Courtney
Editor’s note: February is Teen Dating Violence Awareness Month. If you or someone you know is a victim of dating violence, please get help.
When I was a freshman in high school I dated a guy who was several years older than me. I was pretty innocent at the time, but he was very physically aggressive and I found myself giving into his wants constantly. He would occasionally throw me down, choke me, or be generally aggressive. There was always an implied threat of violence. I remember times of hearing, “I’m gonna kill you” while being choked. I always had that thought in the back of my mind about ending it. I would always tell him to leave and he would leave town for awhile. During that time, I felt brainwashed. He kept telling me again and again how much I needed and wanted everything he was doing for me, and how I was asking for it. I believed him when he said he was truly sorry and that he would never hit me again. He would buy me things, take me out, and always promise me that he loved me and it was my fault for the violence. Even though he claimed he was violent because it was my fault, I know it isn’t, violence is a choice. And he was 100% responsible for his actions.
I then remembered all the good times when we weren’t fighting. It was those periods of time that made me reconsider. I always took him back; I was afraid of doing anything in fear of ruining my reputation. Who would believe me? Everyone thought he was the sweetest, most caring guy around. He was my best friend. I couldn’t imagine losing someone after living with them for three years and just moving on after all of the memories we made. How would I deal with all the questions and the whole town? Everyone had finally accepted me in that school, and I started to feel comfortable. Only after moving out and leaving everything I knew, did I truly start to think about leaving him for good. But I had no choice to leave. I would be left without a place to live, no transportation, and I would have lost everything I had worked so hard for. I truly believed I couldn’t survive on my own without him.
Occasionally, he would get really angry when I didn’t want to sleep with him and I would end up crying and screaming for him to leave me alone in peace while I slept on the couch. He never did and always tried to get me back in the bedroom either by vocal threats or physically dragging me. After one of these episodes, he ended up dragging me into the bedroom while I screamed at him to leave me be. He grabbed me and said to listen to him while covering my mouth as I was screaming for him to let me go. Before I knew it, I was on the floor of the closet crying with my back bleeding. It was after this episode that I grabbed the keys and ran for the door before he could stop me. I ended up driving for hours at 1am and sleeping in the car. I didn’t know what to do. Ultimately I went back, realizing I had nothing and was helpless.
In those last few weeks of our relationship, I feared for my life. While showering I would fear him sneaking up on me and hurting me. I started dreaming about him killing me. One occasion, I read an article about a high school couple. Where the boyfriend ended up murdering the girlfriend, Lauren Astley, after she broke up with him after his abuse. While reading it, I related to it and started thinking about my relationship. That’s when I knew I couldn’t leave. I was too afraid to leave. Even though I finally broke free, it was not easy. After parting from him, I was still hurt emotionally, physically and financially by him. No one will ever know the truth, and I will be viewed as the bad guy. It seems like I’ll never rid him from my life. I had to give up my dream of attending UC Davis, and am now moving back home with my parents. He ruined my life entirely. Looking in the mirror, I still see the scars left behind from him. I do feel blessed to have experienced it at the time I did. I now know that I deserve better and not to put up with that kind of behavior from any man.. And I know that I do have support after all, and the four years of abuse have showed me that I am strong. Much stronger than I once believed.
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Denni
How can anyone live through the the pain and write about it ? For me it isn’t easy even after all of these years. It has been 31 years since my entrance into the world of the living. Because for me, the years of pain and panic were dead years. And even now as I write this, thoughts come into my mind of maybe it was just a tad bit my fault. That somehow I was a small cause of the brutality that I lived through–and I do mean lived through.
I was a lucky one. Really lucky. Because right up to the bitter end I just didn’t know if I could make it one more hour or day.
When I met and knew I was going to marry this guy, because he was so charismatic, I thought that there just might be something wrong with him. Nothing major, nor anything that I couldn’t help him correct. We were going to help him together. (All in my mind, you understand.)
Everyone liked him. Or so I thought. And not everyone liked me. Or so I thought. And there is where it all begins.
I am inferior, dumb, stupid, lowly, disgusting, ugly, sick and how about cancerous to top it all off ? There is more that came from HIS inferior mouth and mind but why go over it all ? You know what he said to me, what he called me. Anyone who has ever been in my position knows very well what he said and thought. You know whom I’m talking about. All of you reading this. That’s why we’re here, isn’t it ? This is a first for me after all of these years and I can feel the anger and tears coming up inside of me. They are there. Still there after all of this time. Does it ever go away? Maybe it never should so that we can help others who don’t really know how to get out.
Without writing a book here I can tell you that I was so abused verbally and physically that when I got divorced I was mentally the same age as when I got married. And I was sick on and off for all of those years. Emotionally and physically. This person, beast, man, sick person, you name him. He is like all the rest that we all know and fear. Hate? No. I don’t hate. I think he is pathetic. To do what he and many others have done to us for so many years of our lives. But we didn’t allow them to take our whole life. We got out somehow, some way.
He embarrassed me, humiliated me, hit me, beat me, beat me, beat me, and beat me more. I think maybe he really enjoyed it in some sick way. Even though he told me how sorry he was each and every time. He dragged me around the house by my hair, pulled it out, spit on me, threw things at me, poured food on me, kicked me, and beat me again.
Everything in the house had to be perfect. Only perfection was accepted. Except for him. He was NOT perfect. His clothes had to be ironed. And they had to have a perfect crease and look perfect. The house had to be spotless. No spots. And I couldn’t go out to any kind of enjoyable event or when I got home he would do that thing again. BEAT me. You get the idea. I was under his control. Always. And I better know it. Or else. He would do that thing again. Beat me. Oh that word. It is always there, isn’t it? Will it ever go away? Yes, when we leave. And that’s what I did. Eventually. I got out. And would you believe that almost to the bitter end he really really did it again? I mean all out just BEAT almost everything out of me. Almost. But I did get out.
We can all get out. I did. You can too. You must. Not just for yourself but for everyone else involved. Children and family. All of us. It is like we are all one big family. We understand. Even when you think no one else does, you know we are here. We want to help. We can give you support.
Please don’t let whomever it is do to you what was done to me and others like me. We are too important. Others need us. We can help. We can do it.
I today am a grateful person. I have much to be thankful for. And I have accomplished many things. Join me. Be the person that you can be, too. It was hard but I did it.
Thank you so much for reading this.
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Elizabeth
I always wanted to be invisible after that first time it happened. I wanted to watch you, but I didn’t want you to see what I was up to.
I remember sitting in my parents’ living room with my eyes shut down, while my breathing became rather shallow. I didn’t want you to hear me either.
I was always in my Sunday best – patent leather shoes with shiny buckles, poppy necklaces and frilly silly girly dresses that were held up by skinny little legs that sprung to life at the drop of a Broadway tune coming from my father’s HiFi. But now I wanted to dissolve into one of those Tom Collins drinks that made their way around at my parents’ shindigs. In between all the merriment and my father’s wit that rivaled Oscar Wilde, there he was. Some one had let the devil incarnate in.
Everybody loved him. What was not to like? His laughter was contagious, his dance moves were legendary and he could hold his liquor. But he gave up his soul a long time ago. Maybe he left it at home? What the hell did a 5-year-old know?
I did not have a shy bone in my body. I could entertain anyone at anytime. Even if they didn’t ask. I was your girl. I wish the little me could have hung out a little longer. But I understand. You had to go. You had to join the underground. Changed your name and burned your dance card. But he kept coming back and searched you out. Who let him in?
This was when adults knew everything. But they never knew this. I think my father would have killed him if he knew. But instead they shared cigarettes and war stories.
Your lap was like a portal into Hell, and I wonder how many other little girls felt pain when you pushed them down on your lap. Our big tulle and taffeta skirts hid what you did to us. Such a clever man you were.
But I had no one to tell and had no words to describe what had happened. I just knew that it hurt.
I realized if I stopped dancing, if I stayed with the other kids downstairs, if I never went near him again, then I could be safe. Funny how my 5-year-old self became the mother/father figure who saved my own life.
I stuffed that pain down inside just like I used to stuff green peas into my mashed potatoes. Thinking that this crime against my innocence would never resurface. But these memories always do. It’s all a matter of time. For the longest time I did real well in the stuff-it-and-snuff-it department.
Until I was 25.
I was living in San Francisco at the time when I was slammed against the wall with my memory, my hidden truth. My own personal earthquake had disturbed the sleeping beast and its black eye winked and welcomed me back home. It was that subtle.
I remembered what he had done to me.
I am so grateful that this sickening truth came back to me after my very anguished teen years. I can almost guarantee that I would have not survived those years.
I tried to find out if he was dead. I wanted to be afforded the opportunity to sit with him.
I was always told that I could give looks that could kill. And I would have taken a really long hard look at him.
I did find out recently that this man died in 2005. I have to say that I did not think about him that much over the years and for one very good reason – if I succumbed to what he did to me then I would have given up my power. There was no way I would allow him to take anything else from me. When I grasped that belief, I knew that although he violated my small little body, he did not get to my soul. He may have messed up some issues I had with trust, but when the right people showed up, I was able to let me defenses down. I won. He lost.
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Elizabeth writes at My View From the Edge.
Caitlyn
I was 15 when I first met him (I am 18 now). He was my boyfriend’s 45-year-old father. He seemed kind and nice and different. When my boyfriend and I broke up I was devastated. I tried to get back with my boyfriend, texted him as much as I could. I found out during the summer that he had started cutting himself. I texted his father.
Then it started. We texted day after day after day. I started to hope for a relationship, stupid as I was. One night he texted me saying all the things he wanted to do to me. I should have known it was wrong; he had a wife. I was a fool. I believed him when he told me he loved me and we agreed to meet.
I couldn’t drive yet so he had to pick me up. He gave me looks in the car ride, remarking, “God you’re beautiful.” I blushed, and he ran his hand up my neck and through my hair. I got shivers and smiled. We walked around an art exhibit and held hands. When we got back to the car I kissed his neck. He kissed me back, roughly. He pulled my hair too, to “get me to focus.” I should have stopped there. But I didn’t. Later that night he drove me to a place I didn’t know. He pulled down my pants and pulled up my shirt and just looked at me. I think I wanted it.
We met every weekend, him picking me up and me going along with it. One of the drives was different than the others. We had started talking about having sex. I was a virgin. I remember we were planning it. We drove to a construction site. He began to take my clothes off. I was naked, then I began to have second thoughts. He began to push me down on him. I said “No, wait, stop,” because it hurt. I pushed away from him and he forced me down on top of him, stop, please. When we were done I was bleeding pretty badly. He took a white handkerchief and wiped up my blood and his penis. He handed it to me; it was my virgin blood.
I felt nothing on the drive home and even asked him afterwards if it was rape. He told me it wasn’t, and that I would have regretted it if I didn’t do it.
From then on it was every weekend, having sex. At the end of every time I would cry and he would lick the tears from my eyes. I tried to tell people, because no one else knew. He told me I had to tell them I was lying. My friends stopped believing me. He gave me pot and alcohol most times to calm me down.
He would slap me around, pull my hair and tie me up. He called me beautiful. He watched me puke up all my food while he touched himself.
Six months later I left. I guess part of the reason I write this is to try to convince myself that it wasn’t my fault. I never went to the police because he has a wife and children. I didn’t want to ruin their lives. I cannot help but be mad at myself for what I did. I thought I was in love. I ask myself if it was rape, if it was my fault, if I deserved it. I still don’t know if I should hate myself for what I did.
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