The Ending: My Story of Domestic Violence

"Some women are not as lucky as I am. Some never walked away. Some died, and there are thousands that wish they would. ... and if anyone reads this that is walking in the shoes that I walked in. Leave. Leave now. Your life depends on it."


The Ending:

For some of us, writing the raw and unguarded secrets of the heart is painful. It brings back many memories and feelings. Some good, and some unpleasant. Some that make you shudder, and some that make you cry. For me, I'm finding that as I've thought deeply this past week about my walk with domestic violence, it has been therapeutic, and both cleansing and healing. It has helped me to write these words and look deeper into my future, and it has shown me that my path is golden, and my future is good. I know that I will never have a hand raised towards me again, and I know that all men are not abusive.

I walked away from that marriage seven years ago. Yet today he haunts me. He continues to be in my present. He harasses me, he threatens me, and I believe that will never change. I believe that he, and others like him, will never change. I don't think he is capable of change. His violence is his sickness and his power, and his attempt to control.

He still yet attempts to control our kids, with threats and anger. He still yet feels that I deserve what he did to me . I believe that his rage lies dormant and I believe that it will rise again, and he will rear his ugly head like that of a snake ready to strike. His venom is poisonous ... his words are deadly. But yet, I am no longer afraid of him. I now pity him.

I used to pray that he would die a lonely man. Totally alone. That was to be my revenge. The satisfaction of him knowing that he will never have me, and that I left him for ~ ME ~. I have prayed that he would feel hands around his throat squeezing, until he sinks to the ground unable to breath. I have prayed that he would feel the cold steel of a gun to his head, and hear the click of the trigger, not knowing if he would live or die, then hear the sick laughter when there was no explosion. I have prayed that he would feel someone kicking his stomach until he's vomits. I have prayed that he would hear the crack of his skull as it hit concrete. I have prayed that he would be unable to see because his eyes were swollen shut, and that he would choke on the taste of his own blood. Many times in the past, I prayed that he would physically feel the things he did to me, and suffer for it. Mainly, I prayed that his tongue would be ripped from his head and I would never have to hear his voice again.

I no longer pray for these things to happen to him .... I have found my peace, my place in life, and I thank God that the nightmares are no longer vivid, and no longer visit me frequently, and when they come, I have safe arms to remind me that I am no longer there.

As I write these words ... I feel like I to was tormented for wishing these things upon him. Forgiveness is hard. I haven't found that I can do that yet. I know that I will never forget.

Because we have children together, there are times that I have to be in the same room with him. I feel the chills running up my spine long before I see his face. Even though I hide it well, I feel the nausea in the pit of my stomach and I hear his cold promise to me the day I left him "I will make you pay until the day you die." .... and he does.

I read this on another blog, and it made me think, "And so I began to think of the power of women's stories, and what they mean in our lives. Women's stories can be, are meant to be, a source of strength, a lesson learned, a poignant memory that unlocks one in our own heart. Something to take forward with us on our own journey - the idea that you are not alone."

Domestic violence is not only in the homes of the poor, or the uneducated. The violence we endured as educated upper middle class people, is everywhere. It is everywhere. There is no neighborhood that is exempt. From the very rich to the very poor. It is hidden behind four walls, tucked away like a great secret, until some woman, some day tells her story.

Everyone has a story to tell. It's been said, "there is nothing more painful than having an untold story inside you."

If you've read these words, please leave a comment. If only your name, I'd like to know. Mainly, if you know someone that is in danger from domestic violence, reach out to them. It could make a difference in their life. It could make a difference if they live. Many women are killed by men everyday in their own home. Statistics say that most of these women live with these men, and have been abused prior to that relationship. Speak up. Save another woman from domestic abuse. ... and for some women reading this, it could be your own life that you're saving.

Be Blessed,
Tan

Soon I will write about ~ Starting Over ~ and how I met my Marlboro Man and came to have his triplets.

PART TWO: MY STORY OF DOMESTIC VIOLENCE

"So the cycle goes .... like an old wringer washer that turns and turns and turns, and never stops until you pull the plug, and drain the dirty water from the tub. It spreads out onto the ground and soaks into the dirt, then disappears. Once dry, it's gone, until the next wash day." - Tanya S.

Part Two:

The Pain. The pain was not only physical, it also was anguishing mental pain for my unborn child. Cold fear ripped through me like a hot searing knife cutting deep into my heart. For at that moment, I knew that I might lose her. Her life might end before it began. The pain of losing a child has to be worse than any physical pain. I healed and Juli was born on June 15, 1982, a perfect healthy baby. I went on to have Joey the following year, and Jared the year after that.

Throughout the years of my children's childhood, I endured many many more beatings and many more fears. The abuse escalated as he became more and more depressed and angry. I became reclusive and left my home only when I had to. I was ashamed of the bruises and the black eyes. For when people looked at me ... I knew they knew. My children witnessed almost every episode of abuse. As they grew, they would cry and try to stop him from the beatings that he was certain to give. They would jump on his back and hit him. Our dog would bite him, yet he never felt their blows nor did he hear their cries. He was oblivious to his children and what he was doing to me. Not once throughout the years did I ever fight back. It would have only made it worse, and I couldn't imagine it being worse.

I remember the dining room the most vividly. For some reason, I was always in the dining room, in a corner, against the closet door. I can remember hearing my head crack against the wood at the same instant that I felt his fist smash into my face, and I can remember the taste of blood as I would slowly fall and swirl into unconsciousness. I remember counting the blows as a way to endure until it ended. ... and it always ended. It ended with pity, sorrow, tears and promises that it would never happen again. I remember that he would pick me up, lay me on the couch and my kids would bring me wet wash clothes and sit with me, and they would shake and they would cry. Only twice did he take me to the hospital, knowing that he did this me, and would have to pay in the eyes of the law. Yet I stayed, and I never left him. I endured many more meaningless beatings and many more years of his torture.

The cries of my children still haunt me. When I remember back, the vision of them I see, tears at me, and I hate myself for staying and I hate myself for letting them witness the violence that could have destroyed them. And at times, I pity them, for they remember too.

At the time, I didn't know which was worse. The fear that it would surely come, or the actual pain of his hand that would hit me with enough force to knock me to the floor, or over furniture ... or out the door. His rage would come in waves and in cycles. For reasons that no normal person would even get upset over. But I always knew when it was coming.

He would stand in the doorway and watch me as I cooked dinner for our family. When the clock struck five o'clock, and if dinner was not ready ... he would say, "I told you that we eat at five o'clock. Look at me!" ... and I knew. I knew what was to follow. I can remember him throwing the pans of food out the door. I can remember the dishes being broken, I can remember seeing the fear in my children's eyes. I remember that I tried so hard to have dinner ready on time ... but for some reason, whatever I did, was never was good enough. I never kept the house clean enough. I never did the laundry good enough. I never did enough. I didn't have sex enough ...and I never did it right. It was never enough. Just like the beatings, to him, I never got enough.

My husband entered into counseling after being court ordered. I too would go occasionally when the Psychologist would summon me. I was told that "he is a sick man that is waiting to explode like a loaded gun, and he is capable of the unthinkable." I took that to mean that he could kill me and our children in his rage. I took his threats very serious, "if you leave me, I'll kill you." I stayed. I still believe with all that I have within my soul, that if I'd left him then, I would not be here today. I could have been the poster child for domestic violence, and I endured it like a disability that would be forever.

Sadly, I can not say that my children never suffered at his hand. They did. And they remember, but they forgave me for my fear of him.

After many many years of counseling, the abuse never ended. It did stop though. My children grew up and they physically stopped their Father. There came a time in our life that he knew that they no longer would tolerate the dirty little secret that we lived. It was over. My boys had reached their limit. It was over. For all of us. This was at about the same time I knew that I had to leave. ... and I did. After his fifth extra-marital affair, I left. It's funny .... I never left because of the abuse, I left because of his affairs.

I left him in the very same place it started. I walked away. It took more strength to leave than it did to stay... I am free from domestic violence. I have a good life. I have remarried and know that never would my husband raise his hand to me. I am healthy and have a healthy love. Only the memories remain, and they visit me less and less with each passing day. I could write forever of each incident, but as I think back now, they were all the same.

Some women are not as lucky as I am. Some never walked away. Some died, and there are thousands that wish they would. ... and if anyone reads this that is walking in the shoes that I walked in. Leave. Leave now. Your life depends on it.

You can't go back and make up for the past you've missed, but you can go forward and live. You can just live, or you can live. I choose to live. I am one of the lucky ones.

~ lay your hands on those you love with kindness ~

Tanya

To read the conclusion, click here

PART 1: My Story of Domestic Violence

Less and less do I think back to the days when my life was not so good. It's funny how when you find peace, love and happiness, painful memories slowly fade away, like the colors in an old quilt that's been left hanging in the sun. This is a good thing, and a God thing. It's his way of healing. Healing fear,torture and terrorism. Erasing the scars of Domestic Violence. I have color in my life again, and I am healed.

This is painful to write, but I'm writing this because statistics say that most women that are physically abused usually never tell. Some never live to tell, and most never leave. I don't want to be one of those statistics. If one woman reads my story and it saves her from the throes of hell that I lived in, it will have been worth it to have told the world.

To those that read this blog that know me well ..... you know. To those that read this blog that know me well, but don't know the entirety of my past, have no pity ... for I am healed, and I am happy, and I have been blessed.

In the fall of 1979, I met the man that I married and was married to for twenty three years. The man that I bore four children with, and lived with, until the day I turned my back and walked away. I took a deep breath, turned away and walked through the door. I knew that I free. If I lived. If I lived through the rage that was surely to follow. Occasionally the words I said continue to haunt me. I still can hear them ringing through my head, like the echo of an old church bell. "kill me now if you want to, but you'll only kill me once."

Within two months of being married to him, I knew that something was wrong. That he had a temper. That he was deeply bothered. That he was severely depressed. Yet I was co-dependent and I blamed myself and I tried to do better. I tried to help him. I vowed to stay and not leave him alone. I believed him that he was sorry. I believed him that he would never hit me again. I wanted more than anything in the world to believe him. So I stayed. I stayed home for almost two weeks while the bruises on my face healed and the black under both eyes faded. I listened to him tell me he was sorry, but I shouldn't have pushed him. He had warned me. I hadn't listened. I was young. I was 22 years old. I should have ran, but I didn't. ... and I was embarrassed.

"So the cycle goes .... like an old wringer washer that turns and turns and turns, and never stops until you pull the plug, and drain the dirty water from the tub. It spreads out onto the ground and soaks into the dirt, and disappears. Once dry, it's gone, until the next wash day." - Tanya S.

He didn't get along with his family. He felt like his Mother hated him. He hadn't seen his real Father in almost fifteen years. His last memory of his Father was of him shooting his dog in front of him when he was a little boy, because the dog killed a chicken. His Step-Father worked him like a animal on the farm. He says it had been this way since grade school, since he was a little boy. He said they made him plow the fields at night and go to school in the day. If his rows weren't straight or he got into the next field, he got beat with a stick. He was made to work in the garden during the times he wasn't in school or working in the fields. His lips would blister and bleed from the sun and heat. His sister verified this. I have now come to believe that he told the truth. I believe that his Mother did hate him because he was the reminder of his Father. I also believed that he had no one except me, and I stayed. His parents have both since died. His Father died without really ever getting to know him, and his Mother died without ever telling him that she loved him. He's estranged from a sister that suffered sexual abuse from their Father, but he came to form a relationship again with his other sister.

His Mother was adopted when she was nine years old. Her only memory of her biological Mother was walking down a highway carrying a suitcase and holding the hand of her little brother. She never saw her Mother again after that. She remembered being in a courtroom and playing with a typewriter. She said that she remembered being in a orphanage and sitting on the front step and seeing her younger brother taken away in a car. She never saw him again. .... and she remembers being adopted. By a cold woman that told her that, "We only got you to do the work. You will never replace Janice." Janice was their daughter that had died. She said her adopted Father was good to her .... and she took care of him until he died. But her heart never softened. She never loved her husband or her children. I don't think she was capable. She died of Liver Cancer thirty days after she was diagnosed in 1993 at the age of 64.

My first son was born in 1981. I can't remember many times during that period that he hit me. I had learned early on not to provoke. To be quiet when he was in a rage, and to always do better than what he expected of me. I got pregnant again a few months later with my daughter. During this time, money was tight and things were tense between us. Nothing I did could make him happy. A month before my daughter was born in the summer of 1982, I remember him being very upset one day. I remember saying the wrong thing to him, and an argument escalated into a fight. I remember him opening the front door and literally throwing me out into the yard. I remember the fear as I landed, the fear for my unborn baby, and I saw my 13 month old son standing in the doorway. I remember the kicks to my back and the kicks to my stomach, and I remember being curled into a ball to protect my baby. Mainly, I remember his cries of sorrow for what he had done to me, and I remember the pain. I'll never forget the pain.

Click here to read part two, and here to read the conclusion.