The Domestic Violence Chronicles...

As promised, when I decided to create the Brooklyn Chronicles, Inc. I agreed that from time to time I would share very intimate personal stories from my own life. For my readers that are squeamish, or very empathetic the following story may be difficult for you to read. I apologize for anyone who is disturbed by my story. If just one girl reads this and has the courage to break away from a dangerous domestic violence relationship then my goal is accomplished. It has taken me nearly 17 years, to share my story.

I’ll never forget the first time that my abuser hit me.  He was my boyfriend of 9 months at the time. I was so taken aback by the back handed slap that I just held my face. For a moment I wondered if my head and my neck were even still attached. I can remember thinking something like, “How in the world could someone physically hit another human being this hard? Sitting directly outside of my boyfriend’s bedroom window were his closest friends.  They began cheering loudly and their chants were something along the lines of, “Let that bitch know who the man is son”. I was only 15 years-old when I became a victim of domestic violence.   Two-years after that initial physical altercation my abuser nearly killed me.  Let me say this, it takes a tremendous amount of courage for a victim of domestic violence to speak out openly.  Victims are often asked questions like, “Where was your family throughout this ordeal?” I was personally too afraid to jeopardize my family’s safety and therefore I made the very risky decision of not telling them. My mom would have called 911 in a heartbeat had I let her know what I was struggling with.  I probably could have even relocated to New Jersey to live with my aunt in an effort to hideout safely. My step-dad and my older cousin would have gladly done to my abuser the things that he was doing to me.  Unfortunately, that isn’t the psychology of domestic violence.  Abusers are typically cowards that would never approach other men the way they intimidate and prey on the women in their lives. Victims don’t really know this when they’re living in the cycle of DV. We think that we’re actually keeping our family members safe by being silent and keeping them out of the situation.  I felt such large levels of shame and even a bit of pride in the sense of, “I got myself into this; I’ll get myself out of this”. The problem with this type of thinking is that the violence can escalate at a pace that the victim can’t keep with.  In some instances, victims will be killed before their family members ever realize that they were even in an abusive relationship.  The shame and the burden of the abuse began to make me feel an unimaginable amount of self-hatred and uncertainty deep down at my core. I often wondered, “How could so smart, so pretty and so life-focused be in this space?” 

My abuser knew that his secret was safe with me. There's a huge amount of humiliation bestowed upon a woman that is being beat. You don't talk about it at the grocery store or in the hair salon because it's grim and dark and way too uncomfortable for people to handle. As a victim I tried to save strangers, friends and family from knowing the horror of my everyday prison. I say prison because as a victim I felt trapped. Looking back, I might have told my two best friends at the time what was going on. They were teenage girls themselves celebrating their sweet sixteen's, enjoying high school and spending time hanging out with friends and boys. My hanging out days abruptly came to an end. My abuser shaped me into exactly what and who he wanted me to be. Through his countless plots of manipulation, I began to question everything I once knew about myself. If he said, I was "ugly" or "too skinny", I believed him. If he said, I was stupid, I believed him. If he questioned my style of dress, I changed it and when he told me school was a waste of time, I eventually dropped out. Before I continue let me be clear in saying that this man had psychological control. He did on one occasion hold a gun to my head but that wasn't the case with every account so I'm not playing the blame game here. My experiences on this journey have in fact made me stronger and I have two beautiful children as a result. When he told me that my life would be better with him, I ran away from home. Every recognizable characteristic of the happy, free-spirited, beautiful child I once was; was gone. Unwanted gifts became the exchange for unwanted beatings. In retrospect, I probably purchased my own gifts because I emptied my childhood savings accounts to give my boyfriend all of my money. When the money from savings ran out he convinced me to get a full-time job. He wanted an income that he could depend on weekly in addition to his street hustle. One particular day I was so hungry I humbly asked him for a burger and fries from Burger King. He advised me that once I picked up my paycheck, cashed it and bought the money back to him, he would take me to Burger King. My paycheck was 30 minutes across town.

He arranged for us to stay in a room within an apartment of a woman who was in her late twenties. One day when my abuser was out about I sat on the bed and listened to the company in the living room. The woman of the house had a much younger boyfriend and him and boys would gather there frequently. They would hang out and play cards or watch tv. It was the dead of winter in 1992 maybe January or February. They never bothered me and I never bothered them. It was cold and they just needed a place to chill. My latest unwanted gift was sitting on the floor still in the box. A pair of purple and grey Timberland boots. I couldn't even fathom the thought when I glanced at them in disgust that one of them would later be used to put a mean beating on me. When he walked in, I was nervous like I always was. I never knew what the mood would be when he arrived. I always hoped for the best but that could never be determined at, "hello". This particular evening he asked, "Which one of them came back here today?" "Which one of them tried to fuck you"? Once he got started there was no turning back. I explained that I hadn't been out of the room since I arrived to the apartment. You see, I was given strict daily rules when it came to other men. He would say, "You can't even give a nigga the time of day if he asks you what time it is". In public I was told to walk with my head down and to keep my eyes glued to my sneakers. At some point this became a natural routine.

If someone asked me to compare domestic violence to one thing I think I would compare it to walking out of your home butt naked. Of course it's more physically painful than that but the humiliation and ridicule of the people who would be staring and talking about you naked in public would feel similar I imagine. He asked again, "Which one of them was back here", and this time when I didn't respond he ripped my shirt open. The tiniest purple marks were on my small breasts. The marks confused me but there was no time to be confused. Unaware at the time, it was later discovered that those tiny marks were the beginning stages of stretch marks. He said they were hickeys given to me by one of the visitors in the living room and so the story went. What happened after that is somewhat sketchy to me today. It's funny how our own minds will block out the things that hurt us the most. I know I was forced to take my panties off so that he could smell them for a sex scent of someone else. Next, I remember being asked over and over to admit to the false allegations. Slapping and punching quickly turned to hair pulling and biting. Nothing could have ever prepared me for when he reached down and grabbed one of those Timberland boots. I was hit over and over with that boot. To a point that was far beyond excessive. I tried mostly to block and protect my head and I was able to do that until both my hands and my knuckles were bloodied.

My inner voice kicked in and I realized that there was nothing I could do to make him stop. I've always had a strong will to live. If seeing the blood running down my hands and face wasn't enough to make him stop then I knew I needed to open my mouth. I roared like the lioness I was born to be and till this day I don't think I've ever screamed louder. I began shouting, "leave me alone". Did I mention that no one inside of that living room moved from the living room including the woman who lived there. This was a brawl that I'm positive made the walls in the building shake. Someone finally yelled, "Yo Five-O is coming" and he fled. My abuser fled like the punk ass that he was and because I was so relieved to see him run I in my shock ran too! I ran in the opposite direction. Without a shoe on my foot (I had on socks), I ran and I kept running. I ran as if my life depended on it. Two blocks to be exact. In a ripped shirt, with socks on my feet and in NYC weather that felt like it was in the teens I made it to my best friend's building and it was locked. You didn't have a cell phone in 1992 unless you were Donald Trump or a big time drug dealer. I ran to her window and beat on it as if my life depended on it. She was home with my other best friend and their reaction might surprise you. When they came out to open the door they explained that they wanted to stay in the hallway for fear that my best friend's mom would suspect what was going on. Because I hadn't looked in the mirror I had no idea how badly bruised my face and hands were not too mention how disheveled I was. I wanted to go in her house so badly and never look back on what had just taken place. The problem with that was what had taken place was the harsh reality of my new life. It wasn't up to my teenage girlfriends to fix the drama I fully participated in causing. When we finally went inside they helped me clean myself up in the bathroom. They both constantly asked me to lower my voice. They both recommended that I go back home but I hadn't been home in months and wasn't going to return looking beat up. My friend told her mom that I was jumped in the neighborhood by some girls and so started the chain reaction of sweeping my story under the rug. What occurred this evening was way too much for my girls to handle. They loved me, yet they were still kids just like I was. With my heavy heart in my chest and my pride tucked in my back pocket I hugged my friends, wished them well and headed back to the apartment I'd left hours ago.

As I walked back to the apartment I remember feeling nervous. Not nervous that my abuser would be there but more so that the woman wouldn't let me back in. When I knocked on the door I could hear the fear in her voice when she said, "Who is it?" When I said who I was she opened immediately with fear written all over her face she said, "I don't want no problems". I was drained and I think she sensed that. I had no energy to talk or to explain and I felt like a walking zombie. I just wanted to sleep. Woman to woman I think she silently understood how I felt. She hugged me and I excused myself to the room I was staying in. She promised that if he came back she wouldn't answer and at this point I had no choice but to trust her. I knew the risk of going to jail would weigh heavily enough on my abuser to keep him away. I didn't sleep well that night. Part of me felt like he would come back and kill me. I thought about the marks on my breasts and in the morning I asked the woman I was staying with if she could shed some light. She said, "I think you're pregnant" and that was something I had never even considered. To be continued...