Last night, I became the victim of domestic abuse. My abuser is currently in jail.
I have always been someone to live on the edge. I often put myself in high risk situations. I knew my boyfriend was not emotionally stable, but this wasn't a situation where I thought I was living with any amount of risk. I was mistaken.
I don't want to discuss what happened. It's not something that I think needs to be advertised. There enough stories out there without adding my own.
Obviously, this isn't something I've moved on from, or even know how to deal with. I've always prided myself on being such a strong individual. I almost never cry. I can hold my own in a verbal beat down. But last night, my strength was over powered. I have never cried so long or so hard in my life. I have never been at such a loss for words. I felt broken.
As I waited for the police to arrive, I cleaned. I wondered if this was normal; if this is what women who have been broken by abuse do. I wondered if I was trying to erase the signs, even though nothing I was cleaning was at all related to what happened. I knew better than to touch that. I wondered if I was trying to prove myself to the police who would ultimately be my saviors. If my cleaning was an effort to show them I was a good person, that I was the sort of person who was too good to be abused.
Isn't everyone to good to be abused? This didn't cross my mind then.
As I retold what happened to the officer, I recalled all that had been discussed in my recent psychology class. Every time you remember something, it becomes tainted by your current perspective. It is never totally accurate. Fighting more tears, I worried that my memories were wrong. That something had been changed as I recounted the events, or forgotten entirely.
I could hear the other side of the story being told down the hall. He would yell things for my benefit. Whether he wanted me to agree to his version, or make sure the officer I was working with questioned my story, I'm not sure. I heard him lie. I heard him play down what happened. I heard him lay on the story of his hardships as though what he had done to me didn't matter compared to his plight.
The officer with me was very kind. He seemed to recognize the game. He only responded to it with more than words of reassurance.
I hope that every person who is dealing with abuse has someone like that.
When I apologized to the officer for having to walk a quarter mile in knee high snow to get to my house at 2 am, he told me I wasn't the one who owed anyone an apology.
He is the reason I did not cry myself to sleep.
I am not a weak person. I am not a stupid person. I am not a possession. I am not a whipping post. I am not undesirable. I am not worthless.
I hope jail finds the man well. I am sure I will be more than comfortable without him.
