What Becomes of the Broken Hearted?

I was just over on Sara's blog and she has posted a story about her life. I had to read it twice, and it was only during the second reading that I realized what was wrong: I was reading my story, only it was through another woman's eyes.

I started out life as any other young Black woman did: loved by all three of her parents (even if the Biological didn't really bother, but that's food for another blog). I had a pretty typical upbringing. Solidly Middle class family, happy childhood and early teen years. It wasn't until High School that I would meet the man who would turn my life upside down. Anyway, here's my story.

I was 15, kind of shy. Not thought of as typically pretty because I was chunky even back then, but with a beautiful smile and naivety that most people found adorable (Or so they say). He was 20, good looking, beautiful smile with a body that just made a good girl want to be bad all damned day long. I know, some people are saying red flag right there, but hey, he was doing big things because he was in college and wanting to become an engineer. You know how when you give a young lady who, up to this point had been invisible to boys a little attention it tends to blind them to some pretty harsh shit? Well that was me: in love, out of control and blind as a bat to what was really going on.

It statred slowly enough, he began to isolate me from friends (not like I had many to begin with), family (they all just thought it was sweet how much time we spent together) and eventually church and school fell by the wayside as well. I had always wanted to be a doctor, but he wanted me to stay home and take care of the house. No problem as far as I was concerned. I just wanted to make him happy. And he was. Even though we weren't really making much, we were making some little bit of money so he treated me as well as he could on what he had. He and I were pretty good until I had my oldest daughter, who is now a teenager. Ever see the movie "Sleeping With the Enemy"? Well I was sleeping with my biggest enemy, but it would only get worse.

He began controlling what I ate, who I saw and where I went. I was given a cell phone and told that it had better not ring more than three times or there would be hell to pay. My clothes went from cute stuff that any now almost 20 year old woman would wear to long sleeves, long dresses and pants that showed no skin, even in the summertime. I kept a spotless house, not because I really cared how it looked, but mostly because I was scared to death what would happen if he came home and found even one towel out of place. From the moment the baby came home, I because all kinds of fat, worthless bitches and lazy whores because I couldn't do and be everything he seemed to want me to be. Since I was so young when I got with him, I didn't know any better, and since he was making good money in his career at that point, everybody around me basically told me that I needed to shape up or I was gonna lose a "good" Black man.

At first it was just a slap here, and a pinch there, but soon it escalated into all out shouting matches with me pinned to the floor while he choked me and beat me like I was his child. Eventually I got up enough guts to go stay with my brother, but asshole was not done with me yet.

I had waited until he was gone to work and came back to the house to get my things and the baby's stuff (even though she was three at the time). I had gotten almost everything packed into my car and was on my way out the door when he got home early. When he saw me with that suitcase, something in him snapped. He punched me in my face so hard he cracked my cheekbone. I went to the floor, and while I was down there he was basically stomping me to death. My baby got my cell phone and called 9/11 and her uncles to come "get Bad Daddy off my Mommy." By the time the police got there, he'd pulled out a gun and was threatening to blow my brains out if I didn't promise to stay with him. I was in so much pain that I said what I had to to keep him from killing me or my baby.

Today, the bastard sits in jail, doing a 40 year prison term for assault, attempted murder, assault with a deadly weapon and reckless endangerment of a child. I packed my baby up and drove across the country to get away from him, but I have every intention of making the trip back to my home state to testify when that lousy bastard comes up for parole.

Whew. Anyway, Sara was commenting about how there is a difference between damaged and wounded, and she is 100% correct. When I first came away from that relationship, I was battle scarred to death. I was emotionally battered, physically wounded and mentally wrecked. I could have chosen to remain in bitterness, taking out my pain, anger and frustration on everybody around me, but I realized that I am better than that. I went to the college near my house and got free counseling through their Psychology Department. I re-enrolled in school, eventually graduating with a 3.9 GPA from that college with a Bachelor's Degree in Nursing. I see myself as a phoenix who rose from the ashes, ready to do better and make my life my own.

But then I look around at so many other women who are angry, bitter and scarred but who haven't opened their minds and hearts to get the help that they need. DBRbm are leaving an army of wounded sisters in their wake. I was one of the lucky ones. Now it's time for me to head out there and help someone like nobody tried to help me.

And so hopefully the cycle of pain, hurt and disillusionment ends with me.