I want to tell you a story. An entirely true story from my childhood that I have been thinking about a lot as a young adult. If you’re lucky, the only way you’re familiar with domestic abuse is through an ad on the television about knowing the signs or maybe you remember one movie where domestic abuse was woven into the plot. If you’re not lucky, if you’re like me, you’ve had a front row seat to the real thing.
It’s a touchy subject, I know, and I wasn’t sure if I was even going to write this article in the first place. I was afraid of being vulnerable about a thing that I don’t even like thinking about anymore. The thing is, to fight your demons; you must face them. Really, I think it takes even more courage to face your demons than it does to fight them.
A preface; in this story, there are no victims, only survivors.
My mother, this hilarious lady who raised me and my sister by herself after our father died, met a man when I was around ten-years-old. I was told not to name him in this article because it might raise legal issues. I won’t name him, but not because of those legal issues. I won’t name him because he doesn’t deserve to be named.
The real story starts in a trailer somewhere in Marietta, Georgia. It starts with me, a freckled ten-year-old, sitting in my mother’s room with her later in the evening. On this evening, her boyfriend had been out for most the day. I was too young then to understand what it meant for someone to be drunk, but when he came stumbling down the hall that night; I think I started to understand.
The story starts with an argument between my mother and her boyfriend that quickly turned into a screaming match. I remember sitting on her bed as they stood in the doorway to the hall. I remember being scared, really scared for one of the first times in my life.
Y’know in movies when something really bad happens and time seems to slow down and seconds melt into minutes and minutes into hours? When the background noise fades out and the main character has an inner monologue with themselves about how everything went downhill from there? This was nothing like that at all.
Time went by like normal, if anything it seemed to all happen too quickly. I could still hear everything around me loud and clear and nothing was going in slow motion. I watched my mom have hands wrapped around her throat and I watched her be hit for the first time by this man who she had told me she loved. She didn’t have anyone to save her, after all I was just a kid. All I could do was sit there and cry because I didn’t know what else to do.
That night I felt powerless and small, I felt like I was completely helpless in a cruel, cruel world. Feelings such as these are not meant for children. They aren't even meant for grown men.
That’s how this story starts, and it goes on for another ten years. I watched my mom get hit and screamed at and torn apart and broken down. I watched this man do horrible things to the person I loved the most and then I watched him pretend that nothing ever happened. There were moments in between, times where the abuse wasn’t only directed at my mom. Those are a part of the story too.
This is my story because it has shaped who I am. However, it is not my only story and it’s not my mother or sister’s only story. The man who doesn’t deserve a name thought that he would make our lives just one story, but we’re far more resilient than that.
To the man who thought he might turn our lives into one sad story, this is the end of your chapter. You failed, and you failed miserably.
You see, I’m telling this story because I know there are others just like me. Girls and boys who sit awake at night, living within a story much like the one I have told you today. I'm telling you a story of something I hate thinking about because it's time I faced my demons. I have to face my demons because I don't want to ever feel the way I felt that night ever again.
To those kids, I want you to know that this is not the ending; it’s just a chapter. A chapter that many have made it through, as will you, and I want you to know that there are people who will help you. They might be teachers at school who notice the signs of domestic abuse in the bags under your eyes. They might be friends who open their homes and arms to you.
And if it feels like there's no one, I have one piece of advice for you. Reach out. I know it's hard and I know it's embarrassing, but when you reach out you relieve yourself of some of the pain that you hold in your heart. Go to school, talk to your favorite teacher. Tell your friends and tell their parents. Please, tell someone what’s going on. It’s scary, but help will come and with it; a new chapter of your life.
This is a story and all stories have endings. The ending to this story is that my mother got out. It took a long time, but she got out and she’s working on a new chapter of her life. And I have never been more proud of her than I am when she calls me and I can hear traces of the woman she used to be before this story started. The ending to this story is that sometimes I have nightmares about that chapter of my life, but I also have amazing dreams of the chapters that have yet to come.
To my mother, I want you to know that you have nothing to feel humiliated about. You got out, and it doesn’t matter how long it took. Thank you for understanding that this is part of my story as well as yours and letting me tell it. Thank you for raising me into the person I am today, and thank you for loving me for who I am. Thank you for giving me an amazing sister who has always been there for both of us. I love you both.
If you or anyone you know is in an abusive relationship, please contact the authorities or call the national domestic abuse hotline: 1−800−799−7233
