1 in 3 women will be a victim of domestic violence in their lifetime. 70% of women worldwide will experience physical or sexul abuse in their lives, and black women experience intimate partner violence at a rate 35% higher than white women. For the majority of my life these statistics were merely floating words on a page because I was "above" such incidents. I never went after " the bad boys" from the wrong side of the tracks. I never chased danger and I always gave the "good guy" a chance. Then life taught me an extremely valuable lesson. An abusive person does not have a certain "look". He is not always drenched in tattoos and toting a glock in his pocket. He does not speak a certain way. He is not a certain race. He is not the obvious "bad guy" lurking in the shadows. Sometimes, he is the boy next door..
I've actually battled about discussing this topic for awhile now. Aside from the fact that this is a very touchy subject, I did not want to give away " too much" about the details of intimate moments in my life. Part of me was ashamed and embarrassed that I even let such a thing happen to me. But, the thing about life is that we are all connected by our experiences. Good. Bad. Ugly. We connect and find healing in learning that we are not alone in our trauma. I hope that by reading this you gain comfort or inspiration in your own journey of healing. It was Circa 2013 when I met *Davis . Davis was a church oriented wholesome country boy who was known for his sense of humor and devout loyalty to his friends. Charisma oozed from his pores which complimented his deceitful charm. Davis was one of the " good guys". He was extremely close to his mother, always helped little old ladies across the street, and was the number one draft pick on paper of who any parent would choose for their daughter to date, This also brings me to mistake number 1... I fell for his image before I truly learned his story. We all have incidents in our lives whether it be childhood trauma or strained relationships with our family members that mold and haunt us as adults. It is our job to recognize our issues, weaknesses, or even mental illnesses and get help for them in a healthy manner before we hurt other people. Months in I would soon learn that alcohol was Davis's therapy of choice. I did not think much of it at first. Davis always enjoyed being surrounded by people and was well known in his town, so I assumed he just enjoyed partying. As months went by I began to sense an intense shift in the way he treated me. Arguing is a normal phenomenon that can signal growth in a relationship. It means you are not afraid to disagree with your mate, but in a healthy relationship there is supposed to be a level of respect within the disagreement. You do not degrade your partner because you are angry. We were rapidly losing that filter. The fights were almost always avoidable, but they could be triggered by something as small as me disagreeing with Davis's religious or personal opinions. Davis could go from calling me babe to bitch in about 10 seconds. He also made many references towards me being " the devil" again, usually over something small. I would take the bait and argue back to no avail before Davis would fall into a drunken sleep and wake up as if nothing happened. He seemed so disgusted by my presence, yet he was enthralled with keeping me within his. Either by tears, apologies, or guilt he made sure I never walked away for too long. My mom allowed me to move in with Davis one school year as a "generous" act due to the fact we were engaged. In reality she was trying to show me how incompatible we were and Mamas always right. By this point Davis's drinking was becoming obsessive. I would come home stumbling over glass bottles and cans. Davis's favorite drunken activity seemed to be inciting a fight until I took the bait and screamed with him then promptly exchanging a verbal lashing reminding me of why i was worthless and why no one would ever want me. As our fighting intensified I started seeing the first warning signs that I should move on. He would pin me down by my wrists with all his weight on them, then laugh as I hyperventilated and sobbed as a result of my anxiety attacks. My pain was a game to him. The next day I would confront Davis and he would automatically accuse me of being dramatic and excuse his behavior. Most of the time he would black out and forget anything even happened. This became a pattern. We would get drunk, he would get angry and act out. He would also pin me down and pretend to hit me while screaming at me for " thinking he would actually do it." The people closest to me started to notice the shift in my personality. I went from being confident, bubbly, and witty, to being secretive, melancholic, and angry. It felt as if I was in this glass box secluded from the world. At any time I could have left, but I allowed Davis to make me feel as if leaving was a betrayal to him and the years we put in. My depression was worsened by the drinking and his mental abuse. I started self harming and dissociating to the point that I was picturing the different ways I could commit suicide often. I allowed the good memories we shared to cloud my vision of how I was mentally deteriorating before everyone's eyes. To the world we seemed perfect, which served as the bandage to cover my truth. The final point of escalation occurred after a night out with Davis and his friends. We returned to his parent's house trying not to scream loudly during yet another dispute. It was almost 4 am, I was exhausted and wanted to forget the whole thing. Out of nowhere Davis starts to weep as he drunkenly confesses that he had cheated on me. I'm flabbergasted because this same man demonized my every move. Automatically I decide to end it. I tell him I'm calling my mom to pick me up and have a nice life. Unfortunately, that was not the answer Davis was looking for. He wanted to speak his peace and convince me to stay.( I guess a man sticking his dick in someone else was the straw that broke the camel's back for me.) Davis snatched my phone and shifts between intense sorrow to rage in a matter of minutes. I'm a "bitch" but I'm the "bitch he cannot live without. He eventually grows so frustrated that I am about to leave his life that he strikes me across the face and punches my chest knocking me onto the bed. " Look what you made me do" "I've never done this before" "I'm sorry". By now I am hysterical his mother is woken up and my mother is called. I always told myself if a man ever tried to lay hands on me I would fuck him up. I replay this scene in my head even 2 years later and sometimes I think " what could I have done more" "why didn't I fight back". The truth is you never know WHAT you will do in a domestic violence situation until you are in one. My first thought was fear. Davis was 250+ pounds to my 115. I a 5'2 woman am not trying to fight an almost 6 foot tall man. I felt this intense burning sadness in my chest. I did not feel anger. I felt pure betrayal. Someone who has vowed to love you should never bring harm to you. Not fighting back does not make you weak. Your defining moment will be if you choose to stay or leave. I had that period of time where I questioned if Davis's action was merely an angry act of passion or an example of how polluted his love for me was. In reality there is no excuse for anyone to harm you especially your partner. Davis's clean image exonerated him of any judgement from the public. He is able to live his life with this mistake mingling with the dust of the past. He is able to restart without any new woman knowing the truth. I had this phase of months that went by where I demonized every man for Davis's actions. I internalized the idea that I was a damaged soul not worthy of pure love. I carried this in my spirit and my thoughts until the weight almost broke me. What changed me was the day I woke up after the 100th suicide plot and it clicked in my head that I am still here and breathing. I am not dead. I can live my life with this weight on me until it kills me or I can free myself. In my case counseling saved me. Self love saved me. The day I was truly free was the day I realized that in this world I am not defined by how people treat me. I am not perfect by any means but I know that I can plant seeds of love wherever my feet take me. It is so easy to go back to those who are familiar. Who we feel safe with despite the fact that they hurt us. True strength is healing yourself by removing the thorns from your life. Abuse in any form is not love, and love is not abuse. 741741 is a crisis text line to help you through any traumatic situation, feelings of depression or suicide.
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Author- A pro black queer feminist writer and poet from Alabama. I write to inform and to open the doors of people's minds. The fact is that I am a minority living in a state more red than Donald Trump's scalp under his bird nest toupee, and this fact helps me to give a different perspective than the status quo. Dive into the waters of my mind and don't forget a safety raft. Archives
June 2019
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