Because even same-sex relationships have abuse.
My story began when I was 18. She was a bit younger than me, coming from a “rough household” (to say the least). She wanted saving, wanted a safe place. I was a saver; I had a great family, I thought I could help. I looked at the red flags and thought, well, she’s been through a lot. Sleeping with a gun under her pillow. Attempting suicide the weekend I went to college because I didn’t call enough. The explosions at her brothers. The intensity, the constant calls. She was broken, right?
Why didn’t I leave?
And then we moved in together. My family helped. Her family threatened to kill me, at gunpoint. I felt glad she was out. She felt glad she was out. Then, two days later, the first strike. She was emotional. I hadn’t come home in time. My head hit the wall. Oh, my gosh. She didn’t mean it.
Why didn’t I leave?
She never did. The hitting was not common, or so I said. I was depressed. I was on the computer too much. Her dad had cheated on her mom; she was sensitive to my friendships.
Why didn’t I leave?
Slowly, slowly, my power drained from me. And then the narrative changed, too slowly for me even to notice it. She had saved ME. I was “crazy”. I was cutting myself. I was depressed. My family didn’t understand me. Yeah, her family was abusive, but at least they got her. Right? Maybe I shouldn’t talk to my family so much. My mom was my best friend; that was probably a boundaries violation, right? That was weird, that was wrong. Maybe I better stop talking to my mother. My siblings. My friends.
Why didn’t I leave?
I withdrew. She needed to protect me. Sometimes, she hit me,sure. But I needed it, right? She was jealous. I had my first baby. She didn’t want the baby, asked me to abort it. She beat me. No, no, she didn’t. She never punched me. It was just a push. Maybe I tripped. I don’t know. I’m pregnant; I’m huge.
Why didn’t I leave?
My baby was born. I never slept. I was supposed to work, but this wasn’t her baby. This was mine; why should she stay up with the crying baby? I started coming home at lunchtime; she couldn’t feed this child, this child who wasn’t hers. She left the baby with others during the day. She had school work, then it was summer, she needed a break, she was working hard at college. She didn’t know how to deal with a baby; she gave her frozen vegetables on a plate on the floor. The baby ate when she wanted to. She was 5 months old. I came home. Ex was outside…the baby was crying, and she was afraid she’d hurt her, bite her, if she didn’t SHUT UP.
Why didn’t I leave?
Next baby. This one, I almost miscarried. I caught her with her girlfriend. I was supposed to “put out” three times a week or she’d find someone else. But then she didn’t pick the kid up at preschool like she’d promised. My finger was broken, my 4-year-old was sobbing, I was bleeding.
I left.
But she was sorry. And, you know, I was pretty crazy. Unhinged. She talked to my mom. Claimed I’d been abused my whole life by others. I couldn’t be trusted. My mom was broken. Was this true?
So I went back. Stop making my mom scared. I don’t remember it happening. Maybe I forgot it? I don’t know.
And I never slept. And then we were dropped on sides of the road, no keys, no wallet, no phone. Me, a baby, a 4-year-old. Walking miles to get home. Missing work because my keys disappeared. Trying to hide how things were from the girls. My babies. Pretending this was fine.
Why didn’t I leave?
Had another baby, a boy. Things were good. Right? I was crazy. I was insane. I needed her help. I couldn’t work (right?) and that’s why she wasn’t letting me go to work, why I had to quit. I stayed home. Can we homeschool? Of course!
Why didn’t I leave?
My mom dies. COPD. I’m broken. My ex beats me, refuses to let me see my mother in her dying days. She’s gotten a promotion at work! She needs help! We’re supposed to be a teepee! She’s supposed to be able to lean on me in this time of crisis for her (her promotion is hard on her, there’s a lot of pressure) and here I am, a whole three days out from my mother’s death, still crying.
A month later, it’s Thanksgiving. I get a text. My friend has died, a brilliant young man with cancer who leaves behind beautiful children, a wife. I’m broken. I take a second. We’re at the table. I excuse myself. No. I’m supposed to get the mashed potatoes, what is wrong with you? I say, my friend died. You knew that would happen. What’s wrong with you? Go get the mashed potatoes. Pull yourself together. You’re always so emotional. You’re crazy. You’re nuts. You’re erratic and strange.
It’s February. She’s drunk. She’s mad. She throws me through a door, backwards, broke it. I’m holding my son. My arm is bruised. My son is bruised. The girls are crying. My ex says she’s going into the snow to commit suicide. I watch her leave. She comes back a few hours later, holding her gun on her chest as she sleeps on the couch. We better not go anywhere.
She goes to work. I leave. I offer to “nest” so she will see the kids one night a week. She agrees. She just wants to do better. She’s sorry.
She’s broken, she’s going to do better, but she’s so messed up, she can’t even help herself. She’s beside herself. She loves me so much. She crashes her car. She’s suicidal. She hides a gun. She knows I’m leaving her because there’s a man involved. She blames everyone. Friendships tear along their lines as the wives look at their husbands. Maybe my ex isn’t lying. Maybe I’m really this crazy person. I’m so stressed. My head hits the tile floor. Bad concussion.
I come back. But this time, with a plan. A friend and I made a plan. I stow things. I hide things. I start bringing money to his house. I start planning. He doesn’t think I’m going to do it. But I know I’m going to. I’m done here.
Many months later, she leaves. She says we’re done. I agree. She says I can keep the kids. Writes a letter to me about it. Explains she’s known for a long time she’s abusive. Texts friends that she’s abusive.
And has spent the last 3 years pretending that never happened, stealing my children. I’m $60,000 in debt and have no idea where my children are.
Why didn’t I leave at the first?
Because it sneaks up on you.
Because you don’t know it’s not you who is broken.
But I have a village of people. I have 15 neighbors who will testify to my sanity, my love for my children, my ex’s abuse. I have letters and pictures and drawings by the children. And the children have gotten CPS called 7 times. CPS doesn’t believe them yet. No need to really talk to the kids. My ex says everything is fine. She smiles pretty. It’s cool. They’re just crazy, too. Their mom is crazy. Of course they are.
I didn’t leave so I could protect them, but my not leaving is what led to them not being protected.
I say I don’t regret, but I do every day.
I should have left.
I didn’t.
But someday, I will get my kids back. And I’ll be whole again. And those steps are already taking place. And my village of 0 is now villages of dozens of people who know my story, who love me, who care about me. I am whole and protected. My children will be someday, too.
Notice: The names in this story are fictitious to protect the request for anonymity.
