Amy
Scene: Athens, near the OU campus, some random apartment complex silly enough to rent to a freshman (freshman were and probably are still required to live in – or at least pay for in some manner – a dorm room). My freshman year (’98-’99ish).
Long story (hopefully) short, I thought I was too cool for a dorm. Or at least, why not have an option? Especially with an older boyfriend leftover from high school willing to follow me to middle-of-nowhere? (First clue – missed.) I had saved a few thousand dollars from my job in high school and had enough scholarship and best-dad-ever money to not be strapped for textbook cash, so I could get us started, and he would find a job and pay the most of the rent, right? Ah, isn’t being young and stupid fun? (Yes, usually.) We played house for a quarter, thoroughly living “there’s a time and a place for everything, and that’s college.” Sooner than later, the reality of the situation set in: no jobs in a college town, let alone any good ones for a dude with little education and not much else. We couldn’t pay all the bills, we fought (verbally) about stupid shit and serious shit. I had myself convinced we’d make it no matter what.
Toward the end of January, my grandma died. I felt horridly guilty, because I had opted out of the family Christmas the previous month, even though my dad had somehow presciently waved his finger at me that it might be my last chance to have Christmas with one or both of my fairly elderly grandparents. Truthfully, I was a rotten teenager/young adult, more worried about my social life than most other things and people. The one silver lining I still have is that her birthday was in November, and though I of course didn’t actually know that at the time, I had happened to call her – which I rarely did unprompted by my dad – by dumb luck, on that very day. I was so embarrassed that I didn’t realize it was her birthday, but she didn’t care at all, she was just so tickled that I’d called. It will always be one of my favorite memories of her.
Anyhow, back to the point: either my boyfriend actually had some job that wouldn’t let him off without losing said job, or I actually had enough sense to not bring him to my grandma’s funeral. Don’t remember, doesn’t really matter. While I was away from school, he was hanging out with my girlfriends from and living near the dorm. Aaaand, action. Girl actually confessed to me, I went off on him (verbally), on and on and on. My grandma had just died (whoa, I glossed right over how scummy that was – to cheat on a girl while she goes to her grandmother’s funeral? Classy. Oh, wait. I guess I didn’t gloss over it), my sister was dealing with serious health issues of her own that I had let make me feel like a lousy sister with only the wrong answers, I was not doing as well academically as I knew I should be, I was already stuck with bills I couldn’t pay that I incurred because I wanted to be with this guy, because I thought he loved me, respected me…so I was pissed. Highly pissed. I smacked him across the face, which I realize now is my own responsibility, and I do take responsibility for starting the physical violence. I knew better, yet I lost control. Argued very unfairly even before I hit him. I slapped him several times…at least. I don’t know why he didn’t restrain me, he could have, but I guess he kind of felt like he deserved it. Eventually he smacked me back. Just once, but it rang my bell. Like, my ears were ringing. I assume it was a slap upside the head, but I couldn’t really even say for sure if it was an open or closed fist, and it really doesn’t matter.
I walked out. I don’t remember if we had been drinking at all that night or not. I wasn’t drunk, but I was really upset. I took off walking toward campus, it was dark…I walked quite a ways and then just said fuck it again. I walked back and told him to leave. The lease was in my name, I’m sure someone heard us yelling, want me to call the cops? He left, but the next day I went back to my dorm room.
I wish I could say that I never spoke to or saw him again after that, but I can’t. I remember sitting in my dorm room, wondering if I should tell my roommate. She was and still is a very cool woman that I respect, but I didn’t want to tell her…though I didn’t quite know why. I was just acting cranky and bitchy instead, and she was annoyed that all of a sudden her roommate she thought had all but moved out was back in her space. Totally understandable. I ended up telling her after some version of ‘okay, so what the hell is really wrong with you?’ and while I can’t remember her exact reaction, I know I felt stupid. Not that she thought I deserved it, necessarily – especially given that I hit him first, multiple times – but that she would think I was stupid if I went back to him or let him come back to me. I knew rationally that it would be a stupid thing to do, but I did have other things to consider: I had to get out of that lease. I had to pay off bills that were in my name, and I didn’t have a job. I had to move my stuff out of that apartment. I had to not fail chemistry! To say the least, I was incredibly distracted.
I don’t know if we technically ever got back together as a couple, but I did see him again, and I tried to convince myself it was something we could work past, that I loved him, but I just couldn’t trust him anymore. I didn’t trust myself around him. He wasn’t faithful, let alone safe. Too much anger between us. I thought he smelled differently than before. It was very strange. I still loved him, but I was DONE. I muddled through the rest of the quarter at school as best I could, applied plenty of self-medication, and eventually realized and told my parents that I wanted to come home, though I didn’t go into any real detail.
Funnily enough, I found him on Facebook very recently. I realized that I don’t really carry a lot of animosity toward him anymore. It wasn’t just his fault. I’ve learned so much since then about mutual respect and the warning signs of abuse and how to avoid that cycle. There isn’t just the “we don’t hit girls” rule, there is the “we don’t hit, period” rule. And some rules are not meant to be broken.
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Amy writes at Not Undecided.
Heather
I have talked about this before, sharing bits and pieces, flashbacks and memories, in my old blog, Singing With My Heart. I wrote in that blog for almost 6 years, my own personal therapy as the words came from my haunted memory, to the virtual page in front of me. Memories of my ex fiancé, Xander, and our toxic, painful, abusive relationship that we had with one another. There are still tons of memories, waiting to be released, but this one. I will never forget this one. And I’ve never shared this one.
I remember it clearly.
It was a gorgeous, sunny day in June. Two days after my 19th birthday. My freshman year of college was over, and I was actually being allowed to spend the day with my best friend. I remember being excited to see her, to catch up. I was never allowed to see her, so this was a special treat.
I was staring in a mirror, carefully checking to make sure the makeup wasn’t smeared, that the angry blues and pale greens weren’t showing through the NW25 foundation that I applied every morning, liberally. It was comforting, applying that foundation every morning. Almost as if I could erase the past night’s transgressions of drugs, alcohol, and abuse; as if I became new, that no one could see through the cracks of the facade that I had been living for almost 7 months.
So there I was, double checking the foundation, when he appeared behind me, his eyes bloodshot, his fists clenched. I remember smelling the whiskey, as it invaded my nostrils, mingling with the smell of Marlboro Reds. I sat, paralyzed as I knew what was about to happen. It had been happening for 7 long months. My strong-willed personality was too much for him to take, always. I was never right, he was. I was never good enough for him. I was never pretty enough, never skinny enough, I was never enough. At 19 years old, I was the perfect prey for him; vulnerable, full of guilt and low self-esteem and self-worth.
And just like that, his fist slammed through the mirror, shards of glass flying around me. My body being yanked from one end of his room to the bed, being pinned in a split second. The feeling of his body on top of mine, his knees forcing my legs apart, his hand forcing my head to the side as I felt my body being torn in two by him. I remember that. I remember feeling my cheek smashed into a pillow, just enough space to barely breathe, my mouth gaping, while he raped me, as his other fist connected with my rib cage.
It was useless to tell him no, completely useless to fight him as he’d just take what he wanted anyway. I was at the point where I didn’t even fight, I just lay there, lifeless as the tears rolled down my cheek, silently, while he laughed at me, mocking me. The sound of fabric ripping brought me to life, and I knew I was going to fight this one. I was going to take this one and try my damnedest to fight. I started kicking, starting screaming, starting punching, until I hit hard enough to make him stop. He sat back on his heels, and laughed.
“You will not make it out alive from this one, bitch,” he said, sneering, as I shivered beneath him.
“Go,” he said, taunting me.
I got up, running to the door, trying desperately to break free, feeling the blood trip down my legs, a tangible reminder of just how rough he had been. I remember being scared, truly scared. I remember the fear, swirling around me, wondering if I could actually live through this, again. I fumbled with the door knob, trying desperately to open the door to the stairs, trying to get out. The door broke free, just as I saw the stairs, felt a fist to the back of my head, and it all went dark.
I woke up 18 hours later, to the beep of a heart rate monitor to my left, and my mother staring at me, her brow furrowed, on my right.
As of June 21st, it’s been 2,577 days since I was shoved down 27 stairs by the bastard that I was in love with for 9 horrific months.
Two thousand, five hundred and seventy seven days since I broke nine ribs, my left wrist, received 96 total stitches and chipped my right cheek bone on the night that my ex-fiance tried to kill me.
And on July 23, 2003, he killed himself, and left a long letter full of blame towards me.
I went back to college in the fall, as a sophomore. I started drinking even more, sometimes I’d drink a fifth of vodka just to make it through half of my morning classes. Then I’d go back to my dorm, crawl into my bed, and cry myself through a nap. When I’d wake up, I’d drink another fifth of vodka, swallow some pills, smoke a joint, snort a line of coke. I spent most of my time self destructing, and finally, after being there for almost 7 months, I left college. I continued to abuse myself, continued to abuse my relationships with those who truly cared about me, and it wasn’t until I hit rock bottom one night, that I realized that I had completely stopped dealing with what had happened to me.
Not only had I lost someone I loved, but I had been sexually and physically abused to the point that, honestly, I didn’t even look at my body as mine anymore. It was as if anyone could own me. I shut it out by drinking, by getting high, by having sex with random strangers… anything to numb the pain. I hit rock bottom by offering a $20 bill and a blow job to my drug dealer for one joint. The next day, I checked myself into therapy, and moved into my parents house.
Therapy was no a cakewalk. Therapy hurts. It works, but it’s not easy. I’m still, almost 7 years after his suicide, learning how to deal with some of the nightmares that haunt me in my sleep. There are certain smells that take me back to an exact moment when he hit me, or raped me. Certain songs cause me to hit the floor and curl into a ball. The month of July is a long, and emotionally challenging month, even now. I quit. I started again. I quit. I started again. And on April 5th, 2010, I had my very last therapy session regarding this trauma that has caused irreparable damage to my life.
How do I cope? Even now, music and writing have healed me the most. I listen to all different types, and just write. I started my first online blog, Singing With My Heart, almost 6 years ago to deal with the pain that I felt in losing Xander, and as I started to remember more and more about what happened to me with him, it evolved into a blog where I could write, and heal. Let’s face it, as a survivor of sexual abuse & domestic violence, sometimes, it’s a lot for people to take. My friends didn’t know what to say—They were 19, 20 years old, and enjoying themselves at college, partying, and living their lives. My parents were completely unavailable for me, emotionally & physically, and I had no one. So I just started writing, as a means to just let it out. And it worked. 6 years later, I have started to tell my story to many more people. I am not healed, but I am certainly not where I was almost 7 years ago. I don’t pop pills, though there are some times I am tempted. I haven’t snorted a line in over 3 years, or rolled in over 4 years.
I got married in January to the most incredible man I’ve ever met in my 26 years of life, a man who loves me unconditionally, a man that I am not afraid to trust, to love back and I cannot wait to start a family with him, to truly start over and have a new beginning with this new me that I have met through all of my hard work & dedication in therapy.
Speaking out is what frees me.
I no longer ask why.
Now, I say, never again.
My new blog is at Soft Skies or you can find me on twitter here.
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Dorothy
There are many instances of sexual abuse in my life. Starting at age 4 or 5 and continuing until age 25. This has been a difficult journey for me. It skewed my view of love and relationships to the point where I just gave up on ever forming a relationship with anyone! Even friendship with others has been affected. I think it is impossible for me to form a friendship with men.
Yes, I know many others have gone through similar things and just bottle it up, shove it down and think they have overcome it. They are just fooling themselves! The kind of emotional turmoil and mental problems caused by sexual abuse are often not even recognized by those who do not wish to deal with it in their past. Keep it bottled up long enough and it will start to cause physical health problems!
I’ve been sexually abused by family, friends, a husband and strangers. I have even abused a family member.
I have tried over the last 25 years, since I started remembering, to talk to many of the people who sexually abused me. Some have passed away and I never got the chance to. I can tell you I have found little hope or satisfaction from this. No apologies have ever been forthcoming, just excuses. I understand some of the excuses but, I apologized to the person I abused. They even said I didn’t need too because they understood. However, I still apologize.
The Day It All Went To Hell!
I guess I was about 4 or 5 years old – don’t know for sure.
I wanted to see what the older boys were up to in the barn – even though I was not suppose to go up there.
I tried sneaking up to the hayloft but guess I wasn’t quiet enough.
My brother must have heard me because he convinced me to come closer.
There were 5 boys in the hayloft – 2 brothers and 3 cousins.
They were looking at porn magazines my dad had.
They told me this is what mommies and daddies do when they love each other.
Then they asked me if I wanted to be a good mommy.
I did I told them!
They said I needed to know how to do what was in the books.
Then they took turns.
I try not to remember anymore details but sometimes am unsuccessful!
All I remember for sure is those images in front of me on the hay bale.
Kneeling or bending over a hay bale and pain!
I remember shutting down all feeling and wishing myself somewhere else!
I remember being told I could not tell mom or anyone as I was not suppose to be in the barn.
I hid for a while in the bushes and cried until I could not cry anymore and then promised myself I would never cry again!
Oh, how I wish it were that easy right now!
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Dorothy writes at I Continue to Survive.
Joey
Looking back on my first memories is kind of like watching a movie. I don’t remember what I felt, though I’m sure if I tried I could tell you. I remember what I saw. I remember what I heard. I remember the tantrums, the lies, the screaming and crying. I remember the bleeding and the healing and the bleeding all over again. I remember it all.
I can remember what the apartments we were frequently evicted from looked like. I remember the chips in the paint and the holes in the walls and the rust on the doorknobs. But my first real memory is from when I was two. My sister had just been born.
My father worked three jobs at one point, but I don’t know how many he had when this occurred. I just know that he worked and my mother didn’t; therefore, the money was his to spend as he wanted. He didn’t want to support us, he wanted to go out and party. He was 20, after all, my mother barely a year his junior.
He came home and demanded to know where his money was, and my mother claimed it was in the bank. He wasn’t satisfied with that. He didn’t believe her. He looked through the cabinets, wondering where she hid it.
He threw everything in it, getting more and more frustrated as he went through shelf after shelf to no avail. He broke glass bottles and poured the liquid out of prescriptions. He threw anything that wasn’t easily shattered, usually at my mother or me. He had all of our cabinets completely emptied before he realized she wasn’t lying, and he wasn’t happy with that, either. He got worse. He stepped over the shattered glass. He threw punches. At anything. Me, my mother, the walls. He threw the dog cage, and when I let the dog out, he threw it again, at me. He screamed and yelled and raged. I cried and cowered. He grabbed me. He wrapped one hand around my fragile wrists. I cried. I bruised.
This wasn’t a regular occurrence from then on. He didn’t throw punches as often, and he rarely threw anything else. But still, for years, I put up with it. I desperately wanted a relationship with my father. I believed it every time he said that he had changed. I believed he was a better man. I was mistaken.
I said I was done. I wasn’t.
I still remember him calling me a selfish piece of shit. I remember him calling me a whore, and a bitch, and saying that I would never succeed in anything. I remember him threatening to crash the car as I screamed at him from the passenger side. I remember him threatening to knock my teeth out. I remember feeling helpless as I stared out the car window. I remember it all.
Again, I said I was done. Again, I wasn’t.
I started cutting at eight. That’s right, eight. “Just one. I’m just trying it. I’m just curious,” I told myself.
I lied to myself.
It got worse and worse. It went from a few small scratches out of stress to no recognizable flesh from my wrists to my shoulders. Burns, bruises, cuts. Whatever was most convenient the next time I felt hurt. I bled. The wounds started to heal. I re-opened them, deeper, worse. You could see bones. You could see muscles. But you couldn’t see flesh anywhere on my arms or thighs. There were cuts on my hips, on my stomach. Anywhere people wouldn’t see. I had bruises on my face, on my arms and my legs. I would bang my head against a wall or hit myself. I would put matches out on my skin. I would carve the names he called me into my arms with a steak knife.
I was doing to myself what he threatened to do. What he occasionally did. I think it gave me control, at first. I wouldn’t let him hurt me physically. I would do it to myself. I would control what physical pain I felt. Then it became a comfort. If I felt alone, or hurt, or whatever else, I would self-injure. It was like a friend. It was a constant. It was the only thing that would always be there when I needed it.
I couldn’t take it anymore. I hated life. I hated myself and I hated everyone else. I wanted to die. I had a date set. I hate a note written. I had the method and the supplies ready.
He found out about my self-injury days before the date I had set. He shook his head. He told me again that I was selfish and that I would never succeed.
I said I was done.
This time, I meant it.
I was done with the pain, with the insults and the lies. The disappointment and his grabbing my wrists and rolling up my sleeves, telling me that it was for attention. Telling me that he’d do it to me.
I said I would succeed. I would prove him wrong. I would be as successful as I’d ever hope to be, and I would be happy, and my success would be the biggest “Fuck you” I could give him.
It’s been over a year now, and I’d be more than a liar to say I was healed, but I’m trying, and it’s slowly happening.
I don’t talk to him. I don’t want him to know anything about me. That I have a girlfriend, or that I may not be healed, but I’m happy. That I’m a good student, a good friend, a great girlfriend and an excellent songwriter. Or that I’m confident, and I know now that I’m not a whore, and that I am pretty.
Maybe I’ll always be afraid of people grabbing my arms. Maybe the look in my eyes will always change and I’ll always tear up as I pull them away.
And maybe I’ll always feel like I’m not as good as everyone else on the street I’m walking down.
And maybe I’ll always feel selfish. Maybe his words were that powerful.
I couldn’t tell you. I can’t see the future.
But I’ll always be a survivor.
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Joey writes at The Tired Anthem of a Loser and a Hypocrite.
