“Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness. It took me years to understand that this too, was a gift.” - Mary Oliver
Warning some content can be triggering.
Let’s start from the beginning.
My junior year of high school was the first time he dug his nails in my chest. Like his nails dug into my chest when I tried to get away from him.
The second time was when he punched me in my left ear mid-argument. My ear ringed the whole day.
I’ll never forget the time he pushed me to the ground and started pounding on me in my parent's yard. I was weaving side to side and I could feel the force hitting the pavement. His friend had to pull him off of me.
A lot of the violence took place in his car, for a while I had car anxiety, I never wanted to argue in the car. It was not safe. Many times I tried to get away from him he would be pulling me back in that car, digging his nails in my skin.
One time I had to escape him one night, I waited until he got out the car for something and went to hide. I called his mother to come to get me, and you know she drove around looking for him while blood dripped from my inner thighs from the digging.
The physical violence was not the thing that left permanent scars.
Once he went full speed on the highway looking at me, ready to kill us both.
The public humiliation was a major factor, like making scenes and involving my friends in the drama. He embarrassed me in front of my friends a lot.
Black women experience significantly higher rates of psychological abuse—including humiliation, insults, name-calling, and coercive control—than do women overall.
I was told many times how I wasn’t good enough if I wasn’t doing what he wanted I wasn’t a good girlfriend. Me hanging with my friends caused him to spiral a lot. The “Ima kill myself” spiral. This has been since high school, some people knew then. When I made decisions for myself it was a direct attack on our relationship. I let many opportunities pass me by to please him. It created a lot of resentment. I still manage to be very successful, now everything was a competition. I’m kinda glad because that’s when he had enough of me. The more I found myself the more he hated it.
During my senior year of college, I was suffering from ovarian cysts on each ovary. Very painful time in my life, literally. I was taking pain medications and birth control, a recipe for hibernation.
I remember being tapped at 3 am over and over.
Wake up... wake up.. wake up
Leave me tf alone X I’m sleep
Man why you sleep so early.
He wanted sex.
He pushed me and I pushed him back.
Closed my eyes and attempted to fall back asleep.
He comes and lays behind me, then kicks me off the bed onto the floor.
When I got up I grabbed his football trophy, enough of the violence.
At this point I’m screaming take me home!
He refused.
He begged and pleaded.
I gave in and laid back down.
I thought it was over, it wasn’t.
You’re the worst girlfriend, you are treating me like I’m your friend. ( Yo, I was so young i dont know how this was getting to me)
What girlfriend don’t do this and that. He kept going on and on.
At this point I was tired I climbed on top and counted every stroke like it was the countdown to peace.
For some reason after that day I went numb.
He took something from me that night, I never had sex the same way after that.
Sexual violence affects Black women at high rates. More than 20 percent of Black women are raped during their lifetimes—a higher share than among women overall.
I struggled with this so much. I worked at DV shelter and I could not identify with other survivors, My eyes were never blacked, ribs never broken, he never held me down and forced himself inside of me; I felt I had no credibility. I know people who were beaten unrecognizable, people raped by their significant other, someone tied up in the woods. I didn't want to downplay their stories thinking my story was nowhere near as severe. However, I still felt all the pain and all the fear, I was traumatized. Imagine me accepting this halfway through my matriculation at Columbia, years later, displaying symptoms of PTSD.
I kept his abusiveness secret for years to protect his image, my own family didn't know about until he left. More so until I realized what it was.
I feel like it's important to share this story. I don't know why perhaps it will help someone or simply set me free.
If you have experienced something like this it does not make you weak, it takes great strength to love the wrong person, and even more strength to walk away.
Why is it a gift for me? Everything I have been through makes me everything I am today. No one can tell me who I am, I'm uncompromising with my dreams, and I'm not giving marital privileges to a boyfriend. Everybody has to put the work in. Everybody has to keep their hands to themselves. I tolerate no controlling behavior. His gift of pain gave me so much strength, gave me something to heal and learn from, gave me something to teach my future daughters.
To be quite honest, I'm still healing from it and F*ck anybody who puts a timeframe on your healing.
Love is a lot of things but it is not painful or hard. Real love is what heals the broken.
Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. 1 Corinthians 13:4-8
With that being said, you're not alone, there's a way out, take care of yourself.
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