During my freshman year of college, I quietly slipped into a crowded classroom, taking a seat in the middle. I stared down at my notebook, scribbling notes about rocks in a class I can hardly recall anymore. My messy ponytail was hidden beneath a worn white baseball cap, its bright red “Ole Miss” logo standing out. Ironically, I wasn’t in Mississippi; I was attending college in West Virginia, nearly ten hours away from home.
The evening before, my then-husband had been furious. His anger was a constant presence, always simmering beneath the surface, ready to erupt. I vividly remember the first time he unleashed his anger on me. He threw a remote control that struck me in the forehead. I cried not from the pain but from the sense of betrayal. I had thought those days of fear were behind me, but my need for stability led me into another kind of torment.
Following that incident, a pattern emerged: violence, apologies, and the calm before the storm. Each time, I heard the same excuses. “I didn’t mean to,” “It won’t happen again,” “I love you,” and “You make me so angry.” The blame was always shifted onto me.
As my first semester began, his rage flared over my economics class, which he deemed inappropriate because it was a large lecture hall filled with boys. He called me names that cut deep—whore, slut. I dropped the class to appease him. I continued to work full time to support us, convinced that education would lead to a better life. We were married on New Year’s Eve in 1999, and our honeymoon lasted just two days of fleeting happiness.
When I returned, the darkness of anger re-entered our home. One frigid March night, shortly after my 19th birthday, I faced his wrath again. He demanded more money from my meager café tips, accusing me of infidelity. I had picked up cold Wendy’s fries on my way home, which only fueled his anger. In a rage, he threw the fries in my face.
When I stood up for myself, the confrontation escalated. He hit me, and I fell to the floor, trapped between him and a large chair. He struck my other eye, leaving me bruised and in pain. I yearned for help, but he yanked my hair and prevented me from reaching the phone. Eventually, he stormed out, taking my keys with him. Fortunately, I had a spare key hidden away, a small lifeline.
I knew he wouldn’t return that night. The distance and his fury would keep him away until morning. At 4 a.m., I rose, concealing my injuries with layers of makeup and my Ole Miss cap, determined to attend my morning classes. Ashamed and terrified, I sat in class, hoping no one noticed my bruises. I made a life-altering decision then; I wouldn’t return. I was three months pregnant and needed to protect myself and my child.
I called my parents, knowing how to keep a low profile in their home. I filed for a restraining order and divorce. I returned home, escorted by police, to retrieve my belongings. Tragically, I lost my child due to the stress of that last fight. The Ole Miss cap, once a symbol of hope, was never worn again.
It took me 15 years to share this story. I briefly spoke about it with a domestic violence counselor and eventually opened up to my current husband, who has shown me the meaning of real love. October is Domestic Violence Awareness Month, and my hope is that by sharing my experience, I can encourage others to break free from abusive relationships. Love should never hurt; it should be patient and kind. If you or someone you know is facing domestic violence, please seek help.
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Summary
The author recounts her harrowing experience with domestic violence, detailing the emotional and physical abuse she endured during her marriage. Through reflection, she emphasizes the importance of recognizing unhealthy relationships and seeking help. She advocates for awareness and support for those facing similar situations.