My Last 15 Minutes - Leaving Domestic Violence - Leaving Abusive Husband

I lay in the fetal position in the middle of the aftermath of an explosion. I had lived through a small tornado when I was a little girl, but this was more terrifying. My favorite photos were not visible through the green spray paint that now covered the frame that lay on the kitchen floor. One phone lay by my head, the other smashed in the living room wall. I was very weak and my life was out of control.

I had to move, there was so much to do, and so little free time left before the police had to release my drunken husband. I stepped over the shattered dishes and poured a glass of tap water. I had been up for 24-hours and the lack of food and rest increased my anxiety. I tried to remember the night before, but it still seemed a dream. My son and I fled in the middle of the night, like thieves. My heart had never raced so fast, not that I had not been afraid before, but I was actually running away this time.

Fear consumed me as I walked up the steps of the courthouse. My husband would be very angry with me and I was certain he would take my life. The daily fear of dying in front of my son became so compelling, so definite; I had to do what I could to stop it this time. The memory of being held hostage at my kitchen table while our son, barely three, was placed on the table to watch, forced me to be strong. I could not wake another day, praying and pretending it away.

No one knew how I lived; I had so many secrets, and felt naked, with everyone staring at the women who looked like she had slept in her car. Dirty tears trickled down my face as I tried to compose myself.

“Did he threaten you?” asked the judge.

“Yes,” I whispered.

“You must speak up, no one is going to hurt you.”

“Yes, he threatened me.”

“How?”

“He held a knife to my throat; he told me I was going to die.”

I was relieved there were no more questions. Grateful, I squeezed my Rosary already imbedded in the palm of my hand. I had been sleeping with it for years, so if I died, God would be with me.

The judge granted the restraining order, and told me I could step down. I waited on a bench in the hall where a woman brought me my copy of the order. It should have been over, but it was not. She asked me where they would serve him the papers, and I reminded her police had taken him the night before. He was released and would be waiting for me at home. The police followed me to my apartment. This was the hardest thing I have ever had to do, but I had to do it to save my life.

One of the officers told me to enter the house and then let them in. My fear showed for I could barely get my key in the front door lock. The front screen lay on the ground; my husband had climbed in through the front window. My husband looked confused when he saw me, I am sure he thought he had frightened me enough not to return this time.

“What the hell do you want?” he hollered at me.

Just then, the two large police officers entered the apartment. He lay half-dressed on the couch he had been sleeping on for years. One officer told him to put on his shoes, take nothing else and leave. It hurt to see the father of my child, walk off into the streets, with nothing but the shirt on his back. It hurt that it had come to this day but I was so thankful it had finally come.

When I went to pick up my son I felt compelled as I drove past the church where had been christened to go in. I sat in the back and clutched my rosary so tight it caused a familiar indent in my hand. Two women appeared on either side of me. They rubbed my back and tried to console me then they were gone. It felt surreal. Calmness came over me like I had never felt before. As afraid as I had been, I had done it. I had finally had the strength to make him stay away. I did not have to live with him hurting me. Life was still a struggle, but I was no longer living with the invisible fear on a daily basis.

Be Strong,

Love & Peace,
Rebecca

I Will Not Die, I Will Survive

I have read too many articles of abused women, tortured children, men killing men, women killing men, mothers killing their children and more. Then I hear of a child killing a child and everyone says, “My God, how could a child do that?” Do we really wonder why or should it be why not!

Tonight I looked at a paper my son wrote when he was only in first grade. I had been separated from my abusive husband for less than 6 months when my son had to write what he was dreaming about, sounded like a nice assignment for a young child, but not mine. I was sick to my stomach when the school called me in to review this paper. It was a picture of a child sleeping in bed and the assignment was to write what they were dreaming about. I am sure for most kids it was playing and having fun, but my son’s stated, “I am running and someone is trying to stab me in the back. This is not a dream, it is real.” My heart sank and the faces of the staff in the room were not good.

I had to explain to the school that my son was not in any danger now and that his father was removed and their was a restraining order, something some of the staff already knew. This was when I first realized that my son needed counseling and that I had defiantly stayed too long. Many people think that well if the abuser, man or women isn’t hitting the children and they don’t see every physical attack that the children will be fine. I am writing to tell you, that you are telling yourself one of the biggest lies a parent can tell.

My son is now 18 and he still suffers with P.T.S.D. which we all knowing means he is still traumatized from things that happened in his past. The nights when he was barely 3 and his father sat him on the kitchen table and told him to say by mommy as he held a knife to my throat or the time we were held hostage on my son’s bed as his father stood at the door with an axe, describing how he would chop me in little pieces and hide the body. Even though my husband smiled and joked with my young son at the time these images were forever etched in his young mind.

I write this so many years, maybe 10 years after living a daily life with the threat of harm and promises of death and when I hear someone say, “Why doesn’t an abused woman just leave?” To this day it still makes my skin crawl.

Maybe I should have left (could I have left) that night, or the next night he threatened me. But I didn’t. Butcher knives were thrown over my head and I knew God wouldn’t let one hit me tonight. I believe this was during the OJ Simpson trials. The trial brought so much pain into my life.

My husband watched the trial every moment of the day. He was drinking all the time and combined with the drama of the trial my life became even worse. He would cheer OJ on and call Nicole a cunt, getting what she deserved.

When he turned to me and said, “This is how you are going to die and I will get away with it. No one cares, can’t you see that?”

Looking back I know the answer to why doesn’t a woman just leave. I have said time and time again, I stayed so long because I feared dying more than I feared leaving. I would not leave until I feared staying more than I feared dying. Fear and the threat of more kept me in seclusion from the world for most of my twenties. I have been along and away from this man now for over 10 years. The physical threat of him was gone after only 1 ½ years of having him removed from my home but only because he died of a heart attack. The mental threat of him really only left my mind in the last year. I fear it will remain forever for my son.

Even years after my husbands death he frightened me at night, lurking in a dark corner or jumping from the closet in my room, something he enjoyed doing to remind me he was just nuts. He would wake me from my sleep jabbing me with a knife and telling me to scream because by the time the cops got there he would have killed me and would not care if he spent his life in jail, it would be well worth it.

Fear and the threat of more is what kept me in this abusive home. I was threatened for so long that I learned to cope hour at a time. We understand this statement for a drug addiction but not for a battered women? When you are being abused, mentally, physically or in any manner it starts out slow then becomes your life. By the time the abuser, most times, becomes their worst you have been conditioned to think this is normal. As long as you learn not to upset that person you think it is a good day. Eventually there are no more good days and you just die inside. You move threw the motions of your life and you learn to walk very gently on the eggshells of your life.

I had been convinced he would kill me if I left. I was told this over and over and not having any place to go I didn’t know what else to do. You don’t have the normal coping skills the rest of the world thinks you should. You are trying to get through the day without upsetting your abuser or getting hit. Too many phones had been ripped from the walls for me to ever think that I could call for help.

My point if there is one today is to leave before the children end up with a lifetime of horrible memories. I don’t care how young the children are they will remember and they will suffer from your choices. I had thought well at least I left when he was still young, at 4 ½ what would my son really remember. Sadly, his memory is better than mine at times.

All of these years later I am so thankful the final straw came when it did. I finally sleep like you should, peaceful and not fearing a knives will be jabbed at my throat that night. The best part of being free from an abuser is the freedom to have your own thoughts and opinions and being able to share them. You realize that you can change your life, have big dreams and sunny days. You don’t have to life in the darkness of another. Those days have finally arrived for me and I really do wish them for you too.

Let the sunny days arrive and you will survive. All I ask if that you let that horrible past make you a stronger person. Don’t let them define who you are but allow them to make you some of who you are. I have had family say, let that be in your past but what they don’t understand is that those horrible years made me the woman that I am today. I am strong because of them, I am determined to support other men and woman that have been abused to move on from that life and to have all that they dream. Being abused doesn’t make you weak in any way, but finding a way to escape that abuse makes you one of the strongest people that I know.

With My Sincerest Love,

Rebecca

Domestic Abuse Stories from Older Women - share your stories

The following was a post from an older reader.  She has been looking for support from other women in hear age group.  Feel free to share, lets help each other.

Reader Post:
I stumbled upon your website tonight and became emotional as I read through the many posts submitted by those now in the throes of domestic violence and those who have found the strength to leave. I was in an emotionally abusive marriage for 35 years until the day I left (six years ago), when, as I read somewhere in these blogs, ‘the fear of staying became greater than the fear of leaving.’ With my children’s unconditional support I have made a life for myself and participate in an older women’s domestic violence support group here in Minnesota. So very few services exist for older victims. I feel fortunate for the support I have found. I’d like to read posts from other older women about their experiences. Thank you for caring. Allie

Poetry about children and domestic violence, domestic abuse poetry

I am posting the following poem from Allie, a blog writer and reader.  I am told the author is unknown and do my best to find out who wrote it.

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I wanted to share this poem with everyone, because I feel it is important for everyone to know that it is ok to get involved. The more people that get involved the more we can prevent abuse. I feel the best way to show someone that you care is to help them even if you are not directly involved.

She was such a pretty child, as pretty as could be.
The blondest hair and bluest eyes, this little girl of three.
She lived next door and I would often see her play outside.
Putting all her dollies in a wagon for a ride.
I often thought how beautiful she would be when she’s grown.
She was just the cutest thing as she played there alone.
I only knew her parents from a passing wave or “hi.”
They did not want to socialize each time that I would try.

I sometimes heard them arguing when I was in my yard.
I know the problems people have can sometimes make life hard.
I thought they were just loners because they kept to them self.
They might think I am nosy if I try to offer help.
They never bother anyone, the other neighbors say.
And the little girl can only go out back to play.
You only see them come and go, they never stay outside.
You wonder when they act like that, have they something to hide?

One day I heard them arguing, much louder than before.
As I looked out, the little girl was standing by her door.
Her little face was bruised and tears were running down her cheek.
I wanted to go over there, but I was scared and meek.
Finally when the screaming stopped, and everything was calm
I saw the little girl was being held close to her mom.
Her mother rocked her back and forth, and she was crying too.
Just standing in the back yard, there was nothing I could do.

Nothing I could ever do, would be of any use.
This mother and this little girl were suffering abuse.
She had better call someone and get this thing resolved.
But, it is not my business and I cannot get involved.
As I spoke with neighbors, about what went on next door
They all agreed, that it was sad, it’s something we abhor.
It’s something we must overlook, we cannot interfere.
But, now we sing a different tune, as we are gathered here.

The neighborhood feels guilty,
for we looked the other way.
Are we all responsible for being here today?
We feel the anger and the shame, because we all stood by
Knowing now we could have helped, but didn’t even try.
And now this little three year old, so beautiful to me
Surrounded by her dollies, just the way she loved to be
Is in a little casket, with her body limp and frail.
Her mom is in intensive care, her dad is now in jail.

The funeral home is quiet, because we all realize
The reason you must get involved is right before our eyes.
Abuse in any form is something we must all resent.
And fight with every tool we have to save our innocent.

Author Unknown

Debra Estep - ending the abuse and beginning a life

The following was an email from Debra Estep a reader of this blog. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for sharing so much. When we share like this we always help another reader heal.

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Hello Rebecca,

I was web searching on poetry and came to your site. Since you have asked for admissions, I thought I would send along something that I wrote back in 1994. It was right around

the time that I decided to file for divorce. You have my permission as the author to use this in ANY way and to also use my name as the author. I married back in 1978. I was 20 years old. The verbal abuse started on the second day of our honeymoon while we were in the Virgin Islands. I was in absolute shock. I had never ever seen this side of him during the 2 years prior that we were dating

and engaged. The pattern of verbal abuse continued nearly daily through the years. WHY STAY ???? For the first 4 years we had no children. It would have been easier to leave, but my

parents had taken out a loan to pay for this huge wedding reception. My thinking was, ‘How could I even tell them or share what was going on, they were still paying on the reception’. The other thought that kept me there was my Catholic religion and the WHOLE until death do us part.

What drew me to know that I needed to end the marriage was my contemplation of not only my own death, but taking my 2 children with me, as I would never have left them alone with him.

It was the Spring of 1994 that the light bulb went off. I was teaching my 12 year old daughter that no matter what a man does, you stay. My then 10 year old son was actually becoming his Dad. He was starting to treat me in the very same manor as his father. The very good thing that came of ending the marriage was removing my children and breaking the cycle. I went on to marry in later 1995

and have been happily married. I went through therapy, as did my children. My ex went on to group therapy for abusive men, and also was in private therapy. He is not the person today that he was back then. The choice to end the marriage still was not easy. The children begged me not to break up the family, and my own father said to me….

“Debra, everyone deserves a second chance.” I remained VERY STRONG and said to my father……..’This is the first time in MY LIFE that I am choosing for myself, and HE had 16 years of second chances’. “The abuse chipped away parts of my heart and I have nothing left. I am DONE with him and I am choosing ME.” My father and mother quickly came around and were supportive.

It took me quite a long time to stop hearing his damaging voice in my head. It played over and over like a broken record. But eventually that old record was shattered as I became more and more aware of my own worth. I replaced the mean and hurtful things I heard from him with uplifting and

encouraging messages to myself. I would even put index cards around the house, in my car, and at my place of work. It was like retraining my mind that I was okay, and that I was a worthwhile person and that I was loveable. If one person can see the hope in removing themselves and their children from an abusive environment than I have done the right thing in finding

your site and sharing my thoughts and words.

XO XO

Debra Estep

Bath TimeIt was like all these years I brought in this huge tub, filled it with water, warmed just right.
I lit candles all around the dark room and I bathed and washed him. I cared for him, but his anger raged on and on. I became the object of his rage.

The limitations he found within his own being and the uselessness he felt towards himself intensified. He then directed his hostility towards me.

I in turn just kept heating more water to make sure the temperature was just right. Once I tried adding bubbles…. he did not want the bubbles, so I emptied the whole tub and started over.

Sometimes, but not very often, the bath was just right and he was satisfied.

All those years there was one thing I wanted….just once it would have been wonderful for him to have drawn one bath for me. It was the dream of a young woman. That dream was crushed early on.

But still I drew his bath. Until one day when all my life was about drained away,
I realized I no longer wanted to bathe him.

My mind cleared…. I became conscious of my own worth.
I choose not to identify me…… with him.

The Beginning
September 1994