Catharsis

This morning a dear friend posted an incredibly personal Facebook status about her personal experience with violence and harassment and filed it under the YesAllWomen hashtag. And as a result of that, we had a private conversation where we agreed to write the details of our own stories and when we were done, we would decide whether to post them or not. Here is her story. I think she has more guts than I do because she hammered that story out in no time despite the misgivings of her family. So, now I am telling mine from beginning to end, in detail because as she says, #SilenceisViolence and #YesAllWomen.

When I was about three years old, the preacher's son and daughter at my church took me and my best friend to the basement of the church to play hide and seek. They separated us. I'll never know why. Was his sister in on it? Did something similar happen to my friend while we were separated? I really don't know. I remember that a few minutes later when we were united, she was crying and wanted to go upstairs so maybe something did happen to her as well. It gives me a little bit of delight to think that her tears struck fear in the hearts of both of them that we might tell. Alas, we never did and I have never come to understand why. Anyway, he stood me up on a table, pulled down my panties and touched my vagina with his cold fingers. A very deliberate act. I can still feel his cold hands and smell him. To this day, that smell makes my stomach turn. I said "Stop." pulled my panties up and got down off the table. I don't remember anything else until I was reunited with my friend.

Years later, as a junior in high school, I was one half of an abusive relationship. It wasn't physically abusive so much as mentally so. I was controlled, manipulated and guilted into staying. Afraid to say "No." Afraid to stand up. Afraid to dress a certain way. Afraid to talk to certain people. Afraid, especially, to talk to other boys.

There were multiple "incidents" in high school but the one that sticks out most in my mind is the time that he kicked the cafeteria door pretty much off its hinges because some other boy had touched my arm.

Yep, you read that right.
Someone else touched my arm and he kicked the cafeteria door so hard that it knocked it off its hinges.

 I thought going far away to college would be easier for me than breaking up with him. Surely the relationship wouldn't survive such distance and even though, I didn't know how to be myself without him, I secretly, desperately wanted to try it. So I went somewhere more than 3 hours from home. And I came home every single weekend during that year except the handful of weekends that he came to see me. I put on such a good show, that none of my friends suspected a thing.

Looking back, I'm pretty sure there was nothing he could have done that would make me leave until I was ready and there is nothing anyone could have said that would have made me see the light. I had to do it on my own. At that point I had put up with so much already. I knew that he slept with other girls because I wasn't giving it up. I knew that he was jealous, controlling and belittling. None of that mattered. I think my own experience is why I hate hearing people essentially participate in victim blaming when they say things like "You need to wake up" or "You need to leave" because the fact is, it's hard and when an abuser is using mind games, those are the hardest things to break free of. Because even when you aren't with them, they're still controlling you.

I went to college believing that I was 'cute' but not really 'hot' and that not many guys would like me or find me attractive. The thing about college is that, there are so many different kinds of people and generally no one is hung up on the cliques of high school and there's lots of parties and alcohol to attend and really, there's someone for everyone. What I found was that there were lots of guys who thought I was worth looking at. I wasn't stuck in the box others had built around me in high school. I wasn't any of the labels I had learned there. Just his girlfriend. I could be whoever I wanted. Or so I thought.

That year of college was torturous. Not at all the freedom I thought it would be. My phone bill was constantly through the roof because I could not get off the phone with him. He scoured my computer when he was visiting to see what I had been up to. He hated my friends. Hated any guy who looked my way. He found a saved instant message from another guy one time. This guy had tried to kiss me one night and I resisted because I had a boyfriend I was scared of and confused about but not really committed to.

One weekend a friend asked me to come home with her to meet her parents and see her hometown and I agreed. It sounded fun. I was excited. But scared. How did I tell him I wasn't coming home the following weekend? My friend didn't know he would lose it so she innocently said "What are you going to do next weekend without Kristina? She's coming home with me."

Cue the rage.

We started yelling at one another. He followed us down the stairs of my dorm and out to my friend's car, where I proceeded to get in the backseat and tried to shut the door but he wouldn't allow that. He almost ripped the door right off. We went to breakfast hoping he'd be gone by the time we got back. He wasn't. He was waiting on us. He followed me up the stairs to my dorm room and I told him to pack his stuff and get out. He grabbed his stuff and I managed to push him out the door but he refused to leave my dorm. He yelled so loudly that he woke up the other people on my hall. They all came out to watch the spectacle. I was so scared to leave the room and I had to pee so bad, that I peed in a cup rather than face him in the hallway. Of course in hindsight, we should have just called campus police but I was so confused about what love really looked like and all of my feelings were tangled up in my confusion.

At some point, he finally left.
We were done.
I was devastated.
Completely and totally, irrationally devastated.
It makes no sense at all, right?
Right in that very moment, I was finally free. I could be whoever I wanted to be. Nobody was boxing me in anymore. And yet, I didn't know who I was without him.

Academically, I wasn't doing too hot. I wasn't doing hot at all. My family would have told you it was because I partied too much or because I didn't study enough or because I was homesick and blah, blah, blah. The truth is, they didn't and still don't, know jackshit. They've always tried to box me in with their ideas about who they thought I should be, not who I really am. I never felt like I could really tell anyone what was going on so I let them continue to believe their fallacies about me.

I think only a handful of people know what I'm about to say and it has until this point remained my most shameful secret, which is really saying something because I have a lot of things I thought were shameful secrets.
Whew.
Deep breaths.

I failed out that year. My GPA was so ridiculously low. If I wanted to go back, I had to pay out of pocket because I lost my financial aid. I've always kept that a secret because in my mind, it meant that I wasn't smart. That people would think that I was all of the things that my family thought about me.

I had to tell my mama, whose approval I had always tried to win, that I had flunked out and lost my financial aid. That could have easily been the most difficult moment of my life.

Sometime during the summer that I was home, we got back together. Don't ask me why. I will never have a good answer for that. Things were different this time. I pretended I was the one calling the shots. I believed in my worth just a little bit more. Believed in my value and myself just a little bit more. I tolerated a lot less from him. It lasted about 6 months before I was finally done for good. The last straw was seemingly so insignificant considering the other very loud moments in our relationship that should have woken me up. He promised to change the oil in my car but the night before he had a huge party with lots of pot and alcohol and he said he didn't feel like it. That was it. I don't know why that was my smelling salt moment but the switch went off and I said to myself 'I am worth more than this and this time I'm going to keep believing it.'

After that, I dated quite a bit. I never really let anyone in, though. I was always too scared of being controlled or being hurt, so I was the one who did all the hurting. The minute someone got too close, I broke it off. He knew I was dating a lot and so every now and then, he called me. A lot of times, I answered the phone and we talked. I was still so confused about what real love looks like. I suppose one could make the argument that I "led him on" but I never gave him the idea that we would ever be a thing again.

There was one guy who lasted longer than any of the rest because he moved very slow and that kept me feeling very comfortable. And then I got the call. I had participated in all the rest so why not this one? I liked this new guy so I told him not to ever call me again. I was seriously done. And that's when the real harassment started. Driving by my house at all hours. Texting me and calling me at all hours. Sending people to check up on while I was at work. I was scared to be out anywhere at night. He was constantly calling me really nasty names, assuming all kinds of things about the sexual relationships I had with the guys I was dating. I don't even want to say any of that stuff here because it still feels so dirty and none of it was true.

In what was perhaps her most bold moment, the one that still makes me think somewhere under all the rest of the shit I've dealt with, my mama really, really does love me, she called him herself. She left a message on his voicemail telling him to leave me alone and then the next morning she took the day off from work and drove me to the courthouse where she harassed every county employee until someone called a judge in to sign a temporary protective order based on the texts I could prove I'd received. Then she walked me over to the sheriff's department so she could make sure they were given all the information they needed regarding his home and work situation, so they'd know where to serve him.

A week later, she took another day off work to accompany me to court to testify for the year long protective order. I was so nervous and terrified. I had heard through mutual "friends" that he planned to show up for court and tell them I had initiated calls to him and also that I used to talk to him when he called. As if that mattered. It didn't matter. Because when I said "Stop calling me. I'm done for real this time." that should have been it. I should not have had to go to court to get him to stop calling me. 'Stop' should have been enough. My words should have been the only thing he heard. His behavior was not justified because of my previous actions. I did not deserve to be harassed just because I had previously acquiesced when he called.

In the end, he didn't show up. The judge granted the protective order. He was served later that day. I never heard anything else from him but that didn't stop me from being scared. I ended up moving out of my parents house and into my own apartment. Partly because of trouble with my mama and partly because I wanted to feel safe, like he didn't know where to find me. I struggled with hyper vigilance, anxiety, insomnia, hearing and seeing things that weren't there. If you're guessing PTSD, you'd be right. I paid a whole lot of money for therapy to learn that.

 It was years before I ever saw him again. By that time I had been married for a number of years; Fifi was a baby. I was strong and sure of myself and Daniel would never dream of treating me that way. And yet, when I saw him, I was scared all over again. It's funny how much I've grown and how different I am but that whole experience still enslaves me to some degree. I don't talk about it much. Not in detail. I avoid people we used to know. Places we used to go. I don't say his name. Don't talk about that first year in college. Until now.

 Someone told me once that "everyone has a crazy ex and if you didn't, then you were probably the crazy one." Why do we talk about it that way? Why is having an abusive boyfriend the norm? Why do we act like it's no big deal or that it must be her fault because she led him on?

I didn't want to write this. I put it off all day long. A lot of it has to do with the fact that I have read so many other stories that seem so much worse than my own. My perpetrator as a child stopped when I told him to and he never touched me again even though I saw him for years after the incident. My boyfriend only verbally and mentally abused me. I don't have any visible scars to show. I've never actually been raped because I fought it off the one time it could have happened. It seems to me that I've gotten off pretty easy compared to the other stories I've heard and read.

The only reason I actually wrote it is because the mere thought that any of the things that have happened to me could happen to my own daughter make me sick. I could recount so many other incidents of harassment from random men that left less of an impact on me but I think they would look much like stories every other woman has. Y'all know the ones. Cat calls, giving a fake phone number, telling him you have a boyfriend and hoping that's enough to make him leave you alone.

Why do we accept those things as a normal part of being a woman?
 I don't want them to be normal to my daughter.
 I want them to infuriate her as much as they infuriate me. I never want someone to tell her it's normal to have been in an abusive relationship.
 It's not normal.
 It's not okay.
 Physical abuse does not equal worse than verbal or mental abuse. Your boyfriend does not have the right to tell you who you can hang out with. He does not have the right to tell you what you can wear. He does not have the right to demand you come home every weekend in college. It is not normal or okay for him to threaten to set fire to your dorm if you don't come with him. It is not normal to be afraid of the person who says he loves you. That is not okay.

Let's stop telling each other it's normal or okay. Let's stop blaming each other for staying or for "allowing" ourselves to be abused. Let's stop being complacent with the way we view our roles. Let's stop being afraid of speaking up. Stop being afraid to say "No."

#YesAllWomen #SilenceisViolence