During my first year of medical school, I quietly settled into a cramped middle seat in a bustling lecture hall. As I stared at the blank notebook page, I began jotting down notes about geological formations—information that, regrettably, has since slipped my mind.
To hide my messy hair, I wore a worn white cap emblazoned with a vibrant red logo from Ole Miss. Ironically, I wasn’t in Mississippi; I was nearly ten hours away in West Virginia.
The night prior, my then-partner, Mark, had been furious. Anger was his constant companion, always ready to unleash violence on me. I vividly recall the first time he struck me.
In a moment of rage, he hurled a remote control at my forehead. My tears flowed, not from pain, but from the profound sense of betrayal. I thought I had escaped a childhood filled with abuse, but I had unknowingly walked right back into a different kind of torment.
After the remote incident, a cruel cycle began: aggression, apologies, and fleeting moments of calm, only to be followed by another explosion of rage. Each instance of violence came with a litany of excuses: “I didn’t mean to,” “It won’t happen again,” “You drive me to this,” and “If you wouldn’t make me angry, I wouldn’t lose control.”
As my first semester unfolded, he became enraged over my economics class—not our finances, but the fact that it was a large lecture. He berated me for sitting near male classmates, calling me derogatory names. I dropped the class, hoping to appease him.
I continued to work full-time to support us, clinging to my studies with the belief that education would lead to a better life. We had married on New Year’s Eve in 1999, and our honeymoon was overshadowed by the looming threat of Y2K, complete with instructions on how to survive a potential disaster.
For two brief days, I felt at ease. But upon our return, the familiar storm of rage reentered our lives.
One frigid March evening, shortly after my 19th birthday, Mark exploded over money yet again. I had picked up fast food on my way home, and by the time I arrived, the fries were cold—a fact that triggered another violent outburst. He threw the fries at me, and I retorted with words. He retaliated, and in a sudden flurry, I found myself pinned, with fists connecting to my face.
In the chaos, I felt a rush of fear and pain. I wanted to call for help, but he overpowered me. He yanked my hair and, in a desperate attempt, I fought back, managing to escape with a handful of my own hair. I dashed for the phone, but he ripped it from the wall, and in a fit of anger, he stormed out, taking my keys with him.
Fortunately, I had a spare key hidden away—one I had made weeks earlier for emergencies. I knew he wouldn’t return that night, his anger too great to make the long drive back.
At 4 a.m., I woke up and applied layers of makeup to conceal my bruised face. I grabbed my Ole Miss cap, pulling it low to shield my eyes, and drove to class, praying no one would notice my injuries.
In that moment of vulnerability, I realized I couldn’t return to that life. I was three months pregnant, and I needed to protect myself—and my child. I made a call to my parents, who had always been my safe haven. I filed for a restraining order and began the process of divorce, but sadly, my child was lost in the turmoil.
That Ole Miss cap, once a symbol of pride, became a reminder of my past pain, never to be worn again.
It took me many years to articulate this story. I briefly shared my experiences with a domestic violence counselor, and when I met my current husband, I confided in him as well. Now, as October marks Domestic Violence Awareness Month, I hope that by sharing this story, I can encourage someone to escape an abusive relationship.
No one should have to endure pain in the name of love. True love is compassionate and supportive. If you or someone you know is facing domestic violence, please seek help. There are resources available, such as those provided by the National Coalition Against Domestic Violence.
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Summary:
In this reflective piece, I share my journey through an abusive marriage that began with hope but devolved into violence. Despite the pain and struggles, I ultimately found the strength to escape and rebuild my life. This story serves as a reminder to recognize the signs of domestic violence and seek help before it’s too late.