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1:4 #9, The Photographer

DSCF9381  Please share what happened to you:

He was (of course) unlike anyone I had ever met. He was also quite charming and good-looking, and he was paying attention to me. He gave me an awareness of the connectivity running through everything…a love of coincidences that has reappeared in sobriety. I felt we were brought together by magic…he told me so and I believed him. It was fate that had brought us together; we were soul mates.

I wanted all these things so badly…had wanted them for as long as I could remember. I turned all this need into worship. Any power I might have had before was given over to this man…and I was lost: Immediately, hopelessly, and dizzyingly lost.

And this was only the beginning.

“Tell me everything,” he said, and I told him.

“Tell me about your past relationships,” he said, and I told him more.

He wanted to know everything about me, and I wanted to give it to him. I felt safe—loved. He wanted to watch over me, and I craved it. He placed himself in the role of savior, and I believed I needed one.

I showed him excerpts from my journals, hoping to give him understanding. I carried a weight, too, and wanted him to lift it. I kept only small pieces, tucked into myself unseen, not wanting to hurt him—not wanting him to think less of me.

He took it upon himself to find them anyway, reading my journals without permission, and when he had armed himself with my complete story; when he knew everything, he began to break me down.

“Who was that?” he asked after we ran into Sam as we were out walking. “How do you know him?”

I told him the truth. I thought it was safe. He knew my history, he knew I slept around a lot before I met him, but it was my past—it was behind me, I thought, forever.

“Did you fuck him?”

In the bar I watch him drink shot after shot of whiskey while beers slide down his throat like water. There is a moment—if I could slow down time to show each second lingering like a hummingbird, you could see it—the twist inside him; a snapping of a twig. I can see it in his face, and I get to know this moment well.

Before this moment he loves me, caresses me, kisses me. He is kind. I am happy.

After this moment he is someone else, someone new to me the first time it happens, but one who eventually replaces the boyfriend I thought I had. He despises me, suspects me, yells at me.

“Who are you checking out?” he hisses into my ear. “Do you want to fuck that guy? Is that what you want? You are a fucking whore, you fucking bitch.”

I sob. I cry and protest and beg forgiveness for things I haven’t done. I am begging forgiveness for things I have done. Please love me again, please love me again, please love me.

We end up in screaming matches in the bars, out on the street. Friends are helpless to stop it. He leaves, I curl into myself even further, sobbing, drunk, alone. I often find myself in doorways or in alleys, holding onto the pavement to remind me of this world.

I try to keep my eyes to the ground; to only look at the drinks in front of me, the bartender, him. I only stare directly at the person reading on stage. I am shell-shocked. I don’t want to give him reason to hate me. It doesn’t matter, of course.  He can’t stop that twisting inside from happening unless he stops drinking. We both know that he will not.

He flirts. It is a different woman every few weeks, it seems, and he leads them on. They each fall for it as I have, thinking he will stay with them, but he keeps coming back to me. He loves me, I think.

But no, he owns me. I let him.

I lived in fear of these moments, moments that repeated and repeated; my heart too big for me as I shrunk further into myself.

 

            A definition of insanity:

            Doing the same thing over and over again, expecting different results.

 

If I could just be what he wanted; who he wanted. If I could just figure out what that was. If I could only; if he would only…I held on to the magic of those first few months, when I had been swept up into love like dandelion pollen blown to bits.

His birthday one year…our housemates are at a hotel to celebrate their anniversary. I make a special dinner. I wrap gifts with loving hands. I open the wine, light the candles and wait.

I wait while the dinner gets cold. Is this what I have become? Have I been reduced to a caricature of the put-upon female? I am afraid now. He will be drunk when he comes home—if he comes home.

He stumbles in the door reeking of whiskey and cigarettes and laughs at me for being mad. I tuck it away, again, and say a silent prayer for salvation. We sit to eat; we drink wine. He opens his present of books (of course). I am terrified. I know that he reached that turning point long before he came into the house. This is not the man I love, yet over and over again I pretend he is.

I don’t know what set him off this time, but it was only a matter of time for it to happen: hissing insults, hurls of accusations and then chaos—screaming, crying, violent turmoil. He lights the book on fire and throws it at me. My crying and pleading only make things worse, enrage him further. He is upstairs now, destroying my things. He smashes my stereo with his foot. I scream for him to stop, please stop, and he throws two chairs, one after the other, down the stairs at me. Old needle pointed cushion chairs from my parents, chairs from my childhood, turn end over end down the staircase, smashing into the kitchen. My rage begins to surface and I run upstairs to fight him, to stop him. I pull on him, hit him, shout in his face and he only laughs at me and curses me.

These fights blur together in my memory, pock-marked with holes left by drugs never to be filled in:

A door slammed so hard the full-length mirror shattered in pieces onto the floor.

Standing on the side of the street in a shoving match, crumbling to my knees because I just don’t have the energy anymore and cops stop their vehicle. They don’t get out. He convinces them I’m fine, just dramatic and a woman. I think they laugh. I know they drive away.

A wish to escape. A bottle of valium left behind. Swallowing one after the other. He’s passed out now upstairs in our room. The silence envelops me as I sit on the couch, holding the empty bottle. He’ll see, I think. He’ll be sorry. There will be no more of this.

Waking up to my friend shaking me, my housemates have home to a war zone; their poor dog cowering in the basement, the cats all scattered.

I am alive, and I am disappointed.

He left me but came back to torture me often (I let him). I was an addict. Then I was a pregnant drug addict who finally hit bottom. I went into rehab, pregnant with his child. I still wasn’t away from him for a long long time after that. He told me in rehab that he should bring me a razor blade so I could kill myself. This, after bringing me Chinese food and worrying over me.

I had so much guilt over keeping the pregnancy a secret, I still allowed him to dictate terms. I bent over backwards to let him have a relationship with our daughter. I didn’t tap his checks for child support. I was flexible and kind even when he constantly tried to push my buttons. I was a fucking doormat, in other words. It wasn’t until many years later when our daughter stood up to him for the first time for me to finally see him more clearly than I ever had. A narcissist. A misogynist. An asshole. Things I knew, but constantly made excuses for. My daughter is the strong one.

DSCF9411How are you doing now?

I am ok, mostly. I still don’t know what a good relationship looks like (though I got closer than ever with my marriage). I still catch myself being submissive with men once there is romantic or sexual attraction. I defer. I stay quiet. Not as badly as I once did, but it is there. At least I have some awareness of it now. Being under that kind of control with that much intensity leaves a mark, even without punches being thrown.

DSCF9405Is there anything about domestic violence you’d like to tell the world?

I want people to understand that anybody can find themselves caught up in a bad relationship before they realize what is happening. None of these relationships start out horrible. They change subtly at first and once you get into making excuses and start believing that the problems are your own fault, the pattern gets locked in. If it escalates, then you are terrified to do anything different. The abuser has you right where he wants you. It is all about power and control.

1:4 #7, The Psych Nurse

Psych Nurse in DC 1

Please share what happened to you:

What happened to me?  My mother.

I was born to an 18 year old girl who had recently endured the unexpected death of her father and who had been raised a witness to and victim of domestic abuse herself.  Unlike my father, who was essentially tortured by his father but had a good mother, my mother was not able to empathize with those she would now be in a position to abuse.  So, she carried on the multi-generational legacy of physical and emotional family violence.
She told me once that she pulled my hair then smacked my face when I was less than 2 years old, because I didn’t get her a towel fast enough.  When I was 12 and sad that I didn’t have a boyfriend, she said, “Fat girls can’t have boyfriends.”  I mentioned two overweight girls who had boyfriends, and mom responded, “Fat girls only have boyfriends if they have sex.”
When I was 14, she could tell somehow that I’d been kissed by a boy and she wheedled it out of me.  She wanted to ‘share.’  Two days later, I came home a few minutes late because of torrential rains.  She greeted me at the door screaming at me that I was a whore and a slut.  She slapped me repeatedly and in the process scratched my forehead deeply.  She threw me to the ground and kicked me repeatedly in the stomach screaming that I was a whore.  My sister finally got mom to stop and I was told to go to my room.  The next morning, mom asked where I got the long scab on my face, and when I said ‘From you,’ she denied any violence or name calling.
Many years later, when I was telling my mom about a group on self-forgiveness that I was teaching at the time, mom asked me to suggest an event she could use to go through the self-forgiveness process.   I reminded her of that beating and verbal abuse because frankly I’d never forgotten it.  Her enraged response: “Your [now deceased] dad just sat there.  Why aren’t you mad at him?”  Then she wrote me a long email which I did not finish, but which began by telling me how awful I am.
In fact, my brain had decided dad must have been at work, but my sister confirmed he had been there and done nothing.   It was later that same year, when she ordered him to beat me with a belt, that he came into my room, sat down, and cried, telling me he could not hit me anymore.    He went on to do much better at protecting me, but she is a narcissistic whirlwind of anxiety and abuse that cannot really be contained.
Before his death, he had told her he wouldn’t bring her to my house anymore if she criticized my housekeeping while visiting.  After his death, I hosted her, in her grief, for weeks at a time.  Once, when she was pointing out my lack of housekeeping skills, I mentioned dad told me about not wanting her to do that anymore.  She replied, “Well, your father’s dead now, isn’t he?”
He died while I was performing CPR on him and while she was repeatedly punching me on the back as I was doing the CPR.
She continued to hit me when it suited her well into my adult years, and only when she hit my kids did I call her out on her abuse.  Her response was to hit me, laugh, say it was nothing and I should loosen up.  She continued to blend verbal abuse with sexual guilt;  six years ago, when I told her about a man I was dating, she grabbed my stomach and said, “Do you think he could love you with a stomach like that?  Do you think any man could love you with a stomach like that?”
She took my oldest son to Italy and got him drunk when he was 14.  She then proceeded to tell him for hours what horrible parents he had.  He never had a relationship with her again, as he is very very good at drawing boundaries.  I’ve learned a lot from him about that.  One day, during her grief travels, she was again at my house and I heard her saying the same horrible stuff to my youngest son.  He was 11.  I laid in bed and cried, waiting until she went to bed and then I got my son and we went to 7-11 and bought kettle chips and coca cola, and ate them at the FDR Memorial, (which is quite gorgeous at night.)  We talked about what she had done, and that I had failed to protect him, because I didn’t feel strong enough to confront her.
I told the man who liked me well enough despite my stomach  of that event.  He said, “How long are you going to let your mother abuse you and your children?”  I was stunned.  He’d listened to me complain for 18 months, and thank goodness he finally told me the truth:  I was responsible for what happened from this point on.   I  started setting limits on the number of days she could stay on visits.  She can’t keep herself together long enough to not be verbally abusive during her stays.  Finally, last February, when she asked why I was not answering her daily emailed question about whether the gent who likes me despite my stomach was calling, I said, “I don’t think at my age, I need to tell my mom every time my boyfriend calls me.”  To which she responded, “You are low.” Maybe I’m wrong about my responses here, but it feels dangerous to let her anywhere near my relationships.  I’ve tried to share  a few things with her about this man, and it never goes well.
After she told me I was low, she kept writing, and  I didn’t answer her emails, but I posted something cute to her on Facebook.  I chose that because every single email was a manipulation of drama, feigned concern, and even talk of (false) money woes designed to get me to answer the emails.
Two days after the post, she sent police to my house telling them to check on me because she hadn’t heard from me in so long.  She warned me in a text that she would do this unless I called her immediately.   I could not tolerate the manipulation another moment and allowed the police to arrive.  I’ve not answered any of her calls, texts,  or emails since.
It is probably not surprising that I rarely dated.  When I was 19, I was living with a man who beat me so severely I had two black eyes and pain all over my body when he was done.  He beat me at a concert while dozens of people looked on.  When he got off my stomach, which he was sitting on in order to better punch my face and chest, people then asked if I wanted help.  They disgusted me more than he did, I think.
I got back in the car with him because the concert was in a very bad part of town and I was in danger regardless of where I went and who I was with.  The boyfriend only wanted to know, day after day afterwards, if I would leave him.  I did eventually, because I found a man who was very smart, made me laugh, could earn a living, and wouldn’t beat me, cheat on me, or live off me as the violent boyfriend did.  I married this second man, and he was terrifyingly emotionally abusive and extraordinarily manipulative.  Within a month of our marriage, we were walking over a creek on a footbridge.  He pushed me over the low wall and then grabbed me back.  He denied what he had done and, perhaps in keeping with mom always denying what she had done,  I convinced myself I was wrong.  But I was afraid of him after that.  Once, when I said I wanted to vote for Jesse Jackson for president, he screamed at me for so many hours, I finally locked myself in the bathroom and slept in the tub.
When I wanted to go to a show (with him, but he would never go) or out with friends after we married, he would say “I guess I’ll have to get used to being without you.” or “Why don’t you just divorce me if you don’t want to be with me?”  He would become so enraged while driving, and always blamed that on me, that he would make left turns into oncoming traffic – left turns, you see, puts me closest to that oncoming traffic.  Once, he ran a woman off the road he was so angry.  I did stop driving with him, and do  not, to this day, allow him to drive our children anywhere.  When we were first married, he told me he knew how to kill people without getting caught.  When I was leaving him, he said at the dinner table that he had read a story in a magazine.  It was a horrifying tale of a woman leaving her husband and he broke her fingers so she couldn’t open the car door to get away. I screamed at him to shut the fuck up.  And my kids said – mom, it’s just a story.  calm down.  He pulled a butcher knife out of a drawer, held it up, and said, “Hey, wanna be in a carnival?  All you have to do is stand still.”
He only hit me one time, very early on – and again it was my fault; he had to slam his fist into my knee making me limp for a week because I had emphasized a point I was making by hitting the back of my palm against his shoulder.  I did learn not to do that again!  And I also learned to make my life very narrow to avoid enraging him.  I think many people do not understand how abusive a home can be if they don’t see bruises.  I lost a lot of friends when I made the decision to leave him, but then again, I lost out on a lot of friends by staying with him all those years.
He  threatened suicide off and on during the marriage.  I wanted to save him, help him heal, show him life was worth living.  And in doing so, threw so much of my own life away.  He threatened suicide in front of our children two years before I left.  That night, I prayed that he would do it, then knowing awful for my kids it would be, I  tried once again to get him to accept help.  He told the doctor he was under stress.  I told the doctor how he screamed at us all the time and the doctor put him on medication for bipolar disorder. When I moved out, he said he didn’t need it anymore because I was the only person who upset him.
I would wake up in the morning and there would be rage in the air.  Rage that I hadn’t initiated sex with him.  He could have initiated sex with me but never did.  So, I would do it under fear of his rage.  This to me was rape, coerced sex.    Or sometimes I would just not do it and our house would seethe with his rage all day.  He would sleep with his arm pushing down on my diaphragm, and when I  complained that I couldn’t breathe, he told me I didn’t love him.  Which eventually, of course, became quite true.  He monitored my clothing, my makeup, my jewelry, all my comings and goings.  He would make my young son run errands with me, even on snowy or rainy days.  When I would say – he should stay home, my husband would say, “No, I worry about you.  I want someone with you.”
I decided to leave when four events spread over about 4 years happened.  No doubt, my father’s death at a young age alerted me to the fact that time could be running out for me.   The other events included intense public verbal abuse in front of our kids and dozens of hikers.  That was the last straw, I think, but I was also profoundly touched by the realization that strangers were nicer to me than my husband was.  I especially saw this when he was yelling at me on the phone when I said I had a flat tire, yelling because he said he just knew I’d save the tire changing for him.  As I was reassuring him I would never do that, two men knocked on my door, said they’d noticed I had a flat, and could they please repair it for me.  Angels, perhaps they were.

psychnurse by Washington Monument

How are you doing now?

I am doing very well.  I am out of my abusive marriage more than 7 years now.  I used to always say – “I just want peace.”  About four years ago, I realized I was starting to feel it, to feel at peace.
I was lucky to be born with a very optimistic, sunny nature.  I laugh a lot.  I hope.  Spending time outdoors is very important to me and it’s a commitment to myself I rarely forgo.  I must walk.  I must be outside.
Finances are a huge struggle for me, and a big source of stress since I ended things with my mom, because there’s no one to call if I need, say,  four new tires, except the landlord to tell him I’m gonna be late on the rent.  There’s no margin for error and no savings.  The peace is worth this stress and my daily walks help.
I get immense satisfaction from my work as a psychiatric nurse, but I struggle with the authority figures.  I keep expecting if I am good at my job, hard working and honest and manage to have a profound and positive impact on my patients’ struggles, then I will be treated with respect.  This is not the case.  Co-workers tell me it’s not personal, tell me how they struggle with abuse from our bosses, too.  I can see my brain is different from theirs, my response to difficult people is to personalize it.  Sometimes, I feel scared.  I wonder too much about fairness.  Fortunately, after years of therapy, I don’t really think there’s something wrong with me.  I just can’t shake my futile expectation that things should be fair, people should be nice.
One other co-worker is a product of a violent, abusive parent.  She struggles like I do with worry about treatment from the bosses, worries in a way our co-workers who weren’t raised this way just don’t.
My sons are good young men, and are smart and funny and enjoy spending (at least some) time with me.  It makes me very happy to hang out with them and they always inspire and teach me.  I try to do the same.
The man who doesn’t mind my stomach is still in my life.  He has a troubled background too, and we continue to teach each other about vulnerability and trust and love – and most days, I think we’ll make it to happily ever after.  In the meantime, we are smart and funny and loving and supportive for each other, and that is very good.
(My foster sister thinks I chose a long-distance relationship to stay safe.  I say I hate that aspect of things, and just happened, because of a chance meeting in a game, run into the man I should’ve met so many years ago.  There’s probably something to what she says…)

DSCF7848-2

 

Is there anything  about domestic violence you’d like to tell the world?

I know now, as a psychiatric nurse, which I became when I left  after 25 years of marriage, that my husband’s suicide threats were more about a personality disorder than depression.  I cannot possibly explain to you how I could leave my children at home with a man who I really believed might kill himself.  In the end, he never has, so I suppose my tormented decisions were correct, but I opened my front door with trepidation hundreds of times.
Why do I say this?  The precarious juggling of decisions about how to survive abuse, how to make it moment by moment, how to choose between all bad options is made even more challenging because abuse fills you with self-doubt.   If it’s a parent that does this abuse, it’s a struggle to believe one has a right to happiness.  And abuse is very isolating.
Don’t expect your friends who are or were abused to look at things the way you do.  It changes us.  We are by no means monolithic in response or opinions, but our calculus could be very different from yours.  You can judge us, but it’s better if you walk beside us.  Tell us hard truths, but don’t expect us to follow your advice right now.  We may already know what we should do and are working on the strength to do it.
Kaiser Permanente did a study called the ACE study.  ACE stands for adverse childhood events.  The study proves that domestic violence is a public health issue.  Experiencing domestic violence in its many forms increases exponentially the odds that one will be an addict, that one will die young, that one will have multiple illnesses of a psychiatric and non-psychiatric nature.  Do what you can, do what makes sense to you, to fight this public health emergency.
AND! Speak up when you see a child abused.  Speak up at least to the child when you can – whisper – “this isn’t normal and you don’t deserve to be treated like this.”  I wish to God one person had said that to me when I was a child, and I’ve said it to a few children since becoming an adult.  “How to talk so kids will listen and listen so kids will talk” is a wonderful child-rearing manual, especially for people who want to parent differently than their own parents did, but haven’t a clue how.  I love this book and it made all the difference in the world for me and my children.
I think of this poem a lot.  I’m not as cynical as Larkin.  Domestic violence is undoubtedly a generational sickness, but every generation can do better than the last.  You owe it to your children to try.

Philip Larkin – This Be The Verse
They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another’s throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don’t have any kids yourself.

 

DSCF7857-2

1:4 #6, The Paramedic

anonymous lady at coffee shop

Please share what happened to you:

I’ve had several experiences with domestic violence.  I was molested between ages 4-6, so I grew up confused and mistrustful of people.  I never felt safe in my world.  My father was abusive physically and emotionally, so this environment was “normal” to me.  I didn’t know there was any other way to live.
Sadly, I gave a boy a ride home from school when I was 17, and he directed me to an automotive garage, where he told me his car was waiting to be picked up.  After driving around the back, fear began to creep up my spine…the place was abandoned.  He directed me to park, and shut off my engine.  He proceded to push me down, tear off my shorts, and rape me.  No amount of pleading, crying or fighting could stop him.  I told him I was a virgin, but he just wouldn’t stop.  I just remember being hit and choked, and there being blood on my clothes.  I was in shock afterwards, and felt like the world was in slow motion.  He had me drive him to his house, and I could barely drive, I was shaking so badly.  I blamed myself for being so stupid and naive.  I was dirty and ruined now, I thought.  So I got into the shower, and scrubbed myself raw, while I cried like my heart was broken.  I threw away my bloody clothes, and tried to push the incident out of my mind, like I always had before.  Growing up in an abusive environment, you learn to survive by moving forward.  It wasn’t gone, however, it was just repressed.

A few years later, I was waiting to meet a girlfriend at a club, and met a friendly guy.  I ordered one drink, and after a few minutes, I remember asking him if we were in the same place?  Or did we leave and go somewhere else, as I was not recognizing my surroundings.  That’s the last memory I have until I woke up naked in his bed, with him raping my unconscious body.  I know now that he drugged my drink.  I grabbed my clothes and ran out without shoes on, and walked for hours back to my car in a fog.  How could this happen again?  How could I be so careless?  Self-blame is the first response many times.  I’ve had to learn over the years that it wasn’t my fault.  I went thru a cycle of abusive relationships, both mentally and physically.  They reinforced how I felt about myself.  We accept the love we think we deserve, and that’s all I thought I deserved.  I’ve had to learn a process of forgiveness, self-caring, and gaining self respect.  It’s an ongoing struggle, but I’m doing better at accepting and receiving love.  Real, healthy love.  From myself, first and foremost.

How are you doing now?

     Sadly, I’ve had more than my fair share of domestic violence…more than a lot of people, but sadly, I know there are many more women out there who have faired much worse than I, and have even paid with their lives.  I’m blessed to be able to share my experiences, in the hopes that it might help another woman avoid the pitfalls and mistakes I’ve made.  I’m a Paramedic, and have used my training and personal experiences to help women who are victims themselves of rapes, beatings at the hands of someone who claimed to love them, and those who are terrified to leave, and don’t know what options and resources are available out there for them.  And just a simple human gesture, like “I can’t image how you must be feeling…and I’m so sorry for what you’ve been through, but please know it’s NOT YOUR FAULT.  You’re a survivor, and I promise that each day, you’ll get a little bit stronger, and heal just a tiny bit more.  I know…because I’ve been there myself.  I’ve been raped.  I’ve been hit.  There’s no excuse and no sense to what has happened here today.  But let’s get you some help.  You are NOT ALONE, I promise you.  Take my hand….”.  Just having empathy with a woman who is hurting is a common connection.  It’s a language only victims of violence can speak and understand.  I hope in some small part, I can not only do my job, but start the journey of  healing emotionally in some small way.  It’s the only way I can make sense of what’s happened to me…I was meant to turn something terrible into a tool for helping and healing.  And that’s how I make sense of the world, when nothing seems to make any sense at all.

Paramedic at coffee shop

Is there anything  about domestic violence you’d like to tell the world?

     First of all, it’s not your fault.  It doesn’t matter how you’re dressed, if you’re having a drink with the girls, if you went on a date with a guy and changed your mind about how far things should go.  It’s your body, and your choice.  No always means no.  Every single time, no exceptions.  Also, a woman gets raped every 6 seconds…and that’s ONLY what is statistically reported, so the numbers are much higher.  Women need to be proactive, not reactive, with those odds against them.  Educate yourselves.  Park in lighted areas at night.  Have keys in hand, and observe your surroundings.  Don’t let yourself be drinking and left alone…have a buddy system in place.  Girls who come together leave together, with one sober driver to keep everyone in check.  Self defense classes are INDISPENSABLE!!!!  Protect yourself BEFORE AN INCIDENT!!!  And it’s not your fault if you’re hit or hurt in any way….REPORT THE CRIME.  Don’t let fear or shame stop you from standing up for yourselves.  Don’t let them get away with it.  Silence won’t stop the violence.  You just might be saving your life, or the life of another woman.  There IS HELP OUT THERE!  Have a plan, a code word for help, a bag packed at a friend’s house if you need to escape, and copies of all important documents in your emergency bag.  Always have a plan A,B, and C.  And talking about it gets the word out.  It’s time to take domestic violence out of the shame of darkness, and into the light of healing.

Guarded

1:4 #5, The College Student

Student with Coffee Please share what happened to you:

Well when i was in middle school, my best friend at the time had introduced me to a boy. He was only a little over a year older than me, but he was big. At least 6’4 and over 200lbs. Not fat, but muscular. I may have flirted with him a bit, but being a virgin, i was in no rush to go all the way. One sunny day, he invited me to the park. It was a beautiful park with a wooded area covered in trees. He asked me to follow him, and i did. I was young and naive and decided I could trust him. He led me into the woods. What happened next I did not expect. He started kissing me and taking my shirt off. Being in a public park I was not too thrilled with the idea. He continued and took my bra off and my skirt and underwear. Why wasn’t I stopping him? That same question ran through my head until i was completely naked and he was holding me down by the shoulders while i was laying on my back on the ground. Suddenly, I couldn’t think anymore. No matter what I did, there was just silence in my head. I was frozen, like some people are as they take a test. All of a sudden, I felt a horrifying pain, but I couldn’t move. The pain lasted for longer than I could count. I felt tears rolling down my cheeks and I was pretty sure I was bleeding, you know, down there. After what felt like forever, he finally got up and threw my clothes on my stomach and told me to get dressed. I didn’t want to move, but I did. I got up, got dressed, and went on with my day as if nothing had happened. I felt ashamed. My mom didn’t like that boy from the moment she met him, so I was too scared to tell her. I managed to hold onto that piece of information until I was in college before revealing it to my family. Im very lucky that I froze up instead of fought him, because I have a feeling it could have been a lot worse.Student thinking

How are you doing now?

Well, I think I am doing really well. I have lots of support behind me and I am in counseling. I have also considered helping out at a rape center. I don’t get flashbacks anymore, but I can’t say I am or will ever be 100% recovered from that event.

college student with coffee and phone

Is there anything  about domestic violence you’d like to tell the world?

Whether it is domestic violence, an abusive relationship of some sort, rape, or any of the negative things that can happen, seek help. You are not alone and can get through this. You don’t deserve it, no matter what you convince yourself or what the abusive person is trying to tell you. It is not your fault. Also, i want everyone to take abuse and violence more seriously. Using the term rape so loosely is hurtful. You don’t realize what the person you are saying it to has gone through. Your words could trigger a flashback. Please be careful and choose your words wisely. And to those that use rape as an excuse or a way to get attention, shame on you. Until you have experienced it, you will never understand what all of us survivors (even past victims) have had to encounter.

Student Portrait

1:4 #4, The Animal/Agriculture Worker

Domestic VIolence Volunteer #4

(editors note: This lady escaped her situation years ago. )

Please share what happened to you:

Honestly, I’m still processing things. I keep myself busy so I don’t have to. I put my faith and trust in all the wrong people- at this point- I’m numb. I’m not ready to face it. At times- I still feel it’s presence.

How are you doing now?

I just keep busy. I find happiness in the little things.

Is there anything  about domestic violence you’d like to tell the world?

Please, women and men (and children!) learn to depend on no one but yourself. Take care of YOU. You have to make yourself happy, NO one else will do it for you.

 

Domestic Violence Volunteer #4

Here is my initial call for volunteers from my blog

This post is the post I did on my personal blog site, with a few small edits. I’m currently working with my first volunteers and hope to publish those photos soon!

When I heard that about 1 in 4 women will experience domestic violence in their life time, I was shocked and saddened. I’ve known several women in my lifetime that have told me of their experience so, I knew it happened, but not at that level. I’d like to see what I can do to change that, even a little. Some of my life experiences have shown me what it’s like to be part of a statistic. It can be quite an attack on the core.

I’m not sure exactly how this will play out in the end, but here’s what I want to try. I want to put faces on this. I think too many people think “oh, that only happens to other people, not people like me”. I want to use kind of a Humans of New York approach. If you’ve experienced domestic violence (male or female!) and are brave enough to share and, maybe, make a difference, please contact me. You can use that email link, the contact form for my page, or private message me on Face Book. We’ll meet someplace and take a few simple portraits of you in nice natural light. I’ll do it digitally, I think in black and white. You’ll be in your normal clothes, whatever hair and make up you usually show the world. I hope the shoot itself doesn’t take more than 10 minutes out of your life. You’ll tell me whatever you care to share about the experience (I’ll use my phone to record your comment, or maybe you can email me before hand) and I’ll post the photo. I anticipate the format of the experience being something like First Name, Age, Job (maybe your city?) : and anything from one or two sentences to a paragraph or two about what happened. No names of the person who violated your trust.

I’m not sure how many folks will be strong enough to step forward, or how many I’ll be able to take, but, I’m willing to try if you are. You need to be reasonably sure the perpetrator won’t feel the need to exact a toll for your sharing of the violence with the world. Your safety comes first. Maybe we can get enough to do a gallery show, or a book. I don’t know where this will go. I do think they’ll be amongst the most important photos I’ve done.