Timeless Pain

Domestic violence is real. It is about control, and it kills. We have to continue saving lives; we must be responsible and keep teaching, and we need stronger support for both men and women.

When does enough pain and agony become an excuse to stay? Many women are asked repeatedly, “Why did you stay?”, “Do you love him?” and “What is wrong with you?”

We stayed because we had nothing to support our leaving. He made sure we had no money and no means of transportation. If we did, he kept track of the mileage for everything we did throughout the day. Yes, he did. He knew how many miles it took to go to school, the grocery store, or a doctor’s appointment and back home. He knew the times and dates. The phone had to be handy at all times; if there was no answer within 10 seconds of the second ring, I knew trouble was coming. We had no money, just enough for groceries and daily gas in the tank. He had cameras, even in the bathroom, so any plans or visits were out of the question. He made sure the mail went to a PO box. We rarely went to public places, but when we did, we were the perfect family.

Life as we knew it would never be the same. The day I decided to leave and never look back took all I had. It took only ten minutes to carry our most precious possessions. Ten minutes to choose what to take and what to leave behind. My children understood that we needed to go. They never asked why; they just packed as much as they could, knowing we couldn't take electronics because he could find us that way. No credit cards—well, at least not the ones he provided. We called shelters, family members, and groups in neighboring areas. “We are full, we don’t want any problems, and you have to go to the police department and file a report.” Too much red tape for a dire situation like this.

For months, I prepared myself. I started volunteering at school in the mornings. I had enough time to do at least one thing a day. A counselor from school lent me her car so I could go to the neighboring town and pick up my mail. Yes, I had a post office box. I applied for various credit cards and opened a bank account with a little money I took from everywhere. I even collected plastic bottles and exchanged them for cash. I started gathering food and clothing from pantries and taking them to the counselor’s home. It took five years of planning, hiding, and pretending. And then one day...

The unexpected happened: I got pregnant again. I had the choice to either tell him or have an abortion. My boys were older, 10 and 12 years old. I was not able to care for another mouth by myself, at least not at that point. I spoke to the boys, and they supported me in whatever decision I made.

The day was approaching; the plans came together, and then he decided to stay home that day and take the boys to school. He came home and started searching the house. I just sat there staring at him, as if he were crazy.

“I know what you are doing,” he said while walking toward me. “You think I don’t know that you are volunteering in order to see another man?”

Oh boy, here we go again. As I walked away, he grabbed my arm and pulled me so hard that I fell to the floor. He started to kick me, stomping on me as hard as he could. Then I woke up in a hospital with all kinds of tubes, IVs, and people around me. The doctors and nurses kept asking questions; I heard in passing that I had lost the baby and that I might not be able to have children ever again.

I woke up a second time. This time, the room was quiet, white, and bright. I had IVs and monitors hooked up to me. With the little vision I had left, I saw him sitting there watching me. I got up and walked closer. He looked at me and said, “If you ever leave me, I will find you and kill you.” All I could do was stare at him. I was not afraid anymore; I guess he had kicked the fear out of me. I said to him, “Bring it on.” As he got ready to move toward me, two detectives entered the room. They asked me if I was ready. I looked at them and said, “Yes, I am. Today is the day I become free from the bondage of my abuser.” He stared at me like I was crazy, trying to talk me out of whatever I was thinking. Two police officers came in and stood by my husband’s side as I was asked who had committed this crime against me. I pointed at my husband and said his name loud and clear. He was arrested and convicted. He will spend 15 years in prison—not enough time, but enough for me to get my life back, raise my children, and be happy.

Does this story sound too familiar? Or does it just sound like a Lifetime movie drama?

The reality is that eight times out of ten, this is not the end result.

As you read this second story, I believe it will resonate more as the truth for many women in the world. We are strong, and we are resilient, but we also make mistakes when we are afraid. Seek help; you are never alone.

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Yesterday, I finally gave in and took your telephone number. We talked for a very long time, and I agreed to have dinner with you that same week.

“And you were my first love.”

You were early; I was late. My makeup was a mess. The dinner was burnt when you came in, and I was crying. You kissed my forehead and asked me, “Do you want to dine in or out?”

“And he was my first love.”

Five years, too many kids. As a stay-at-home mom, I cooked and cleaned. He worked and took care of me.

As the years passed, my curves became straight lines. My happy smile was just a thing of the past.

“I thought you were the love of my life.”

I waited for long hours by the window, dashing to be there for you.

“The food is cold; you don’t know how to cook. Did you say something?”

He smelled of other women and liquor. He shamed me every time. He robbed me of my freedom and my life. He used me as his punching bag over and over again.

I tried to please him, but nothing stopped him from kicking my soul out of my body.

I just asked him, “Where are you going?” And before I could finish, I would wake up in the same hospital bed.

A few broken ribs, a couple of stitches, and fewer teeth in my mouth. He would stand right by me to assert his dominion over me.

I went home and rested for a couple of hours. Right then, I knew I was broken in more ways than one. The abuse was verbal, emotional, and psychological.

I called my mother; she took the children for the weekend. As usual, he was late, smelling of liquor and women.

The dinner was cooked, and I dressed for the occasion. He came in, took a look at me, and laughed. He grabbed my arm and called me ugly, sliding his hand under my dress.

“Wait, let me bring the dessert.”

“Hurry!” he said.

After ten years, she walked down the hallway. She wore a short haircut. She was thin and in shackles as she sat in front of the parole board.

Pleasantries were exchanged. As she became quiet, avoiding eye contact, this woman was asked once again, “Why did you stab him over a hundred times, keeping his body for over a week in the house?” At this time, she looked up, making eye contact as she answered the question:

“I wanted him to feel the same way I felt for 20 years—afraid, helpless, and defeated.”