Telling My Story. Because it Helps other Women.
July Fourth, Independence Day.
I stood in the middle of a highway; in the middle of no where, Utah.
I had flagged down a passing car, inside were two older couples dressed well. It was Sunday. Maybe they were on their way to church.
I only had the clothes on my back. The sun was hot, the asphalt was pungent with baked tar. The dry grass and sage brush along the country highway was harsh, my shoes had fallen off when I had run away, there were thorns in my bare feet.
The strangers let me use their phone.
I called my friend.
She didn't answer.
I called my sister.
She didn't answer.
I didn't call my parents.
It was last phone number I knew by heart.
I was too ashamed.
I handed the phone back to the strangers.
I didn't have a phone- He had broken it in half so I couldn't call for help.
"Are you alright?" one of them asked.
I couldn't lie to their faces.
I bowed my head- focusing on the hot asphalt singeing my feet.
"Yes." I forced the word and handed back their phone.
I could feel my boyfriend's glare against my back like a narrowing shot gun.
He who stood piously by the truck, pretending he was calm, pretending he was rational.
According to him- I was the crazy one.
The four strangers drove away- a trail of choking exhaust and heat behind them.
I stood alone on the gritty highway, yellow stripes extending as far as I could see.
No yellow brick road for me- only menacing silence as the car, my emblem of hope; disappeared into the distance.
I turned around.
I turned slowly-the way a girl in a horror movie turns around the corner of the hallway, and faced him.
He. My Boyfriend.
He; the man who stood glowering with arms crossed next to his truck.
He; the one who says he loves me.
The strangers had driven away.
He won. He was right.
I had no one else but him.
He had all the power.
He had pulled over on this stretch of desolate road after I had threatened to jump out of the moving vehicle.
I had threatened to jump- because had threatened to crash and kill us both.
That morning he had broken my phone with his two hands and then thrown it into a sink full of water, he had barricaded me in the cabin because I had threatened to leave him.
I had given him an ultimatum- told him THIS was the last time.
The last time of lying, the last time of betrayal, the last time of abuse. So he had pinned me down... again... told me all of the horrible things I was... saliva flying onto my face as he screamed.
I would struggle to rise and be tackled again... and again... the words echoing through my brain like razor blades in a pin-ball machine- cutting and slashing through me.. again...again.
I remember being held in the air by my arms, my feet dangling, as he swung my body into furniture as easily as if I were broom.
Naturally; it was my fault. In the haze of confusion created by months of gaslighting and walking on eggshells- I believed-
It was my fault.
You see, I had thrown the make up bag at the wall.
Regardless of how many times he had thrown things in arguments.
Regardless of him throwing his cup at me earlier.
I had finally lowered to that level. The truth is, I had never thrown anything in an argument- but in that moment-I thought "Why should he be allowed to throw things and I can't?" I wonder now where those words came from. I couldn't have known that it would be the red cape flashing to a crazed bull and the aftermath that would follow.
We had discussed that I was "controlling" him.
He should be able to drink as much as he likes, smoke as much as he likes, do as he likes, go out to bars with whomever he likes, women or not, whenever he likes, and I should be grateful that he comes home to me and my bed in drunken half consciousness.
No one else wanted me. He had explained this to me over and over.
It was my fault he lied. If I wasn't so judgmental... he wouldn't have to.
After all- he HAD to lie to me. If I was more unconditionally loving, he wouldn't be forced to hide the things he did behind closed doors. To hide the alcohol in the house, to pretend he had used mouthwash to explain the smell on his breath.
Who has the audacity to count how many drinks another person has?
A full bottle of rum and 12 pack of beer in 2 days had no effect on him- he was big enough that he could drink as much as he wanted without feeling it-he claimed. His aggressive behavior was all in my head. "Why are you counting my drinks?!" He questioned with an accusation tinged tone.
Being pinned down again... this time on the orange sofa from the 70's as he screamed at me... something snapped in me unlike every time before he had held me down.
This time, instead of crumpling like wet tissue until he let me go- I hit him.
It wasn't noble defiance or strength.
It was survival.
I don't think he would have killed me- but my terror was the emotional damage these episodes inflicted. The cycle of mental spiral and recovery they threw me into. All the terrible things you fear about who you are- burying themselves into your psyche like throwing knives into a target.
I could feel myself disintegrating over the past half year. These tirades and verbal beatings chipping away my self-perception. I was beginning to believe the words he spewed. I was crumbling.
Settling into settling for this treatment.
I stood in the middle of a highway; in the middle of no where, Utah.
I had flagged down a passing car, inside were two older couples dressed well. It was Sunday. Maybe they were on their way to church.
I only had the clothes on my back. The sun was hot, the asphalt was pungent with baked tar. The dry grass and sage brush along the country highway was harsh, my shoes had fallen off when I had run away, there were thorns in my bare feet.
The strangers let me use their phone.
I called my friend.
She didn't answer.
I called my sister.
She didn't answer.
I didn't call my parents.
It was last phone number I knew by heart.
I was too ashamed.
I handed the phone back to the strangers.
I didn't have a phone- He had broken it in half so I couldn't call for help.
"Are you alright?" one of them asked.
I couldn't lie to their faces.
I bowed my head- focusing on the hot asphalt singeing my feet.
"Yes." I forced the word and handed back their phone.
I could feel my boyfriend's glare against my back like a narrowing shot gun.
He who stood piously by the truck, pretending he was calm, pretending he was rational.
According to him- I was the crazy one.
The four strangers drove away- a trail of choking exhaust and heat behind them.
I stood alone on the gritty highway, yellow stripes extending as far as I could see.
No yellow brick road for me- only menacing silence as the car, my emblem of hope; disappeared into the distance.
I turned around.
I turned slowly-the way a girl in a horror movie turns around the corner of the hallway, and faced him.
He. My Boyfriend.
He; the man who stood glowering with arms crossed next to his truck.
He; the one who says he loves me.
The strangers had driven away.
He won. He was right.
I had no one else but him.
He had all the power.
He had pulled over on this stretch of desolate road after I had threatened to jump out of the moving vehicle.
I had threatened to jump- because had threatened to crash and kill us both.
That morning he had broken my phone with his two hands and then thrown it into a sink full of water, he had barricaded me in the cabin because I had threatened to leave him.
I had given him an ultimatum- told him THIS was the last time.
The last time of lying, the last time of betrayal, the last time of abuse. So he had pinned me down... again... told me all of the horrible things I was... saliva flying onto my face as he screamed.
I would struggle to rise and be tackled again... and again... the words echoing through my brain like razor blades in a pin-ball machine- cutting and slashing through me.. again...again.
I remember being held in the air by my arms, my feet dangling, as he swung my body into furniture as easily as if I were broom.
Naturally; it was my fault. In the haze of confusion created by months of gaslighting and walking on eggshells- I believed-
It was my fault.
You see, I had thrown the make up bag at the wall.
Regardless of how many times he had thrown things in arguments.
Regardless of him throwing his cup at me earlier.
I had finally lowered to that level. The truth is, I had never thrown anything in an argument- but in that moment-I thought "Why should he be allowed to throw things and I can't?" I wonder now where those words came from. I couldn't have known that it would be the red cape flashing to a crazed bull and the aftermath that would follow.
We had discussed that I was "controlling" him.
He should be able to drink as much as he likes, smoke as much as he likes, do as he likes, go out to bars with whomever he likes, women or not, whenever he likes, and I should be grateful that he comes home to me and my bed in drunken half consciousness.
No one else wanted me. He had explained this to me over and over.
It was my fault he lied. If I wasn't so judgmental... he wouldn't have to.
After all- he HAD to lie to me. If I was more unconditionally loving, he wouldn't be forced to hide the things he did behind closed doors. To hide the alcohol in the house, to pretend he had used mouthwash to explain the smell on his breath.
Who has the audacity to count how many drinks another person has?
A full bottle of rum and 12 pack of beer in 2 days had no effect on him- he was big enough that he could drink as much as he wanted without feeling it-he claimed. His aggressive behavior was all in my head. "Why are you counting my drinks?!" He questioned with an accusation tinged tone.
Being pinned down again... this time on the orange sofa from the 70's as he screamed at me... something snapped in me unlike every time before he had held me down.
This time, instead of crumpling like wet tissue until he let me go- I hit him.
It wasn't noble defiance or strength.
It was survival.
I don't think he would have killed me- but my terror was the emotional damage these episodes inflicted. The cycle of mental spiral and recovery they threw me into. All the terrible things you fear about who you are- burying themselves into your psyche like throwing knives into a target.
I could feel myself disintegrating over the past half year. These tirades and verbal beatings chipping away my self-perception. I was beginning to believe the words he spewed. I was crumbling.
Settling into settling for this treatment.
I didn't think I could climb out of the black well again and be okay.
Walking the wire of "Maybe this is just how relationships are."
"He's so great most of the time."
"He's right. I am what he says I am. I deserve to be called those names."
"If I don't say anything- he'll not get angry."
Making sure I had no resistance to anything he wanted when he had been drinking.
Being careful not to upset him, make him jealous in anyway...
Sitting on the bed, again and again and again getting scolded.
Scolded for the way I cleaned my house, the way I parented my children, the way I looked at another man, the way I was on my phone when we went to dinner, for wearing the red dress that made men glance my way.... for all of THESE things.... he "forgave" me. Over and over again.
After all, after I was scolded and I always promised to do differently, to assuage his insecurities and smooth over his upset, then I was free to go forward. A little wiser. A little more cautious of how I behaved.
That day, on that orange couch - hitting his chest to get off of me, was that like a match that ignites dynamite.
It was my fault the dynamite exploded.
The rage that followed, was all my fault.
At least that's what he says now.
After all. He never hit me.
I hit him.
He tells willing listeners he escaped an abusive woman.
He never hit me.
I hit him.
Walking the wire of "Maybe this is just how relationships are."
"He's so great most of the time."
"He's right. I am what he says I am. I deserve to be called those names."
"If I don't say anything- he'll not get angry."
Making sure I had no resistance to anything he wanted when he had been drinking.
Being careful not to upset him, make him jealous in anyway...
Sitting on the bed, again and again and again getting scolded.
Scolded for the way I cleaned my house, the way I parented my children, the way I looked at another man, the way I was on my phone when we went to dinner, for wearing the red dress that made men glance my way.... for all of THESE things.... he "forgave" me. Over and over again.
After all, after I was scolded and I always promised to do differently, to assuage his insecurities and smooth over his upset, then I was free to go forward. A little wiser. A little more cautious of how I behaved.
That day, on that orange couch - hitting his chest to get off of me, was that like a match that ignites dynamite.
It was my fault the dynamite exploded.
The rage that followed, was all my fault.
At least that's what he says now.
After all. He never hit me.
I hit him.
He tells willing listeners he escaped an abusive woman.
He never hit me.
I hit him.
Leaving out the part where I was pinned on the floor- struggling to breath as he screamed in my face; his echoing insults blasting both ears as I tossed my head back and forth to break free.
I eventually escaped from the house- but he caught me. Running to the closest neighbors to find a telephone.
But he was bigger and faster and stronger. He dragged me back across the gravel and stuffed me into the pick-up truck.
I wasn't "allowed" to leave him.
I wasn't allowed to get an Uber.
I wasn't allowed to break up with him.
I eventually escaped from the house- but he caught me. Running to the closest neighbors to find a telephone.
But he was bigger and faster and stronger. He dragged me back across the gravel and stuffed me into the pick-up truck.
I wasn't "allowed" to leave him.
I wasn't allowed to get an Uber.
I wasn't allowed to break up with him.
I wasn't allowed to tell anyone anything that could cast him in an unflattering light.
Once again.
I cried.
I cried.
My daughters 18th year old birthday photos were on my phone.
I cried for my broken phone. As strange as it seems. Not the bruises on my arms, the threat on my life, the thorns in my bare feet from running from my attacker without shoes on.
Once again.
I cried.
I cried.
My daughters 18th year old birthday photos were on my phone.
I cried for my broken phone. As strange as it seems. Not the bruises on my arms, the threat on my life, the thorns in my bare feet from running from my attacker without shoes on.
That was the day it unraveled. I look back now and wonder if my Angels were protecting me. Perhaps they whispered in my ear to throw the make up bag. The catalyst for me to see the abuse so clear that I knew I had to leave. Until then- the control, the jealousy, the gaslighting, the back and forth of this romance rollercoaster was like a fun house mirror relationship. I was always trying to find the way, choose the right corridor that brought the fun loving man, and not through the passage that brought his insecurities and anger. Until then, it had never become so physically volatile.
I look back on that Independence Day and know it was the choke collar being torn free. The blindfold being removed. It was still messy after that- a lot more happened, including four years of stalking from him, and recovering from financial fraud he had put in my name. But I was free.
I remember that day and I'm grateful it finally was bad enough for me to wake up and understand that the dynamics I was tolerating in a relationship and "trying to fix"- were dangerous.
I share this with the hope that someone else out there recognizes their situation and understands too.
I wish you the best.
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