Meeting him was like meeting the rest of my life. He was a funny, boxer just like me. He came into the picture and love-bombed me, constantly telling me that I was the most beautiful woman in the world, asking to spend every waking minute together. We moved in together once I had moved out of our hometown for school. He brought his clothing and a stack of video games, plus a vicious temper and a need for control that I hadn't known was on the packing list. The fights were ugly. He'd call me "slut" and "whore" and constantly belived i was seeing other guys instead of going to school. His words destroyed me, but I thought that if I kept him happy, I would have a partner and a proper family for the first time in my life, something I desperately wanted. So instead of removing myself from the situation, I became hypervigilant. I would make myself sick trying to follow all of his rules, constantly reassuring him that I wasn't cheating and telling him that I'd always be there to take care of him. Slowly, I became estranged from all of my friends. I became totally isolated from the rest of the world and, unsurprisingly, completely miserable.
It went on like this for years, him slowly exerting more control over my life, and me letting it happen. I stopped modeling and took on menial work--the only work he would allow me to do. My primary job, of course, was punching bag. Whenever he felt insecure or uncomfortable, he let me have it. On our way to pay the landlord, we got into an argument about money. I showed him a stack of bills and reminded him that I was the primary breadwinner. In response, he grabbed my shoulder and shoved me hard against a wall and backhanded me. I was startled, more shocked than scared. He immediately switched back to normal and apologized profusely, saying he had no idea what had happened and swearing he'd never touch me again. There are patterns to abuse, but they never feel like your patterns. A woman can take herself to the grave thinking that she is the exception, not the rule.
Three months later, he broke that promise. We were having a heated discussion over me wanting to continue my educatiuon. He grabbed me by the hair and yanked me to the ground and started punchinbg me in the face. I stood up and, in self-defense, cracked him one back. He exploded and dragged me through the house. I left that night, taking a long, sob-filled car ride to a friend's house. The next day, Tyler called and told me he loved me. He was sorry. He didn't want to be apart. We were a family, he said. Please don't break us up. I was back home in three days.
One day a fight got to the point that he went and got a knife and got ontop of me. Holding it to my throat explaining to me just exactly how he wanted to kill me. I began fighting with every once of my body to escape him, ending in me getting stabbed in the knee as I ran away. I finally left. I'd like to say that I loved myself enough to do it for me, but women in my situation rarely do.
I sought the assistance the victim assistance organization a hospital had referred me to after that beating. They gave me a caseworker who would function as a partner during the leaving process. Together, we filed a permanent order of protection against him. The caseworker introduced me to other women who had been abused--and none of them pointed accusing fingers at me. My sense of isolation began to thaw, and I realized that I had stayed in an unhealthy, abusive relationship for nine years because of those first three happy months. Not a good time ratio, I know, but probably not a rare one.
In many ways, my path away from him was a typical one, and guided by my caseworker. But I did several things that were a little off the books, and I think they were some of the most helpful. During the "violence years," I had kept a journal of his abuses. I'd sit sobbing in our room--apologies wafting in from behind the locked door--and force myself to write down every gory detail: each cut and bruise, every poisonous word and threat. After I left, I started to reread those entries daily, making myself reckon with the abuse that I'd endured. He was funny and charming, and for years all it took was a hug or a laugh to melt me right back into his arms. Revisiting those false promises helped me see the patterns I'd been ignoring for so long.
I lived at the bookstore, poring over every book about abuse I could find. That self-education taught me that I didn't make himthe way he was, that a man like him would always hold me back, and that children who grow up around abuse are many times more likely to end up becoming batterers or domestic violence victims.Something i would never want my future children to become. Every story I read was like another stitch in my wound--I wasn't alone in this. Women could leave. I could be one of those women.
The day that I moved out remains one of the proudest days of my life. It was like a massive sense of peace. I slept better. I laughed more. I stopped waking up worrying about what the day was going to hold, and found excitement in knowing that I was the person in control of my future. I started reconnecting with old friends, and slowly a new, safer life began to emerge.
It has now been a year since I left him. I have found a new love- a real love i feel peace in knowing that when we have a family our daughter(s) won't emulate the relationship I had because of a bad example of a father. Our son(s) won't drive a desperate young woman to knock on my door, remove her sunglasses, reveal a black eye, and say, "Look what your son did to me." My life is beyond my dreams. Nothing makes me happier knowing I have a man who wants to protect me instead of hurt me and I no longer have to live in fear of the future, but instead am allowed to be excited about it.
