Hiding the Bruises

Aug 5

Posted by anonfemmes in Physical Abuse | 4 Comments

On the 5th of every month, bloggers from around the world are open to write about rights and issues concerning women. First started by Shine and Marie, we’re hoping to bring a variety of women’s issues to the forefront to make people aware of what’s going on. For the month of August, we’ve chosen to write about Physical and Mental Abuse. Please join us in telling us your stories, thoughts, and ideas on a monthly basis. To read previous installments, click here.

To say that this is difficult to write would be a huge understatement, but if it can help at least one person, then it’ll be worth it.

When a person goes through any type of abuse, it’s a normal occurrence to block out those memories as a form of self-preservation. I tried to write as much about this as I could, but some things are just too much to be able to write about.

My marriage was never a great one, but it wasn’t bad either.  Or at least that’s what I told myself for seven years.  The abuse started with a shove.  I was young, pregnant, and scared to death.  Not that he would hurt me, but that he would leave me.  I was convinced I couldn’t live without him.  He reinforced this idea when the verbal abuse started.  Physical wounds can heal; emotional ones tend to linger for years to come.

I became a master at hiding my bruises.  He eventually started hitting me on the head because it was easier to hide those.  And the cause for most of these fights usually stemmed from me wanting him to be at home with me and the baby rather than going out with his friends.  I felt like I was oppressing him, but we were newlyweds and I can see now it was only natural for me to want my husband at home, but at the time I blamed myself for it all.

He came home one day raging about something or another; I honestly can’t remember what it was.  It was the first time I was literally scared for my life.  I grabbed the phone and dialed 911, but he ripped the phone out of my hands.  When the cops showed up I was scared and said I had just called to scare him, but he decided to say I had hit him.  I went to jail.  He was 6’, 250 lbs with not one scratch on him.  I was covered in bruises.  But I was the one they arrested because I kept quiet. That’s where the mental control and abuse just screws you over.

It went on for years.  The physical scars healed.  The emotional ones are still with me today.  I’m a piece of shit, worthless human being.  I’m a horrible mother.  I will never be good enough and no one will ever love me because I’m crazy.  Those words haunt me like you wouldn’t believe.  They mess with my psyche.  They cause me to ruin my relationships.  The abuse stayed with me even after all these years.
I’m eternally grateful for my friends that didn’t stay quiet about the abuse.  The ones that confronted me about it and made me believe that I was too god for that.  The ones that helped me get out.  I’m happy to say that I’m in a loving relationship with a man that loves me enough to help those wounds heal.  A man that understands that part of behavior and fears come from years of abuse.  Little by little he’s chipped away at the walls I had built and the insecurities start to disappear.

I beg you, please, if you or someone you know is in an abusive relationship, SAY SOMETHING.  Don’t stay quiet thinking your friend will hate you for bringing it up.  You never know, you may be saving someone’s life.  Abuse doesn’t always show up with bruises or cuts or gashes.  Sometimes it’s withdrawal or even too much happiness.  People have different ways of disguising the pain.  And if you’re the one going through it, reach out.  You may not think you have a support system, but I can almost guarantee that you do.

The “R” Word

Aug 5

Posted by anonfemmes in Rape | 3 Comments

On the 5th of every month, bloggers from around the world are open to write about rights and issues concerning women. First started by Shine and Marie, we’re hoping to bring a variety of women’s issues to the forefront to make people aware of what’s going on. For the month of August, we’ve chosen to write about Physical and Mental Abuse. Please join us in telling us your stories, thoughts, and ideas on a monthly basis. To read previous installments, click here.

I still can’t say the “R” word.

Six years ago, the summer after my freshman year in college, I was in the midst of a summer fling. We were having fun not being serious, and passing the time. At a party one night, after a couple drinks, he and I moved to a bedroom to do those things that summer flings do. Afterward, he went to rejoin the party, and I told him I was going to take a little nap, as I’d been working all day and was just exhausted. He nodded and left. So, imagine my surprise when someone else entered the room, just a few minutes later.

It was an ex-boyfriend, one with whom things hadn’t ended well, but who I’d eventually become cordial with. I thought he must be looking for someone, but when I told him I was the only one in there, just resting, he still didn’t leave. Instead, he walked over to the bed and before I knew it, he was on top of me. I could actually smell the alcohol on his breath and I tried to move, but he had both of my wrists pinned above my head. His other hand was reaching under my skirt – the skirt that I had only worn to look cute for my fling – and removing my underwear, even as I tried to twist away. And all the while he was whispering in my ear, “I know you want it. I can tell you want it.” Over and over again. And all the while, I kept trying to tell him that no, he was wrong, I didn’t want him to be there. I didn’t want this.

The next few minutes are kind of a blur, a defense mechanism, I’m sure, but the one crystal clear memory is of him pulling his own shorts down and trying to put himself inside me. And succeeding, for just a second, before I was finally able to get away, grab my underwear, and run out of the room, crying. He called me later that night, from another party, asking if I could give him a ride home – as though nothing had ever happened. I found out later that he told his friends about it, and they just laughed.

For weeks, months, sometimes even now, I wonder if it was something I said, or did, or wore, or our past together that made him think he had the “right” to do that. Rationally, I know it’s not my fault, but that doesn’t stop the thoughts from coming.

For some women, having something like that happen to them would make them abstain from any physical contact, any physical intimacy, but for me, it went the other way. I was so desperate make it seem like what he did didn’t matter, I chased less than perfect, less than fulfilling “relationships” left and right. I thought that I could trivialize what he did to me by being with more guys of my own choosing. Make it seem like that was just a blip. Faulty logic, I know. And that’s what therapy was for – among other things.

Two years ago, so, post-therapy, I ran into him in DC, on the metro. We didn’t say a word. I looked at him and looked away, but as soon as I reached my stop, I thought I was going to be sick. And I realized then that even if I’m all right now, I’ll never be able to look at him – or think of him – without being angry. And I hate that he’s done that to me.

Mom’s not a racist, she’s right

Aug 5

Posted by anonfemmes in Physical Abuse | 4 Comments

On the 5th of every month, bloggers from around the world are open to write about rights and issues concerning women. First started by Shine and Marie, we’re hoping to bring a variety of women’s issues to the forefront to make people aware of what’s going on. For the month of August, we’ve chosen to write about Physical and Mental Abuse. Please join us in telling us your stories, thoughts, and ideas on a monthly basis. To read previous installments, click here.

He was Indian. I’m white. The love of my life had broken up with me a mere 6 months ago and I was desperate to be in a relationship again. My mother was adamant that I not date an Indian.

“Jesus, Mom, you’re such a racist.” No, she insisted, she wasn’t, she just knew better. She said his culture was different. They didn’t appreciate or respect women; he would end up treating me badly, I would be less than he was in his eyes. I told her in no uncertain terms to fuck off. It’s not like it was the 1960s! It was 2006 and times were different. And we were going to fall in lurrrvvvveee and have delicious milky chocolate babies and I would be modern and awesome with my brown lover.

Like all nightmares, things started off swimmingly. He (we’ll call him Raj) charmed the pants off of me with his flashy jewelry and fancy car and lavish dates. He wooed me, wined and dined me and vowed that he was different, that he would never break my heart like my previous boyfriend. Raj told me I was beautiful and he’d never been attracted to anyone like he was to me. He bought me a kitten to keep me company in my apartment. He baked me bread. He made me mixed CDs. He was romantic and loving.

I was hooked.

And then it all went to shit.

I knew things were amiss when his parents invited me over for dinner. At the end of the meal, I stood to help his mother clear the plates. “Sit down!” his father snapped at me. “That’s HER job.” My jaw dropped and I remained standing, unsure what to do. I ended up following her into the kitchen as the men snorted with derision.

When I met his extended family, none of the men would shake my hand. They wouldn’t even look at me. One of them even had the gall to order me to fetch him more whiskey (I politely but firmly demurred). I had to go crowd in the kitchen with the women and help with the meal while the men got wasted in the yard.

Then I began to notice things about Raj. He didn’t like my friends. I stopped seeing them. He didn’t like my family; I stopped talking to them as much. He didn’t like the things I liked to do; I stopped doing them. He didn’t like my outgoing, loud, sassy personality; I changed it. It was the classic abuser tactic: alienate, isolate and destroy.

I became concerned about the amount of drinking Raj was doing; it was really bad. Raj would drink to the point where things stopped being fun and started getting nasty. I pointed it out to him and told him I was worried. That went over about as well as a fart in church would. He would become foul-tempered and spiteful, screaming at me over the littlest thing, looking for something, anything to fight about. More than once he punched the wall next to my head to make his point (the house he lived in had a lot of holes in the wall). He would scream at me right as I would be getting ready for bed, then grab his keys and drunkenly drive off, leaving me alone in the dark and terrified about what was going to happen when he came back. This happened at least once a week.

Once, when we were messing around, I gave him a playful swat on the arm. He whirled around and punched me in the arm. HARD. Unfortunately, this happened again.

About a year and a half into our relationship, I got in a car accident. I broke my ankle and bruised my ribs. Raj was forced to take care of me since my parents had moved out of state the month before. He became resentful and even more verbally abusive. I owed him, he said. In no uncertain terms, he let me know that he owned me now; he had spent all this money on me and now I was in his debt. To him, money equaled power; the more money he spent on me, the more power he got to have over me.

Right after my ankle healed, we went ice skating. Raj was holding my hand; I was still cautious about my recent injury. He got impatient and decided he was going to play “snap the whip” with me. Sadly, I wasn’t let in on this plan and I ended up being thrown to the ground. I heard a “POP!” My other ankle broke.

It ended up being a pretty nasty break; I couldn’t really walk for 6 months. I gained a lot of weight from the pain killers and immobility. Raj began to sneer at me when he saw me naked. He told me I was disgusting, fat and ugly.

My chance to escape the whole fucking mess came at graduation. My parents flew out to see me and the day after I limped down the platform to receive my diploma, I shipped all my things to my parent’s house, got on a plane with them and went to live across the country. Raj and I? Were fucking done.

Looking back on it, I know exactly why I stayed with him: I was stupid. Shut up, I don’t want anyone to tell me I didn’t know any better or that it’s not my fault. Fuck you. I knew EXACTLY what he was doing and it WAS my fault. I knew I was in an abusive relationship. I saw what he was doing, but I still thought that I needed SOMEONE. My self-esteem was so crushed by the demise of my previous relationship, I just wanted someone, anybody to love me and let me know that I was worth it. I could have ended it but I didn’t. I was addicted to being in relationships and didn’t want to quit, no matter how fucking bad it was for me. And also? I didn’t listen to my mom. She was right. I wasn’t valued as a woman; he wanted to buy me and lord it over me. I didn’t know my place and you can bet your ass he was going to fucking show me where, exactly, it was.

Today, I’m married to a wonderful man who loves me very much. I wish I could say everything was better, but it’s not. I still suffer from a crippling lack of self-esteem. If my husband tries to innocently play wrestle with me, I lash back as hard as I can in (unnecessary) self-defense. I’m still extremely wary of Indian men (it’s sad and I wish it wasn’t like that, but I can’t help it). I’m a giant, fucking statistic and a walking cliche, and it pisses me off that I let myself become one. I know things will become better with time, but it still doesn’t help how things are now.

The place for anonymity

Aug 4

Posted by anonfemmes in Uncategorized | 1 Comment

Welcome to Femme Writes, the anon version. This is a place where we can post your stories safely and anonymously. Any submissions we receive will be treated with the utmost respect and care. We will never betray your anonymity.

Having said that, we can’t exactly check every submission for clues to your identity, so please edit them carefully before you send them to us. We hope that you use this resource to share your stories with others and to get things off your chest. Any time we post something here, we will link it on the main Femme Writes page.

Sometimes getting it out there is the first step to dealing with any traumatic situation.

As always, if you have any questions, you can email us at femmes [at] femmewrites [dot] com, or if you’d prefer to email one of us specifically, you can email Marie at marie [at] femmewrites [dot] com or Shine at shine [at] femmewrites [dot] com.