I was a victim of domestic abuse for approximately 18
years. Hearing the stories of Colbie
Holderness and Jennifer Willoughby, the former wives of Rob Porter, was like
hearing my own story.
As the #metoo movement has begun to unfold I've struggled
with how to address my own experiences with rape, sexual harassment, and
domestic abuse. When I turn on the news every day I am presented with one more
abuse story, one more rape, one more assault; it's time to write and tell my
own story. Writing has helped me survive many incidents in my life, most
publicly evidenced in my blog here in which I have chronicled my work as an
education activist who has fought tooth and nail, unsuccessfully, to help save
a mainly female profession and our public schools.
And now, when a wife beater, Rob Porter, resigns from a
White House position, our president, wishes him well. I can stay silent no
longer. So let me get on with my story.
I was taught never to air dirty laundry. I was taught that
men control and rule the world. I was taught to present a perfect picture to
the world. I was taught all of this simply by observing every day life. It was a
man's world.
During the eighteen years of my abuse I never called the
police. This might seem strange to many, but I have to be honest and say that
this simply was not an option. I had been taught to put on the best face; and
deep down, somehow, I was taught that I deserved this abuse because women,
simply, were not worthy. I watched how men controlled reality and how women
jumped to help them and ignored their own needs and desires. I watched women
get treated poorly, and I saw that in this world, that it was the norm - it was
acceptable. So no, I never called the police. It never entered my head.
I was physically hit by my abuser. I would brush off comments when people
noticed a mark on my eye and on one occasion we went to a motel for the night
to avoid family members seeing my busted lip. I received bruises in places no
one could see too many times to count. I once was dragged down a wooden staircase by
my hair; my neck has never been the same. On one occasion I tried to remove
myself from a fight by jumping in my car, only to be stopped by a fist smashing
the front windshield. He broke both doors on my car due to slamming them during
fights. I barricaded myself numerous times in rooms - my heart pounding as I
waited to see if I would be allowed to rest or simply just breathe. Door frames
were destroyed in our house. Walls had dents or holes. On one occasion a cabinet door in the kitchen
was smashed and destroyed. In my world, there was the constant hiding of physical
marks on my body, the need to fix damaged property - these things were all
secrets, dark secrets, that strategically and quietly had to be handled.
On long road trips where arguments would often arise he
would accelerate the speed of the car in order to terrify me and cause me to
agree with whatever he was saying. On long trips if I fell asleep he would smack
my leg hard to wake me up; this was considered funny. I wasn't allowed to take
a bathroom break on long trips until I was in absolute dire pain.
If I ever attempted to retaliate during a fight, the
punishment would only be more severe. I had a childhood teddy bear that made me
feel safe. He ripped it up and burned it on the barbecue grill. He burned my
high school photo albums. While I was pregnant he knocked me off a cot and on
to the floor. He continually used his
strength to forcefully grab me, hold me, or refuse to let me pass by, or leave
a room.
I was deprived of sleep if I refused to agree with him. He would rip the sheets and bedspread off the bed. He would come in to the bedroom and
berate me and wake me up again and again until I apologized or said whatever
was necessary to end the fight. By the end of fights, I no longer knew what I
believed or what I had said because he was masterful at twisting words and
leaving me to believe I was crazy, or stupid, or simply worthless.
When we no longer slept in the same room it was the greatest
reprieve of my life. After I barricaded the door every night, I found myself
enraptured in painting. I painted pictures every night for months; I believe it
saved my life, and helped me build my strength.
We attempted to save our marriage by moving to a new town.
It didn't work. It was in this new town that my child first observed the anger
and physical aggression of my abuser. My child screamed and cried. And I knew,
I had to get out. I don't think I can ever relay to another human being the
absolute gut wrenching fear that comes from attempting to escape an abuser. It
is terrifying because the abuser's anger heightens to levels you cannot
imagine. Fear encompasses your every second of the day.
I am white. I have privilege. And with the help of my
family, monetarily, and emotionally, I escaped my abuser. I got a
restraining order. I was lucky to have a judge who listened and heard me, and
helped me. I am one of the lucky ones.
No one talks about what it is like after you escape the
abuser. It is beautiful, but it also is haunted. I immediately purchased a pink
bedspread with flowers because I was never allowed to have anything bright or
pretty in the house; everything was brown. I bought 100 watt light bulbs,
because I had been living in the dark for 18 years with 35 watt bulbs. I
listened to music I loved. I laughed. I made real friends. I went on dates - I
had never dated, and I had never had anyone treat me well. Dates were beautiful
but filled with immense social anxiety that took years to overcome. At night I
cried in the dark, because while I was free, I was haunted. I still to this day
suffer what feels like post traumatic stress disorder. I have triggers, and
they can cause me to hyperventilate, cry, or shudder. I have nightmares. I wake
in the night and catch my breath to look around and see if I am back in the
life with my abuser. When I realize I am safe, I want to cry with relief.
The abuser's ultimate goal is to control you and destroy you
so that you are simply there to serve him; at least that's how it was for me.
Yet, everyone loved my abuser. He was the life of the party. He was smart. He
was creative. I no longer know the girl who once lived with that abuser. I am
no longer her, but she haunts me. I look at the paintings she created and I
want to paint again, but I fear it will cause me to remember too much about
her. I am a survivor and I have become strong; I can no longer be
broken. And now, I have a beautiful family and an amazing husband; life is good.
That is my story.
But I have one last thing to say. I have a message for the
Rob Porters of this world. You don't get a pass; no longer will abusers get a
pass. We are coming for you. We will call you out and we will call out those who
praise you.
#timesup
