It Stays With You

I haven’t written in a while.  I have been busy in my new life, far away from the turmoil of my past.  Today, the past came rushing back to me.  It does sometimes with PTSD.  The experts refer to these things as “triggers.” The trigger today was painting a ceiling.  The paint was not going on smoothly.  When I would be tasked with something in my old life, with my abuser, I was always afraid of doing something wrong or not to his “standards.”  My heart started to pound.  I started to sweat.  I felt my throat starting to become tight, along with my chest.   Something “triggers” a reaction.  I have tried explaining it.  I have an extreme physical reaction.  There is no other way for me to put it into words.  It is a panic attack.  For no apparent reason.

My Fiance knows I have a diagnosis of PTSD from the domestic violence I experienced in my prior relationship.  My teenage children know that I also have it.  I have not hidden it.  You cannot hide it.  It is a part of you.  I do not think that PTSD is something to be ashamed of.  It just means that I have been too strong for too long.

My Therapist explained it to me.  My Physician explained it to me.  A person cannot live in fight or flight mode for as long as I did and not experience PTSD.  It’s impossible.  The human brain cannot withstand the trauma without some sort of protective mechanism being launched.

My Fiance deals with my triggers and the feelings following them with compassion.  Today, it was really simple.  “Honey, I don’t want this to happen to you.  We will hire this done.”  He put his arms around me.  Gave me a kiss.  Told me it would all be okay.

For a long time, I think he thought, in a rather old school way that “it was all in my head.”  He has seen this happen – not too often any more – but often enough to know that it isn’t just in my head.  It is in my heart, my mind, and my soul.  But it does not define who I am.  And I know some day in my heart, I will no longer have such significant reactions to my triggers.  It takes time, it takes love, and it takes patience.

Chronic Conditions

It has been over a month since I have written.  I suppose I have been in a bit of a slump.  Perhaps that is because of a recent diagnosis.  Perhaps.

I want to bring attention to a little known and little understood phenomena that accompanies women who are survivors of domestic violence.  That is that 81% of women who survive domestic violence, develop chronic illnesses and conditions; this is compared to just 62% of their non-abused sisters.  Wow.  Stress, anxiety, depression, repetitive injuries, concussions, broken bones, internal bleeding, organ damage, etc., results in the development of chronic conditions.  No surprise here.  I have four chronic conditions to my name.

Three autoimmune diseases and PTSD with hyperactive response.  Hmmmm…….did not have these diagnoses before I entered into a relationship with The Devil.  (The Devil, dear readers, for those of you who are new to my blog is how I refer to my ex-husband, my abuser.)

So, I haven’t written because of chronic fatigue.  I am just tired.  But life is good, and I don’t get beaten every three days.

There was a study done by the Verizon Corporate Foundation into this phenomena.  I would encourage you to seek it out.  It is worthwhile understanding the “why.”  The study was excerpted in More magazine sometime in 2014.  I have had too many concussions to remember exactly.

You’ve Been Slimed

When I was young, there was a show on Nickelodean, as it was known then, where characters were “slimed.”  They still do this on shows today.  I liken the sliming to how I felt whenever I had to deal with The Devil’s attorney.  The day that I obtained my Order of Protection, The Slime stated to the People’s Attorney referencing the Court case, right in front of me, “so you are going to attempt to put my client away on these piddly little charges for the rest of his life?” and laughed.  I was standing right there.  I had just been told by the Judge that I had proven my case for the Order of Protection.  And this “officer of the Court” thought it was a joke.

At the same moment, my Divorce Attorney, who was present that day, asked him if we could wrap this up before the end of the year.  It was December.  We had just been married for four years, and really The Devil brought nothing into the marriage so it was pretty straight forward.  The Slime looked at her.  With all the arrogance he could muster, he said, “We aren’t settling this easily.  I need to earn a living and get paid too.”  He was, without a doubt, the most arrogant jerk I have ever seen.

During our proceedings at one point, he accused me of fabricating bruises and injuries.  Accused me of using makeup to create my bruises.  I reminded him that I had zero education in theatrical makeup, but that I had used makeup as much as possible to COVER my bruises.

Attorneys like this are the kind of people that make a bad name for their profession.

The Slime was defending The Devil criminally and civilly.  I am imagining The Devil’s defense was at least $30,000.  I would imagine the divorce, 11 months later, would cost The Devil around $20,000.  So given the settlement The Devil received, everything went to The Slime.

I have said before, and I will say it again, if domestic violence, aka Intimate Terrorism can be proven, it must merit that divorce is immediate.  No question.  Domestic abusers use the law to continue to terrorize their victims.  The Devil destroyed me financially, with the help of The Slime.  In the end, it was I who got the last laugh when The Devil fired The Slime.  He had paid too much to him already, and there was nothing left.  So, he chose to “fire” The Slime.  A victim of domestic violence should have to pay their abuser nothing.  People have suggested that I sue my abuser civilly.  I did.  But in order to get divorced, I had to drop the civil suit.  While that saddened me, my freedom was worth so much more in the end.

My story, my journey, my victory does have happiness within it.  My boys and I are doing well.  I have found love.  Love from a man who would NEVER hurt me.  Ever.  He only knows how to be good, kind, generous, and loving.  And very protecting.  I am lucky.  I am blessed.  But for now, the story continues…………..

Court

My day finally came.  Literally, hours before we were to go to Court, The Devil and The People came to a plea agreement. The Devil would plead “no lo contendre” or “no contest” to the misdemeanor charges.  The felony charges (6) would be dropped. The number of misdemeanor charges would be reduced to those where major injury occurred, and the medical documentation that I had could substantiate the charges (i.e. my broken hand, my broken finger, trips to the Emergency Room for concussions).  If you understand the law, you know what “no lo contendre” means.  If you do not understand that term, simply put, it means that The Devil knew that by a preponderance of the evidence he would be found guilty.  So, rather than take his chances at Court, which he and his counsel believed would not be good, he chose to plead “No contest.”

I would be given an opportunity to give a Victim’s Impact Statement under oath.

The video would be played.

I wrote my statement.  My divorce attorney reviewed it, as did my therapist.  So did my Victim’s Advocate.  I will not share it here, because to do so could reveal details about the case, and as I have stated before, my privacy and anonymity is very important to me.  The only reason I ever wrote this blog was for my own healing and to help others.

I read the statement in Court.  It was one of the hardest things I have ever had to do, and yet, one of the most healing things I have done.  I looked The Devil’s Parents straight in the eye and told them, had they chosen to help me, we would have never gotten here.  I told them that they had raised a monster of a son, and the other children weren’t much better either.  I got to recount the drug addicts and the other criminal that they had raised.  I wanted The Judge to know.

When all was done, the Video was played.  It did not end as The Devil had hoped.

The Judge, in all of his infinite wisdom, saw right through The Devil’s plan.  He likened the video to a politician’s “political spin” when they commit a criminal act, or do something else wrong.  He called it wrong, distasteful, etc.  He said that I was a victim of abuse.

I felt legitimized in the eyes of our broken system of justice.

No one really heard that, that day though.  No family present.  One friend and my Victim’s Advocate.  That was all.  The Devil had forced everyone else away.

In the end, The Devil was sentenced.  He was pronounced guilty by the Court.

Again, without going into all of the details, The Judge came up with a creative sentence.  It was far less than I would have hoped for, but it was something.

The Devil would serve one weekend a month in the county jail for one year.  The Devil would have a criminal order of protection leveled against him, where he must stay away from me for four years.  The Devil was placed on probation for 4 years.  He was to stay away from drugs, alcohol, gambling, and was sentenced to GET A JOB.  He was not allowed to leave the state.  He could not travel.  He was to have no contact with me whatsoever.

While I wanted more, I was somewhat satisfied with what The Devil received.

At the end of the proceeding, as the Judge finished rendering his sentence, The Devil, out of order and out of time, started to speak.  He pleaded with the Judge to view the video again.  He stated he was the “victim” and I was the abuser (a common theme amongst these abusive men when they are forced to face their crimes) and he begged the Judge for another chance to hear him.  The Judge told him three times to be quiet before the gavel came down.  The Devil was crying.

The Devil did not cry for me.  He did not cry for my children.  He cried because of his poor pitiful self.  His con was up.  And he was making one, last ditch effort to con again.

But it wouldn’t be the last of the cons.  I still needed to get through the divorce.  Federal Law needs to be enacted that in the case of intimate terrorism aka domestic violence, that, if proven, divorce be immediate.  Instead, the way our laws are now, an abuser can continue to abuse his victim to through the civil legal system, because there is nothing stopping them. This is the terror that I would now live for the next year.

You’re A Star

The title of this post is a little bit irreverent, and to explain it all, I will have to back up a bit.  I have learned that being a bit irreverent has helped me.  My sense of humor is what has kept me going during some really, really dark days.

During one of The Devil’s abusive attacks, I had defended myself.  It was about 18 months, roughly after the abuse started. I only defended myself a couple of times – most times I just curled up into a ball to protect myself, tried to flee other times, or raised my arms to fend off blows.

This particular time, The Devil had set up a video camera in the privacy of our bedroom.  He set it up on an armoire, and then proceeded to attack me off camera.  After about an hour and a half of fending off his blows, moving from room to room, he came into the bedroom and turned the camera on.  Initially, for the first 35 seconds of video, all is quiet in the house.  You can see the maniacal look on The Devil’s face and his clearly wild eyes in the video.  Then, he comes out into the kitchen (adjacent to the bedroom), and begins his attack.  On the video, you can see him luring me into the bedroom. You can see him spit upon me.  You can see him grab an item out of my hands and become physical with me – short of hitting me.  Once he is out of the camera’s angle, he begins to slap himself across the face and then wildly claiming to the camera “Stop hitting me!  Stop hitting me!” so that a viewer would believe that I had attacked him.  I had not.  When I state that I had not attacked him, he proceeds to deny ever hitting me.  Now, remember, I have just endured an hour and a half of a beating.  My face is swollen, I have been hit about the head, face, neck arms, and chest numerous, numerous times. Something snapped in me, and feeling cornered, I defended myself.  In the video, The Devil offers no resistance, and can be seen dramatically trying to act as if he is going to fly through the bedroom window.  He runs to the video camera – grabbing it he says, “I’ve got you now, Bitch.”  And out the door he goes.  He disappears for about 10 hours, stating that later that the video camera was lost from his jacket pocket while he was running away from the house.  He even went so far as to take me out the next day to look for it in the snow.  The Devil is a con.  A violent, con man.  I later found the video camera in the trunk of his car, by the spare tire.

From time to time, he would hold the video over my head.  Sometimes, he would claim to have it.  Other times, he would say he never videotaped me.

I had warned the Attorney for the People that this video might exist, and that I did not recall or remember what was on it, specifically, with nothing more to say than I had defended myself after an hour and a half attack.  I did not remember or recall anything in the bedroom that night. The only reason I can recount now what happened, is because I saw the footage later.  The Devil was going to use this as his ticket out – or so he thought.

The video was not mentioned by his defense attorney, a man I will call the Slime, until the Court was well into the People’s case.

I was visiting friends when I received the call about the video.  The Slime had finally brought it forward at the last minute as evidence against me.  He demanded criminal charges be pressed.  Initially, the Attorney for the People threatened to take my children away.  I was forced to come into the office and view the video with my divorce attorney.  When I did, I learned how messed up our system of justice is.  I watched the video.  When we finished, I looked at the attorneys.  I said that I had told them both that there was a possibility that this video existed, and that I had told them there were a couple of occasions where I had defended myself.  They did not believe it was going to be considered “self-defense” because the beating that I had received in the hour and half proceeding the camera being turned on was not on the video.  The People’s Attorney did concede that you can see that The Devil set the entire thing up, that it is clear that it was an “acting” job on his part and that he clearly was not injured, hurt, or otherwise harmed.  However, it did not “look good” for me.  I was called into the office and berated as the victim and it was threatened that my children would be taken away!

The Slime wanted criminal charges pressed against me.  The People’s Attorney refused.

Later, The Domestic Violence Expert who testified for the People stated that my reaction was a result of “severe abuse” that I believed I was “protecting myself and providing for my self-defense” and that it was clear that The Devil had orchestrated the entire thing.

I learned later that the reason I did not remember what happened during the rest of that night was because 1) I likely had a concussion, 2) I experienced severe trauma, 3) PTSD.  I never believed my memory could be affected like that, but I saw it before my own eyes.

It was up to The Judge to decide in Court.  We were due in Court in about a week.

Broken Bond

This isn’t about the bonds broken between the survivor and their abuser.  This is about the bond The Devil broke over 15 times.  Specifically, The Devil violated his bond 15 times, according to the Attorney for the People.  15 times!  How many chances does one man get?  I learned from the Attorney for the People later that the Judge didn’t want a “crazy” person in the jail.  Really?  Jails are full of “crazy” people all the time.  All over the country.  More correctly, the Judge should have stated he didn’t want a “violent” person in the jail.  But then, that wouldn’t have made any sense, would it?

So, on 15 different occasions, the Attorney for the People believed that The Devil had violated his bond.  The ironic part of this was that each time, ever so diligently, the People made their case.  Each time, The Devil got another chance.  Too ridiculous to believe, you say?  No.  I am writing the truth.  Unfortunately, the documentation I could provide would reveal my identity, my former state, and perhaps provide a trail all the way to me.  Dear Readers, I value my privacy and anonymity too much.  My safety depends upon it.  So, for now, you will have to take my word for it.

So, on 21 charges, six felony counts among them, The Devil violated his bond 15 times.  Please re-read that sentence, Dear Reader.  This is why women do not leave.  There is no justice when we do.  Nothing.  The Devils in life continue to get away with it.  In many cases, the Devils in life get away with murder.  As I type to you right now, you know that is not my case.  But, with many of my sisters in domestic violence, they are not always fortunate enough to get to continue to type to you.  They die. They die horrible deaths at the hands of their abusers.

Each state, each jurisdiction, each local municipality handles domestic violence differently.  Until the Federal government decides to step in and create some standards, laws by which all domestic violence cases are handled, there will be no justice.  And even then, I am not so sure until we demand and experience, as a world, vast cultural and societal change where it is no longer acceptable for a man to abuse a woman, that there will be justice.

Do I sound angry?  You are damn right I am angry.  And I have every right to be.  As you will learn more about in my story, I lost nearly everything.  I lost my family.  I lost my friends.  I lost my job.  (Yes, my civil rights were violated).  I lost the right to live where I wanted to safely.  I lost my home.  I lost the place I had known and called home for 30+ years.  I nearly lost my children.  My life.

What did The Devil lose?  He LOST NOTHING.  What did he gain?  In the divorce settlement, he gained the bulk of our accumulated property.  Even though he did not work.  Even though he fraudulently drew disability payments.  (I say fraudulently because any man who can beat his wife as he did me is not “disabled” by any definition.)  He gained cash and assets.  He kept his ability to live in our community.  He didn’t lose any standing.  He lost nothing but a bit of his freedom; more of which I will share later.  But in the end, The Devil LOST precious little to nothing.

We must stop the abuse that goes beyond the physical abuse, as much as we must stop the physical abuse.  Emotional abuse must stop.  Financial abuse must stop.  Spiritual abuse must stop.  Social abuse must stop.  Intellectual abuse must stop.  Verbal abuse must stop.  Psychological abuse must stop.  The use of children, property and pets to abuse must stop. The use of technology to cyberstalk and steal the identity of the victim must stop.  All of these aspects of abuse need to be criminalized appropriately, condemned culturally, and STOPPED.  Period.

As I looked outside tonight, into the beautiful cloudless winter sky and saw the beautiful stars, I know in my heart that as I stood there, a woman will be killed tonight by her abuser.  Four women in total will be killed before I go to bed.  Until we demand that no more bonds be broken by abusers, this will continue to be the fate of those sisters, daughters, mothers and friends.

(I wish each of you a Happy, Safe, Prosperous, and Peaceful New Year in 2015, free from abuse.  I would sign my name, but I cannot.  But know that I am grateful to those of you who have read my blog this year, felt something from it, shared it, learned something from it.  I am humbled by those of you who have commented.  You are helping me to process, recover, and to live.  Thank you.)

Abandoned

When you survive domestic violence (aka intimate terrorism), you survive it alone.  Your “friends” no longer want to be around you.  Your abuser has isolated you from them, so even once they realize what has happened to you, instead of demonstrating compassion, they tend to be in denial.  These “friends” stick their collective heads in the sand and tend to stay away.

Your family behaves much of the same way.  In some cases, I suppose family members are concerned that the survivor will return to their abuser.  That happens typically at least seven times before a woman leaves.  But, all too often, family members desert the survivor as well.

Domestic Violence Advocates try to help.  And they do.  My Domestic Violence Advocate was with me during all but one Court proceeding.  But funding for these advocates is limited, shelters being shut down because they lack funding, and therapists only really available if you can afford one.

So, who does that leave you with?

In my case, my so-called friends disappeared.  My so-called “best” Friend, of 17 years, the one who was there the day he was arrested, would take phone calls, provided it worked with her schedule, but really had very little time.  She had more fun gossiping with neighbors about what was going on, feigning the “good Christian” role.

My family…..gone.  The Devil had isolated me from My Family.  I could not call them.  I could not talk to them.  He had seen to it that all ties were severed.  His Family?  Not even the members of His Family that I liked would talk to me, with the exception of two phone calls to “check in”.  More like “check up on” and see what I was up to so that they could report back.

Even the Attorney for the State made me feel like a criminal.  He questioned the tiny slip of paper with dates on it.  How was it so pristine?  So clean?  How did it remain hidden in my wallet?  I was interrogated about that slip of paper.  It was as if the Attorney believed I was lying.  Seriously?  I shot right back.  Have you ever seen a woman’s wallet?  Mine has many compartments.  Some of which are quite hidden.  It was pretty easy to keep it hidden.  The female attorney in his office even indicated that she thought his questions were rather foolish.  It was not the last time I felt betrayed by the Attorney for the People.

So, who did I have?  You cannot lean on your children.  Children must be children.  They must be allowed and kept away from this experience as much as possible.  I did not lean on them.  I did not talk to them about much.  I spent time with My Therapist determining what I would say.  And what I said was kept to a minimum.

Co-workers?  They cannot be trusted.  The last thing you want is, in this dog-eat-dog world for someone to know.  Sharks smell blood in the water, and the workforce is so competitive that you do not want those sharks circling you.  So, what do you do?

I prayed.  And I went about my life largely alone.

I endured the accusations of the Attorney for the People.  The humiliation of my name “accidently” going into the newspaper in our little town.  The degradation of being told by my boss to keep quiet at all costs.  The hatred of His Family.

The rumors started by His Mother all over town.  Her precious son wasn’t guilty of anything.  He was leaving me because he was “sick of my shit.”  Hmmmm…….keep telling yourself that.

In the end, after what happened to me, my Domestic Violence Advocate called me out of the blue.  She quit.  She would no longer sit by and work her fingers to the bone giving her entire heart and soul to protect victims when the very system of law was fighting her tooth and nail to protect the offenders.  After she saw what had been done to me, she gave her resignation.  Effective immediately.

Contact

So, as I have stated before, orders of protection are a weak tool in the toolbox against domestic violence.  Poor at best.  At worst, so ineffective that a woman is murdered.  Orders of Protection are just a piece of paper.  That is it.  Nothing more.

The Devil made contact through His Mother, Two Co-Workers (of mine).  He wanted his possessions.  His things.  To tell them that I was crazy.  That he was the abused one.  That he had the scars to prove it.  He had nothing.  Twice, both times when he was arrested, The Devil tried to convince the arresting officers that marks on his body were from me abusing him.  The first time, he showed the officer a pimple on his chest.  The officer told him that it was a pimple – not evidence of domestic violence and to knock it off.  The second time, the same thing.  A sore on his body, one that had been there for a while, was pointed out as “evidence.”  The officer again told him that time that the sore was not indicative of domestic violence.  But still, The Devil told anyone and everyone that I was abusive.

How does he explain my broken finger?  My broken teeth?  The four broken bones in my hand?  The Devil tells people that I did them to myself.  Who does that?

Looking back, there were other things that he did to maintain contact.  He “accidentally” dialed my phone number at home. He “accidentally” dialed my cell phone.  He broke into my email account – my personal email account – and this was confirmed by the provider that he did this – changed the password so that he would be able to view my emails.  He was able to view privileged communications between myself and my divorce attorney.  He contacted the provider – this was captured in the customer record, and changed the password himself.  He had never been on the account.  He had never used the account.  He never paid the bill.  Then, he started having emails sent to the account to try and prove that he had after he was caught.

In another instance, he contacted my health insurance company.  He placed a password on my account so that I could no longer access my records, and then changed the mailing address.  All the correspondence, including Explanation of My Insurance Benefits (EOB’s) which are protected by the Health Insurance Privacy and Portability Act (HIPAA), was routed to his new address.  This included EOB’s for my children.  All in all, 26 EOB’s were sent to his address.  They were opened by him and reviewed.  The scary part of all of this was that he knew my new medical providers.  Physicians and therapists that were treating my hand, and my therapist.  He could look up their addresses, stalk the offices and show up at my appointments!  I had to inform my employer.  This did not go well.

Even with an affidavit from the insurance company sent to the Attorney for the State, and an affidavit from the email provider, the State did nothing.  Absolutely nothing.  This stalking – this way of telling me that he could still “get me” were perfectly okay.  He was going to get away with continuing to abuse me in this way.  He continued to let me know that he was there.  He was just a short distance away, and he could show up any time.

One evening, I found a knife outside on the ledge of a brick facade of my home.

Another afternoon, I noted that the screens on my outside windows and doors had been tampered with.

Each time, I followed the requirements of the protection order.  I notified the Police.  Each time….nothing happened.

While on a trip out of state, my son received an voice mail from His Brother.  His Brother was clearly intoxicated and leaving a message about how its “unfortunate” that all of this has happened, but that you just need to “let the Bitch go”, etc. etc.  My son was extremely upset.  I called the Police back home from where we were vacationing.  Immediately.  No waiting to come home.  Once again, nothing was done.

A woman I know, who works with domestic violence is no longer going to use the term “domestic violence”  in the New Year.  She intends to use the word “intimate terrorism.”  That is more accurate.  Perhaps if domestic violence was classified properly as “intimate terrorism” or as a “hate crime” against women, it would be treated much more seriously and harshly by the law than how it is typically treated.

Every day, each day that I live, I live in fear of my email being hacked, my voice mail, any technology that I have.  My medical records not being private.  Of him learning where I work, or where I am.  I always lock my doors.  Both in my home and in my car.  I still do not go anywhere by myself with the exception of work, and someone knows when I leave and when I arrive, and any time I leave my office to go somewhere.  I moved thousands of miles and many, many states away from where I had lived for 30 years to get away from him.  That is truly how much fear I was living with.  In my new place, while I feel much, much safer, I will never be the carefree person I was prior to The Devil entering my life.  I will always be looking over my shoulder.  Always.  Please don’t misunderstand.  I love my new life.  I am grateful to God for my new life.  For the people who care for me and love me.  But no woman should ever have to go through what I have been through.  Ever.

Therapy

I began Therapy right away.  Now that The Devil was out of the house and prohibited from contacting me (although, as I mentioned in my previous post he ignored the Order of Protection many, many times) I began seeing a Therapist.  My Therapist was amazing.  For the first time, someone heard me.  Someone believed me.  Someone cared.  I was fortunate to have insurance, so my Therapy was largely covered.  Or it would be until I was fired.  But that comes later in my story.

Therapy began that Saturday after The Devil was arrested.  My Therapist agreed to see me on Saturday.  I was nearly hysterical when I called.  There was such a relief that he was out of the house, I could feel my body, still tense, let down. By let down, do not misunderstand me, I do not mean relax, I mean just “let down.”  My shoulders slumped.  I had always had good posture.  My heart rate slowed, a little.  My blood pressure continued to be high, but it was lower than it had been.

I would be in Therapy for 12 months once per week.  Even after I was fired and I could no longer afford the sessions.

During my time in Therapy, I learned why I put up with The Devil’s abuse.  I learned why I didn’t leave, why I didn’t stop it sooner.  I learned that none of it was my fault.  I learned that nothing I said or did deserved me being hit.  I learned that when I defended myself, that it was okay, that it was a normal reaction to years of abuse.

I learned that as a victim of domestic violence, I encountered abuse more frequently than most combat veterans encounter combat.  By that I mean, I was abused about every 3 days on average.  That is more often that most combat veterans encounter combat.  (I am in no way diminishing the sacrifice our veterans make every day and have made.  I am simply drawing a comparison).

I learned that I had “severe PTSD with hyper-reactive response.”  This meant I had a full-blown case of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder and I would respond quickly with an ever-vigilant need to try to protect myself.  If there was a loud noise, I would be on high alert.  If there was a knock at the door, I would hide.  If there was violence on TV I would have to turn it off because it scared me too much.  If I was driving down the road, I was convinced that I was being followed.  I altered my routes, places I went, where I parked, etc., because I lived in sheer terror.

PTSD is a very scary thing.  While I was terrified, I also found myself raising my voice to protect myself if someone was rude or combative with me.  I could not handle loud noises.  I was afraid to leave the house.  I didn’t leave the house much for about six months.  Then, and only then, I would leave with a friend.  Friends did my grocery shopping.  I would only stop places where they had a drive thru and I didn’t have to get out of the car.  I was living in pure and complete fear.  I would only go to my children’s school if accompanied by My Friend.  During the next five months, I left only when I had to (I had always worked).  I kept a knife under my pillow.  I got a gun for protection.

PTSD is an insidious part of Domestic Violence.  It winds and twists the mind so completely.  Rarely is it discussed fully. Even more rarely is it fully understood.

I continue to live with my PTSD.  I wake myself in the night shouting at The Devil.  My nightmares are less frequent now, but they do still occur.  I cry now at nothing.  The littlest thing makes me cry.  Full on.  With a fury.  I was always a strong woman.  I never cried much before.

Even though I live with my PTSD, My Therapist has helped me to better understand it.  To cope.  To live.  To know that I will never permit myself to be in that kind of a situation again.  Ever.

I can’t thank My Therapist enough.  Without the help, I would have never survived.  I have not only survived, but thrived, as they say.  While my life is not the same, it never will be again.  And that’s okay.  Because I am right where I am supposed to be, doing exactly what I am supposed to do.

And I love that.

Meeting with The State

I read 1984 by George Orwell, as a teenager for an English assignment.  Orwell’s 1984 was a little premature.  But, fast forward to the present day, he wasn’t too far off.

That’s how I felt when I met with The State.  Big Brother.  I was guilty until proven innocent, even though I was the one who was abused.  I agreed to meet with The State because I was told by the Attorney that if I didn’t cooperate that I would be charged.  Charged with what, I don’t know.  But the threat was there.  Obstructing justice?  Really?  That’s the best we have got to tell a victim of Domestic Violence?  Well, screw you.

I met with the Attorney.  I told her I would do my best to provide her with the facts.  The most accurate accounting of what had happened.  I took her through the documentation I had.  The 40+ photographs I had provided the Police.  The recording of the final day.  The little slip of paper I kept in my wallet.  I took her through everything.  I told her that I had fought back once.  I told her that he may have recorded it.  I told her the Truth to the best of my ability.  Unfortunately, there were times when I struggled with details.  I had had several concussions and at least three times where I lost consciousness when The Devil choked me.  My memory wasn’t always reliable.  The PTSD affected it to a point.  But, I did my best.  My best was the Truth.

It was the most difficult thing I have ever had to do.  I was scared to death that I would lose my kids.  Even though Joe didn’t care about them, didn’t want them, he would want to do whatever he could to hurt me.  To take them away.  I was terrified.  Ours was a small town.  I was afraid everyone would know.  I was assured my privacy.  I believed them.

But it wasn’t private.  I learned that at the end of the day, when the Attorney had decided that there was enough to charge him with 21 counts of Domestic Violence, including 6 felony charges, that my name was made PUBLIC.  It is against Federal Law to make a Domestic Violence victim’s name public unless they give you permission.  I had not.  But it happened anyway.  I knew my neighbors would read about it in our little newspaper.  I knew that everyone would know.  I thought I was going to be sick.

Sure enough.  The publicity had the effect that I thought it would.  People whispering when I entered the boys’ school.  When I showed up for their activities.  When I ran into a neighbor at the store – someone who previously would have said “hello” turned away.  I was mortified.  Humiliated.

I knew that my bosses would soon find out.  When I told them, I was told that I MUST “keep it quiet”  and “Do not tell anyone” because they did not want my “personal problems to reflect poorly on the company”.  I was devastated.

I was told I would have to testify before the Grand Jury.  I had no idea how I was going to get through it.  I had no idea how I could possibly manage.  I prayed and prayed.  I wanted God to deliver me from Hell.

On that cold day where I testified, I knew of two people on the Grand Jury.  One was a woman who’s boyfriend had been a business partner of my Brother-in-Law.  She would not look at me.  But she had tears in her eyes throughout my testimony.  Another was the wife of a physician in town.  I had served with her on a volunteer committee.  If she recognized me, she never let on.  It took until I left the room for me to put two-and-two together as to who she was.  There was a man with tears in his eyes.  A “good old boy” who evidently couldn’t bear to hear what had been done to me.  Another man drilled me with questions.  When I was done answering them, he appeared satisfied.  But it wasn’t easy to answer his questions.

The thing that stuck out most with me was an elderly woman.  A pleasant, round-faced lady with white hair.  She had on a “Ask me about my Grandkids” sweatshirt.  When I recounted the last day, and told that I had thrown the boot back at him, she quietly murmured “It’s about damn time, Honey.”

I left the room and waited in the Attorney’s office.  She came back.  The Grand Jury believed that I was telling the Truth. The State would be pursuing it’s case on behalf of The People.  It sure wasn’t on my behalf.  Or on the behalf of my children.  Or on behalf of Domestic Violence Victims.  And no, it wasn’t for Justice.  There is no Justice in Domestic Violence.