Back in my freshman year of college, I quietly nestled into a middle seat in a bustling classroom. As I stared down at my notebook, I began to jot down notes about rocks—a subject I clearly failed to grasp, as I can’t even recall the name of the class. My greasy, messy ponytail was camouflaged beneath a grimy white baseball cap, proudly emblazoned with bright red letters of an Ole Miss logo. Ironically, I was not in Mississippi; I was in West Virginia, nearly 10 hours away from home.
The night before, my then-husband was in a rage. His anger was a constant presence, always simmering, ready to erupt at any moment. I vividly remember the first time he unleashed his fury on me. He hurled a remote control that struck my forehead. I didn’t cry from the pain but from the sense of betrayal. My first experience with physical violence was at the tender age of five, and I had foolishly thought I was free from those days. But my desperation for a sense of belonging drew me back into a different kind of hell.
After that remote incident, a grim cycle began: violence, apologies, and fleeting peace, only to be followed by another round of his alleged grievances. Each painful encounter was accompanied by promises: “I didn’t mean it. It won’t happen again. I love you. You make me so angry. If only you wouldn’t upset me, I wouldn’t lose control.”
When my fall semester began, his fury erupted over my economics class—not our finances, but the fact that I had to sit in a large lecture hall surrounded by boys. He berated me, calling me a whore and a slut, and I promptly dropped the class. I continued to work full-time to support us, clinging to my education as a beacon of hope; I believed a degree would lead to a better life. We tied the knot on New Year’s Eve in 1999, and our honeymoon was marred with Y2K survival instructions instead of romance.
Our brief moments of happiness vanished as his rage returned, filling our century-old farmhouse with darkness.
One frigid March night, shortly after my 19th birthday, everything went awry. He demanded more money; my café tips weren’t cutting it. He accused me of not being intimate enough and questioned who I was seeing. After picking up cold Wendy’s fries, I returned home to his explosive reaction. He flung the fries at me, and amidst the chaos, I fought back verbally. But then his fist connected with my eye, and everything went dark. I thought I was bleeding, but the pain was merely from burst blood vessels.
Pinned between him and an armchair, he struck my other eye. I could barely see; I wanted to scream for help but felt utterly powerless. He yanked my hair, and I managed to break free, leaving him with a handful of my blonde locks. I raced to the phone, only for him to rip the line from the wall. After more shouting and hitting, he stormed out, taking my keys with him. Thankfully, I had a spare key hidden away, a small silver lifesaver in the form of a Toyota Corolla key.
I knew he wouldn’t return that night, and as dawn approached, I layered concealer over my bruised face, applying foundation and powder in a futile attempt to mask the damage. Sporting my Ole Miss cap, I drove to class, keeping my head low and my eyes averted. I was filled with shame, wishing no one would notice me or ask questions. I replayed the night’s horrors in my head and ultimately decided that I couldn’t return to that life. I was three months pregnant and realized I couldn’t protect myself, let alone a child.
So, I called my parents, seeking refuge in their home where I could blend into the background. I was adept at walking on eggshells, trained to avoid conflict. I filed for a restraining order and divorce and returned to our house—with police assistance—to gather my belongings. Sadly, my child never came to be, as I lost the heartbeat after that last brutal encounter.
That Ole Miss hat remained untouched, a reminder of the past I wished to forget.
It took me 15 long years to share this story. I spoke briefly with a domestic violence counselor and opened up to my wonderful husband, the one I cherish today. But I buried the pain and memories deep down. Now, as October marks Domestic Violence Awareness month, I hope that my words might encourage someone to break free from an abusive relationship.
I live with the weight of knowing my decision to stay with an abusive partner cost an innocent life. Had that child survived, I might not be here today. Love should never hurt. True love is patient and kind. If you or someone you know is experiencing domestic violence, please seek help. Don’t look back.
For further resources and information, check out the National Coalition Against Domestic Violence.
Summary
This powerful narrative recounts the author’s harrowing experience with domestic violence, detailing the emotional and physical abuse suffered at the hands of her husband. After a cycle of violence and manipulation, she ultimately finds the courage to leave and shares her story in hopes of helping others in similar situations. The piece emphasizes the importance of recognizing unhealthy relationships and seeking help.