Ready to live.

I thought that I had dealt with the deep soul scars my abusive relationship left. I thought those wounds had healed.  But last week in therapy...this deep revelation of hidden trauma exploded and so many different connecting points since that day have begun to fall into place.  I've shared pieces of this part of my life before...but I think I packaged it in a tidy and concise way of healed hurt...the way we do when we've compartmentalized something and decided that a cold, sterile stance is the best way to accept the ugly truth.  But as I journey to all of my truth...I believe I must go back before I can go forward.....


'Bad boys, bad boys, what ya gonna do...what ya gonna do when they come for you'


I was being comforted by two officers and watching my then fiance' being taken into a police car in handcuffs.  All that kept running through my head was the song to the TV show Cops.  It was all too much to process.  It was already the beginning of my escape.


My head was throbbing and my entire body felt like I had been thrown against a wall. 


Standing in the emergency room....gingerly trying to tie my robe....staring blankly at my reflection in the mirror...was this really me?  How had I gotten here?


I met my fiancé a few years before we got engaged. At the time I wasn't interested in anything serious and he was full throttle serious from get go. It was overwhelming and I quickly let him know that I wasn't interested. We still saw each other on occasion because we partied in the same clubs and had some common friends...but that was all I had time for.  To be honest, I'm not exactly sure when he started pursuing me again. Maybe he always had been but I just hadn't been looking.


But at some point....he asked me out.  And I went.


There's many details to our early dating that I don't remember.  I don't know if I've submerged them so deep that they are just too hidden...or if I'm so old that 20+ years of memories that aren't important--I just can't recollect. 


But at some point....we became serious.  And we decided to move in together.


Looking back.  I was so manipulated.  I trusted who didn't deserve trust. I ignored red flags. I saw what I wanted to see, maybe what I needed to see.


I've been tossing those months over and over the past week.  Trying to remember moments...open wounds that haven't fully healed and pull off the scabs that have protected me from the days, weeks, months leading up to that night.


Complete control. And an incessant need to be involved in virtually everything that I did.  I was a dance minor and I remember him trying to give me tips and ideas for my choreography.  Why did I entertain that?  Now...I'd say, 'Fool---what you think, that booty dance from the club belongs in a lyrical routine? Please.'  But then....humor him. Pacify. Stroke ego. Repeat. It really became a routine.


Fits of anger that included intimidation. Threats of leaving. Threats of other women that wanted him. Threats of telling people what I was really like. I used to think I glossed over these realities because I was embarrassed.  It's possible that was a piece of it. But I see now that I was willing to compromise my truth in order to be loved. 


The proposal was grandiose. Of course. Because you need an audience. You need to make even the proposal to the woman you love about you. So you stop everything at the club where you met and you serenade her with your song and get down on one knee in front of everyone and pull out a beautiful ring. And she's accepting. And tearing up. Friends are beaming. But deep inside everyone has an upside down feeling. An unsettled angst that can't be explained. Because everyone knows but they don't.


I used to tell the narrative that there was really only one incident of physical violence before the night. One small incident before the night, but that was it.  But as I've been retelling myself the truth this past week...tonight I've remembered 2 other incidents.  I think that I might have remembered them at the time....but it's been years since I've had these memories.  It's been years since they've been acknowledged pieces of my trauma.


Where have they been?  Those memories. When we don't remember or acknowledge those deep, dark, painful pieces of our past, where do they hide?  Torturing my spirit and unsettling my soul. Carrying a whisper of a lie that's haunted my mind and my heart.


A night at the club dancing. We often drank too much. I normally had to stop because he wouldn't. Most times I drove. Most times he let me. One night, he was angry. I had been dancing too much, laughing too hard, being too me.  It was time to go before it was time to go.  Walking to the car, he wouldn't give me the keys. He threatened to leave without me. We were in Waukesha and lived in Whitewater. I remember crying. He dangled the keys. I grabbed for them. He laughed. Repeat.  Finally, as he lost his footing I was able to snatch them and I took off for the car. He followed in a drunken chase, hardly able to stay upright...but even in that state...able to catch me as I opened the door and hopped in the driver's seat.  Reaching in, pushing me, trying to grab the keys...I'm trying to get the key in the ignition...he has my hand...pushing my head, full drunken weight on me, finally ripping the key out of my hand, breaking the plastic piece around the ignition and then....then leaning on the door, smiling down at me. And the words. The words that I've not recollected until today, 'Sweetie, you know that you can't get away from me.'  And the tears. So broken. Then the words, 'I can't stand when you cry like a baby, always with the crying.'  I slowly got out.  I don't know why I didn't run. I had friends back inside.  But I knew he wouldn't make it home. And I loved him. I loved him more than I loved me.  And so I walked to the other side of the car and got in. Endured the angry car ride home....staring out the window and imagining I was somewhere else, somewhere I was loved and cherished and valued.


Weeks later. His brother's (or maybe his sister's) birthday party. A hood bar with a bunch of old dudes who kept hitting on all of the females there.  I stayed close to him. I knew it'd be safer and I knew by then that his temper wasn't something I wanted to ignite. Only eyes for him. No trips to the bar alone. Always at his side. It didn't matter. Because someone stared too long. Someone made a comment. Someone told him they hoped he knew how lucky he was. I remember now. He rolled his eyes and said, 'That's what you think.'  I remember now...thinking what would it be like to have a man that said, 'I know. She's something special. I know. I'm very lucky.'  I didn't have that. I had storm out early and leave. I had leave your fiance while you go who knows where and then come back at bar time. I had don't ask questions because it's not your business. And so I walked to the other side of the car and got in. Endured the angry car ride home...staring out the window and imagining I was somewhere else, somewhere I was loved and cherished and valued.


The night began a couple of days before the night. We were arguing about something. Who even knows what. And he was walking toward me. No alcohol this time. And I saw that look. I backed up. He stepped forward. I backed up. He laughed. I had backed myself into our kitchenette and he was right there. He took my face and tapped it lightly. I flinched. He laughed. I tried to charge past him. And he grabbed me by my shoulders and pushed me. Full force. Hard into the wall behind me. I felt my shoulder blades go through the wall. And I snapped. I lunged at him and shoved him back and scratched his face with every ounce of hate that I had. I got his eye, I knew I had because he grabbed it and bent over and I ran in the bathroom and locked the door. I stayed in there hours. He never came.  The apartment got quiet.  I slowly ventured out. And there he was, patching the wall. Asking to talk. He shared that he'd never put his hands on me again. He knew he needed help. He didn't know how to stop. Would I stay, could we get help?  We cried together. Me because I knew I had to get out.  But I didn't think I had the strength to really do it.  So I cried because I was staying.


The night. Such an amazing night to start! Orchesis was a dance recital featuring dances choreographed by students. I had a number, a hip hop dance to Rhythm Nation that had been chosen and I was on cloud nine. It was so much fun!  We all went to a house party first to celebrate if I remember correctly. Some memories here are still blurry...Maybe one day every detail will be revealed. The party was then taken to a local bar where students always hung out. I was drinking too much too. I mean we weren't that far from home, we could walk if we needed to. Let's both have a good time. He was shooting pool. I was dancing with friends. I kept checking in. He was in a playful mood. This was new.  I kept asking him to dance, he wouldn't dance. I was teasing from the dance floor. He was enjoying himself. Then he danced a little. Drank more. Back to pool. At some point, in the middle of a song...I knew. I knew that playful was gone. He bee lined straight for me and put something in my hand. His engagement ring (because when you are ultra important you get an engagement ring too.) And he walked away.


I remember seeing it in my hand and telling my friends goodbye.  Running to catch up and meet him at the door. He threw it open and stepped out onto the pavement.


What follows is seared in my mind. And confirmed by reading the police report months later.  When I was brave and 'putting to rest' a painful memory. I have found that 'putting it to rest' doesn't heal. Kicking him out doesn't heal. Pressing charges doesn't heal. Winning doesn't heal. Restitution doesn't heal....


Seared in my mind. And my soul.


He pushed me. He grabbed me. I pulled away. I changed my mind. I tried to walk. He dragged me back. I tripped in my heels. The bouncer came out. He said I was drunk and we were just arguing. I was crying. I started to walk again. This time he grabbed me close, hurting me, whispering an angry and evil whisper that I had better get in that car. He opened the door and pushed me in. Slammed my legs as he slammed the door. I screamed. The bouncer stepped toward us. He went into Prince Charming mode.  Gentle and caring, apologizing for my legs, my dancer legs at that, how could he be so careless. Bending to kiss them. Sorry. So sorry.


I looked back at that bouncer and I willed him to do something. The car pulled off. Same scenario. Angry car ride. I settled in to endure....but something was different. Because he was pushing me. Pinching me. And I saw my reflection in the window.


Stop sign. I jumped out and began to run. He caught me. Dragged me back to the car.
Red light. I jumped out and began to run. He caught me. Dragged me back to the car.
Stop sign. I don't get a chance to jump out. He pushes me and grabs my arm. Holding it.


We pull in our parking lot and he starts hitting the steering wheel. The dash. Somehow he started having a conversation and he is yelling at me for not wanting to wear his mother's yellow wedding dress. He is telling me how ungrateful I am because I have no business wearing a white dress because I was a slut. I couldn't stop crying. I couldn't. And then in the middle of tears, suddenly I began to laugh. A hysterical laugh that this was somehow my life. And in that moment.  The night changed.


He was on top of me, choking me. The seat broke and fell back. I remember kicking, kicking the dash. Trying to fight back, trying to breathe. Seeing his face. And thinking of my daughter. Imagining her. Let me live to get to her. Let me live to get to her. Choking. And then fading.


I was on the pavement. He was on top of me. Straddled. No shirt. Saying my name. Shaking me. Repeating, 'Please be alive. Please be alive.' My eyes fluttered close. Open. Close.  And I faintly heard the footsteps that could only belong to my friend James....footstep, cane, footstep, cane, footstep, cane. With every piece of my being I began to holler his name.  I found out later it was barely a whisper but he heard it. He told me that he initially was walking away because he thought it was some crazy couple about to get busy in the parking lot....but in the quiet lot my voice carried...and he recognized it. I found out later that at some point I had been on the hood, my hair was every where and dents from my head...at some point I had been hit in the chest because my sternum was bruised...at some point he tore my clothing.  James hadn't seen any of that. He had only seen a couple on the ground with someone on top and he was trying to get by quickly. But I kept saying his name. As loud as I could muster.  And then. I heard him coming closer. The click of that cane louder. And I opened my eyes. Fully open.


He got off. Quickly. Trying to explain. And I slowly sat up. Clothes torn, I felt my ear damp with blood where my earring was pulled out. I touched my neck.  It was raw.


Super human strength is real. Because I jumped up and began to hit him and spit on him and beat him. And then I crumbled and cried. Sirens.


Sirens. Getting closer. Getting louder. (I found out later the bouncer had called the police and they had come to the bar to try and figure out who we were and where we lived)


Standing in the emergency room....gingerly trying to tie my robe....staring blankly at my reflection in the mirror...was this really me?  How had I gotten here?


How?
It's all things and no things. Ignoring the signs and allowing lies to permeate the truth. Loving others more than myself. Not loving myself at all.


I'm just now beginning to fully understand all the ways that trauma has been hindering me since that night.


Simple things like having such a strong startle reflex. Loud noises especially.
More complex things like nuances that elicit responses I haven't understood.
Yet to be discovered things...


It's like I've discovered a hidden secret room.  And under the settled dust there is a beautiful space waiting to be cleaned out, redesigned and lived in.


And I'm ready to live.


That's what I got today.