I've hesitated on publishing this post, but have decided to after reading some of the posts by the strong women at Violence Unsilenced.
I would like to tell you that my son's father was brilliant. I would like to say that he was sweet and tender and caring, and I would like to lie and say that the type of love we had is one not known to many. I wish I were able to brag about my son's wonderful genetic make up, but in fact some of those genes he has hidden somewhere within him scare me. Some of those genes are violent and hateful and a big mess of different mental disorders.
I would like to not talk about this at all, but since this is my blog, and I've told you about everything else that you didn't want to know about then I'll just go ahead and make the story complete. I feel like I've been hiding a big part of my life, and I'm not sure why. I realize now that none of this was my fault.
There was a five year period during my life in which this life did not belong to me. I didn't even belong to me. Anger and rage were both daily issues, and the slightest rise in voice tone was enough to make me quiver. There were times when I would have to walk through a store with my eyes on the ground hoping that the lady checking me out didn't notice the humongous bruise on the side of my face. There was a time when neighbor's would become frightened and call the cops in hopes of saving my life, and I would only hide everything from then when they came, because I was more worried about his life. He would hide, and I would say that we had gotten into an argument and he left. They would say "Obviously," to the 'gotten into an argument part, because the bruises on my arms and face were there like big blue and black flags. They would take pictures, and tell me that they couldn't make me press charges, but I at least needed to come to the station to file a report. I never would.
Of course, as you can guess, that isn't all. When I was pregnant I would be dragged up stairs by my hair, and pushed down stairs. I ended up on crutches. I remember one time his mother was there and she pulled him off of me screaming, "Stop it! She's pregnant." Like it would be okay if I weren't. Then after our son was born and I would try to rock him to sleep like the proud mommy I was and I would be hit in the face each time he walked by. I think our my son was too young to remember. I pray he was too young to remember.
We would argue, and I would go in the bedroom to put the baby to bed, only to be locked in there until God knows when. I would simply cry myself to sleep, and pray that due to his severe drug problem he wouldn't remember it in the morning. He never did. He never remembered any of it until a few days later when he would see the bruises. The first few times he cried and swore it would never happen again, but it always did. In the end he would just stop talking to me. Just stop even looking at me at all, trying to make it go away. It didn't go away. It just got worse and worse. He would say, "When that bruise on your face heals you just need to go back to your mom's."
During our relationship I felt like I was nothing. I was told that I better not leave him, because nobody else would have me. He acted like I was blessed to have him, and I believed it. I felt ugly and fat and that I was never good enough. I didn't talk to anyone. I didn't go anywhere. I didn't do anything, but what I thought he wanted me to. When my friends would ask I would tell them that the bruises on my face were from playing with the baby. They always knew. Everybody knew, but I kept on pretending.
To this day it's hard for me to explain why I stayed so long. Five years is a long time to go through such torture. I just kept dreaming that one day things would get better. I kept hoping that soon this would all be over, and we could be a family. A family that I had never had before. With my mom being a single mother I never had a father around. I just wanted something different for my son. As some of you know, an abusive person has different personalities. There is always a different side. At times he was perfect. I loved him heart and soul and I had never felt that way abou t anyone, and I still haven't to this day. There were mornings when he would get up with the baby and fix us breakfast and let me sleep. There were also mornings when he would send us in the other room and lock the bedroom door until he was ready to get up yelling and screaming. God forbid anyone else ever be mean to me though, because he would fight them to the death. It feels good to have someone take up for you when you can't take up for yourself. I obviously, couldn't take up for myself and have just recently learned to.
When I met him he took me down a very dark path. One I had only seen in the past, but never experienced. Abuse, lies, drugs, addiction, sickness. Five long years of that. Finally, five years after we met he went to jail for a year for assault and theft of a controlled substance (i.e. prescription meds). He made the front page of the newspaper. I was humiliated.
For awhile I continued to visit him and write him letters based on promises that he made to me that things would be different when he got out. Six months into his sentence I stopped visiting. I realized that there was an actual life outside waiting for me and I left him for a hope of a new life. I thank God every day that it happened that way, because I had every intention on staying with him. Finally, I wrote him a letter and ended it. I knew I had to do it when he was in jail, because I feared for my life if I waited until he got out. I never heard from him after that. I awaited his release with a tight stomach, but acted as though it was no big deal. When I had heard he was no longer in jail I watched my back everywhere I went. It would be just like him to sneak up on me somewhere and beat me to death. Or play nice and say he just wants to see the baby and for me to meet him at the park and then me leave packing bruises and cuts. I was scared. To death. I never told anyone.
The day did come when he contacted me. A friend of mine gave him my number, and he called. There were a few months when we talked like friends on the phone. You know, just catching up on old times. Then the time came when he wanted to see the baby. My son still remembered his father and always wants to see him, so I took him regardless of my better judgment. Everything was okay. The year he had spent in jail had rid him of his substance abuse problems for the time being and he seemed sane for once. I let them visit a couple of times. I guess he got the idea that we were more than friends again, however, and started yelling at me for still seeing Pup. Everything came back to me. The fear. The anger. He told me that he knew where Pup lived and that he didn't care one bit to come up there and drag me out. Even though I knew that Pup wouldn't let that happen I still knew he really didn't care one bit to do it, and I couldn't sleep. At this point I backed out of the "relationship" once again, and didn't hear from him for quite some time.
He has a new girlfriend now, and a new baby girl. He was shot over the winter by his mom's boyfriend. The bullet went in his cheek and came out the top of his head, but he managed to live. After this he was given pain medication, which wasn't in his best interest. I spoke to his girlfriend once right after Christmas, and I asked her if he hit her. She told me it happened once, but would never happen again. God, how I wanted to reach through the phone and shake her brains out. I wanted to scream at her "Stupid girl! It ALWAYS happens again!" I knew, however, that she wouldn't listen and has to find out on her own. This isn't something you can just tell somebody. I can only imagine the hell that she faces every day, but I'm thankful for the fact that it's not me. I'm thankful for the fact that I got out. I'm thankful for the fact that I'll never go back again.
There's so much more to this story, but I'll save that for another day.
