“HE DIDN’T HIT ME.
He just went through my phone every time I was in the shower,
Provoking fights that would last for hours,
Always apologizing with a bouquet of flowers.
He didn’t hit me.
He just hated all my friends.
Told me they were no good and that I should just stay in.
He was careful to always remind me I was unworthy,
And any time I spoke to a man, he would accuse me of being flirty.
He laughed, saying no one else would ever love me,
Making me feel nothing but useless and ugly.
He didn’t hit me.
He would just break my things on the rare occasions I decided to go out,
Coming home to his aggressive shouts.
He just deleted all my contacts who were men,
Telling me to never speak to them again.
He didn’t hit me.
He just wouldn’t listen when I said no,
Every day stealing a little more of my glow.
He would criticize my appearance,
Calling me stupid, every day weakening my resilience.
He didn’t hit me.
He would just threaten his own life when I would try to leave,
A burden no 19-year-old should receive.
He didn’t hit me.
He just made me hate myself every day.
Worried how the hell I would get away.
He didn’t hit me.
Until one day, he overheard a call.
Hearing that I was leaving, he pushed me toward the wall.
But, he didn’t hit me.”
~
Author: Emily Cutshaw”
My story:
I saw this and it inspired me to tell my story.. Choked until I was on the ground where he would continue to kick me until I couldn’t breathe. That was his favorite thing to do. Bruises covered my stomach and chest.
Both of us staying awake for days because I wasn’t allowed to sleep and he had to stay awake to make sure I didn’t. It didn’t matter if I had to go to work.
Going to work was even worse. I wanted it to be an escape, but he wouldn’t allow that. Phone had to be on speaker the entire time I was at work. If I hung up or I didn’t respond to an I love you, I was in trouble. Turn off my phone? Not an option. I would feel it when I got home.
I didn’t go anywhere besides work and occasionally to get him groceries, but he would go with and we could only buy what he wanted. My money went to him. Weed was everything to him and I had to spend all of my money to provide it for him.
I wasn’t allowed to use my own computer. That was his now. The one time he fell asleep with my laptop on his lap, I grabbed it and used it for a while. Just so I could feel some sort of freedom. He woke up.
He wouldn’t let me go anywhere else. I couldn’t take care of myself. Going to work with my hair unbrushed, matted, with bruises up and down my arms, smelling like weed and trash because I couldn’t leave the house to do laundry unless he went with me (he HATED leaving the house)… That was normal for me.
We went on a Walmart run once with my mother., late at night. At the Walmart I worked at. He was mad that I went to check the time on my phone. He choked me in the party supplies aisle and punched me in the stomach. I was on the ground. He wanted to keep going but someone walked by. They saw. They did nothing. I was alone.
His family knew and defended him. My family knew but only hoped that I would “grow up.” I was alone.
I remember making a joke about something and it offended him. There was a large cup of soda from the gas station on the table. It was poured all over me. I ran. I ran up the road and he chased me. I hid in a laundromat and he found me. He grabbed my phone and shattered it. I ran back home. He chased me. I tried to get back inside the house but he wouldn’t let me. He started kicking and hitting the trailer. I felt relief that it was the trailer and not me, until it was. I lived in a trailer park. People heard. People saw. No one called. Not even my own family who lived right behind me. I was alone.
I went to work one day. I was covered in bruises. I was told by a wonderful woman, “if you don’t leave, you will end up in a body bag.”
The next day, I said it was over. I wanted him out of my house. Surprisingly, he didn’t fight. But he cried. I’ve never seen someone cry the way he did. He groveled. Pulled at his hair and clothes. Begging me. I felt joy from seeing this side of him. After everything he put me through, it was pure joy.
There is so much more to my story. So much. But I was in Hell for 5 years until I finally walked away.
If this is or was you at any point, I BEG you to try to leave. I know it’s not easy, it’s hard. It might be the hardest thing you’ve ever had to do.
I was in Hell. I was 15. He was 20.
Now, I’m married. Three beautiful children. A career. A college education. A car I’ve hoped for. I left and it was the best thing I ever did.
This is my story.
