of the car keys and I escaped out the back door, naked save for a quilt wrapped around me.
“Not tonight” I whispered into the dark, “not tonight”.
Jumping into my little red Plymouth I quickly locked the doors, turned the key and hit the gas.
Living in a little town with no where to go, few places to run, less places to hide, I spent the next couple of hours just driving down one lonely back alley after another looking for salvation in the dark.
"What now"? I pondered.
Finding a deserted street in a quiet area of town, I parked the car for the night.
He would be sober in the morning and tonight would just be another scratch on the wall. Telling myself everything would be all right, I tried to sleep, but the lamplight, the cold and the fear of getting caught by him, by someone else, or worse yet, the police, left me anxious and sweating. It was going to be a long night.
So many thoughts ran through my head. What choice did I have but to stay? I had no money of my own, a poorly paying part-time job at the local burger joint, and no where to go. I could not, would not, burden my family. I could tell no one, after all, who would listen? How would I explain it? I would be the one to blame. I must have done something to deserve it. I am so ashamed.
******************************
Young and barely out of my teens, I was living in a world behind rose-coloured glasses.
I had been raised in a loving family. We laughed and joked and had family vacations. I was strong and I was confident.
And I was taught never to let a man hit you
I went about my daily life enjoying my youth. I attended socials and lived as many other teens did, for today, never thinking about tomorrow. I had my whole life ahead of me and the outlook was promising. I was funny, and I was smart, and I wasn’t bad looking either.
Long story short, one day Dad left us. My Mum and I; my siblings were grown and away from home already. He took a lot of our stuff with him when he left, including the bank account. I was still in high school and we had no money, Mum had no job. We had no way to pay the rent or buy food. We were destitute.
Respite came in the form of my boyfriend. He offered to move in with us to help pay the rent until we could get on our feet again. Not an ideal situation, not one my Mother would have chosen, but we were desperate. And desperate people do desperate things. He was my boyfriend after all and I expected we would eventually get married.
Isn’t it every teenage girl’s dream to get out on her own, get married, and live happily ever after? Back in those days, yes it was.
He was four years older than I, in his twenties, and he drank quite a bit. I was still in my teens and not a drop of alcohol had ever touched my lips. I was innocent and I was naïve.
I had been around alcohol as a kid. While Mum never drank, Dad had had his share; he used to play music for many a social event and the musicians almost always got all the free booze they needed and wanted. What I didn't know was that alcohol changes people.
Mum finally got a job and moved into her own place, while my boyfriend and I started our life living together.
Yup, stuff the movies are made of. Hallelujah, I was all grown up. I was on my own, I had a man who was good looking and the love of my life. To be living with someone right out of high school was not common then, and I was making waves. I was just a teenager in love! Life couldn't get any better... little did I know how right I was.
My rose-coloured glasses made everything glow. What I did not realize was the glow would fade and I would find myself looking through a haze where nothing was real. I could barely see what was in front of me, let alone what was coming.
Everything went well, for a time, a
very short time,
until the day he lifted his hand and hit me.
At five foot two and barely 100 pounds, I was no match for his six-foot frame.
That day changed my life and I as a person, was changed for ever
I hid the abuse well from my Mum, my family, my friends. I was so ashamed of what was happening to me. He was careful, no marks on my face. No one ever knew, or so I thought. Years later I would discover the gossip that went on behind my back. Gossip but no help. But I did my best and I hid the bruises beneath my clothes. I started staying home most of the time. I essentially became a recluse.
As time passed, my confidence waned and I was dressing down to camouflage how I looked; I didn’t want to draw attention to myself. The beatings were frequent enough that I lived in fear every night, anticipating when the next beating would come, waiting for it, and breathing a sigh of relief when tonight wasn’t the night.
Now, years later, I can clearly see what I did not know then.
I was not to blame
I know now what I should have done, but back then, I was young and inexperienced and I didn’t know better. I didn’t know the fragility of the mind; the way it can be manipulated and altered and broken.
No, life was never the same again
The rose-coloured glasses had come off and staring me in the face was a reality I had only experienced through movies. Now here I was, the leading actress, but I was not a shining star, and I was living in a nightmare.
I drifted through the days, seeing but not feeling, hearing but not talking. I was lost somewhere between a shadow and a crack in the wall.
Over the years I have heard people say about the abused: “Why stay?” “Why not get out?” “Well, she's just stupid for staying”.
I am here to tell you to walk a mile in the abused one’s shoes and you will speak with a different voice. Abuse comes in many forms, sometimes they dwell together. Physical, mental, emotional, verbal. I had lived with them all at the hands of one man.
From a confident young lass, I was reduced to a frightened little girl who lacked courage and strength. Whose confidence had been left at the front door with the dreams of a tiny house surrounded by a white picket fence and a forever after happy life.
It took me three years to finally find myself again and break out of the horror that had become my life. It was
only three years, I was lucky, many people live for decades in just such a situation. Digging deep I had gathered the courage to stand up for myself, on my own two feet, and I walked away.
I walked away from it all
I left everything behind. My belongings, cherished family treasures, everything in the house, everything I owned, and everything I had known. My broken heart. My rose-coloured glasses.
Yes indeed, I am lucky. I lived through a nightmare and I came through the other side strong and courageous and confident. I still believe in dreams and fairy tale endings. I have lived to love again for all the right reasons and there truly are Prince Charmings out there, I know because I married one.
The experience made me who I am today. Yes, I am still quite a recluse, but I freely choose to be by choice. I no longer let any man talk to or treat me like I am worthless. I have learned to love myself for who I am and not for what other people expect me to be. I am overly sensitive but yet powerfully hard. I cry easily and I can laugh at myself. I have chosen a life of being kind to others, and I do not partake in gossip for nothing good ever comes from gossip, and the only ones who know the truth are those who are living the moment.
As for the boyfriend, he had abused before me, and he abused after me. He then went on to commit suicide.
I am slowly trying to forgive.
And I know, I was not to blame.
