A Word Please

Happy Halloween! Today is also the last day of Domestic Abuse Awareness Month. Joanna V. Hunter, author of But He’ll Change: End the Thinking That Keeps You in an Abusive Relationship, is here to share the things that you can do to help a friend or family member if you suspect abuse. Joanna is a survivor who understands the intricacies and complications involved with abusive relationships. She now helps educate both victims and the general public.

Joanna writes under a pseudonym and I will not be showing her photo. Here is a bit about this inspiring woman:

Joanna Hunter is a survivor who wrote the book she needed when she was recovering from her own violent relationship. She is a popular speaker, volunteer and trainer on domestic violence. You can learn more about Joanna, her work and her writing in the following places:

Blog: http://peoplewhodeservehappiness.blogspot.com
Facebook: http://facebook.com/?joanna.v.hunter
Twitter: www.Twitter.com/hunterjv

Before we get to Joanna’s words of advice, I want to show off her book. I know many women who might have chosen different options for their lives had they read Joanna’s book. And for those women who have experienced abuse of any sort, this book is a wonderful healing tool. No one should suffer alone.

He loves me. He has a really sweet side. I am all he has. If only his boss wouldn’t put him under so much stress. At least he doesn’t hit me. He won’t do it again. I can’t do anything right.

In this compassionate book written for victims of domestic violence, Joanna V. Hunter helps women face, head on, the excuses they tell themselves that keep them in abusive relationships. Using expert advice complemented by her story and the stories of dozens of other women who have survived and turned away from domestic violence, Hunter teaches women to

identify the lies they’ve accepted
understand what healthy thinking sounds like
give themselves permission to stop taking the blame for their partners’ behavior
identify power and control plays
stick up for their own needs and plan for their safety
practice forgiveness

‘Healing from abuse means you’ve taken back your power . . . My hope is that this book will help you shed labels, transcend the past, and walk into a better life—the one you’ve always hoped for.’ Readers will develop the tools to operate not as victims, but as survivors, understanding the power that they hold to change their lives.

Now I am honored to share Joanna’s words of wisdom:

Abuse is the systematic suffocation of another person’s spirit. It’s about power and control. One person holds all the power and uses it to control the other. We call this domestic violence, domestic abuse, or intimate partner violence. Three names for one horrific living condition.

The Center for Disease Control reports approximately 4.8 million women and 2.9 million men experience violence at the hand of their partner. We can make a difference by paying attention to the people around us and reaching out. The questions most asked are, “How do I do that? What do I say?”

Most important, if you witness physical violence call 911, immediately.

Some behaviors that may indicate your friend or coworker is being abused are:

• Is often late or cancels an engagement with you last minute.
• Normally outgoing, becomes quiet around partner.
• Has low self-esteem.
• Wears long sleeves and turtlenecks in warm seasons.
• Wears sunglasses indoors.
• Is often sick for several days or weeks in a row and can’t come to work or see you.
• Receives frequent calls from her partner every day.
• Is often heard trying to calm or assure her partner over the phone.
• Has a partner that shows up unexpectedly at her job or when she is out with you.
• Never socializes with other co-workers or attends work parties or functions.
• Is seeing you less and less often.

Victims are afraid someone will ask what is happening to them. They are also afraid that no one will.

You can help by being prepared. Find out about the women’s shelter in your area and have the phone number on hand. Take your friend or co-worker aside and tell her you’re concerned for her. You have seen and heard things that lead you to believe that she is living in a stressful (don’t use the word – abuse- it will scare her away) situation. Tell her you care about her and that you feel she deserves to be treated better. Offer her the phone number to the shelter (write it on some innocuous business card or random pamphlet.) Tell her that she can call and talk to someone who is a compassionate listener and able make helpful suggestions. It doesn’t mean she has to leave her partner or go to the shelter. She can use the shelter’s services (i.e. support groups, legal advocates) even if she doesn’t stay there. Shelter personnel will not force her to do anything she’s not ready to do. And neither should you. It takes on average 7 attempts to leave an abusive relationship. Patience and acceptance on your part are paramount.

Your friend or co-worker may deny everything and make excuses for what you’ve witnessed. In violent relationships secrecy is a rule. Breaking that edict means severe consequences for the victim. If she denies anything is happening, don’t argue. Tell her you care about her and if something comes up and she’d like to talk, you’re available. Just plant the seed.

If your friend or co-worker denies what is happening, there are still things that you can do. Keep a record on a calendar of any missed days, odd behavior, bruises or injuries you notice. Note where the bruising is on her body and its approximate size. Should she eventually press charges against her abuser, your documentation can help prove this is domestic violence, a pattern of on-going abuse, resulting in a longer sentence for the offender. Otherwise, the court may feel this is a one-time incident and only give the abuser a slap on the hand.

If your friend discloses to you that she’s in an stressful or abusive relationship, you can do some safety planning with her. She can:

• Set up a code word that she can use to tell you she needs help, call the police.
• Gather important papers and records (i.e. birth certificates, social security card, bank accounts) and keep them in a safe place, such as a safety deposit box or with a friend or trusted relative.
• Keep an extra set of car keys hidden outside the house should she have to make an quick escape.
• Pack clothing and some cash in a suitcase and leave it with a friend or relative.
• Let you know where she is going and when she is expected to return. If she doesn’t show up when expected, contact the police.

The shelter in her area can give her more safety planning suggestions.

It’s stressful to help a victim of domestic abuse. If you feel overwhelmed, you can contact the shelter in your area or the National Domestic Violence Hotline (800.799.7233.) They will support and guide you as you help the victim.

Your friend has to do the work to take back her power, you cannot do it for her. All you need to be is someone who cares about her, reminds her that she is a good person and speaks the truth: She deserves to be loved and cherished by the people in her life.

Joanna’s book can be purchased on Amazon, in both print and Kindle format. This could be the best gift you ever give yourself or someone you love.

One in four women experience domestic abuse in their lifetime. Chances are, you either are one of those women or you know one. I hope you’ll keep in mind the information Joanna has shared with us today.

Do you need help or know someone who does?
National Coalition Against Domestic Violence provides anonymous and confidential help 24/7:
1-800-799-SAFE (7233)
1-800-787-3224 (TTY)

Thanks for reading.

My tribute to Domestic Abuse Awareness Month continues today with a guest post by victim/survivor/author Daleen Berry. I met Daleen last month, when I sent out a message on Facebook seeking people willing to speak out on the topic. I was immediately struck by her strength, her commitment, and her willingness to openly tell her story in the hopes of saving someone else. I have the honor of sharing her words here today. First, an introduction:

California native and West Virginia resident Daleen Berry is an award-winning journalist who has been covering crime since 1988. She wrote and published law enforcement journals for the West Virginia Deputy Sheriffs’ Association and the West Virginia Fraternal Order of Police during the 1990′s. Among her awards include first-place for investigative journalism from the West Virginia Press Association, two second-place awards from the Maryland-Delaware-DC Press Association for her weekly newspaper column, and as a student editor, she also led her staff to a record number of awards from the Society for Collegiate Journalists.

You can connect with Daleen in the following places:

http://daleenberry.com
https://www.facebook.com/daleen.berry
http://twitter.com/DaleenBerry

Now I’m happy to step aside and give you Daleen Berry:

There is a component to domestic violence that we are more silent about than any other part, be it emotional, physical or psychological. And, until recently, women didn’t discuss the sexual violence that occurred within their committed relationships. I say “committed” because so often, we think this type of violence only occurs in situations where the woman doesn’t know who her “attacker” is. Or maybe she does.

Thankfully, the silence surrounding this particular type of violence is beginning to shatter. A Feb. 15, 2011 New York Times article titled “Report Details Sabotage of Birth Control,” featured details about a study that shows how men flush birth control pills down the toilet, poke holes in condoms, or refuse to let their partner use birth control.

One might think this isn’t sexual violence. True, but it is a type of control being exercised over a woman—and its goal is to maintain that control, by getting or keeping that woman pregnant.

I used to be one of those women. And because I did not want to become pregnant, if my then-husband initiated sex without any birth control in place, I was not a willing partner.

If he continued to try and coerce, pressure or force me into having sex with him, that’s when a line was crossed, and what occurred could be called sexual violence. Or, more simply, rape.

We’ve been slow to recognize when marital rape, or rape within a committed relationship, occurs. I believe that’s true for many reasons, but mostly because this is considered such a private and shameful thing, that no one wanted to talk about it.

Until now.

In my memoir, Sister of Silence, I address many problems: teen pregnancy, single-parent families, suicide, and even alcoholism. As with all the others, I address this particular problem directly by telling how it happened to me, how those repeated acts of marital violence affected me, and how I finally managed to escape.

Just today, I met with someone from the West Virginia Coalition Against Domestic Violence about this very problem. We acknowledged that part of the problem in not realizing how much of this type of domestic violence occurs, is because the people asking the questions haven’t been asking the right ones. And that’s because it makes many people squeamish, to talk about sex. Even if you happen to be a domestic violence advocate or shelter worker who’s filling out an intake form, trying to gauge what types and how much violence has taken place within a woman’s relationship.

We hope to be able to use my story to help other women understand that if they’re experiencing this in their own homes, they have done nothing wrong. Nor do they have anything to be ashamed about. They can and should speak up and tell someone about it, and this very act of breaking the silence that’s surrounded them for so long will actually free them. It’s very liberating, this speaking one’s truth.

I learned recently that another Sister of Silence reader found this to be true, too. “Barbara” said it woke her up, and allowed her to see the true state of her own long and tumultuous marriage. Instead of continuing to turn a blind eye to what happened in her bedroom, Barbara began listening to her own inner voice—that voice that told her that things weren’t really as rosy as she had led herself, and her family, to believe.

That’s when she was realized her husband’s problem—his crossing the line with her, while ignoring her sexual boundaries—began when he got involved with pornography, many years earlier. (Now that’s another topic for another day, but I don’t think it’s mere coincidence that two husbands—who never knew each other—yet who both crossed lines in ways that left their wives feeling ashamed and violated, both had a habitual problem with pornography.)

It took me many years to speak up and voice my concerns that something wasn’t right within my marriage. What helped me do that was the knowledge that I had a right to choose what happened to me, to my body. Every person has that same right, and should be able to freely choose what happens to her. You have a right to express your feelings and your desires, about what does, or does not happen, to you, and to your body. Your body is yours, and you have the final say over whether you experience something of a sexual nature. Without your consent, no one else has the right to make that choice for you. If they do, they are not making it for you—they are taking it from you.

I learned that, as many women do, the hard way. But once I looked it in the eye and called it what it was, something amazing happened. I gained courage and strength and that impelled me to find a way to leave my marriage.

Speaking my truth freed me, and now I just want to help other women find their own voice, so they can do the same. What better time than now?

Thank you, Daleen, for having the courage to speak out on an aspect of domestic violence that is rarely talked about.

Here’s a look at Daleen’s memoir on Amazon, in both print and Kindle format:

Daleen was recently interviewed on an Internet TV show. She speaks openly about how she became a victim and a little of what she endured. You can watch that interview here: www.tri-valleytv.org/streaming/inaword-vod.html Daleen’s segment starts about halfway through the show. You can easily advance the clip if you’d prefer not to watch the first guest interview.

I hope that you’ll take the time to read Daleen’s story.

If you or someone you know is a victim of domestic abuse, help is available through the National Coalition Against Domestic Violence:

Anonymous and Confidential Help 24/7:
1-800-799-SAFE (7233)
1-800-787-3224 (TTY)

Please join me again on Thursday, for another personal story.

Thanks for reading.

Today’s guest post for my continuing tribute to Domestic Abuse Awareness Month is a little different. My guest today is author Marissa Farrar. She is not writing about personal experience. Instead, Marissa is sharing a piece from the perspective of Serenity, the main character in her novel Alone, which is about a woman who endures extreme abuse. When I first read this piece, my stomach twisted into a knot. That is partly due to Marissa’s incredible writing and her ability to immerse herself and her readers in that character’s emotions. But my reaction was also that strong because, while fiction, this story could so easily be true. In fact, it is probably happening now, as you read this, to women all over the world.

Serenity’s story is difficult to read. At the heart, though, it is one of hope and endurance – a theme all of this month’s stories share.

I live my life in a box.

On all sides, rise sheer walls of fear. A roof of humiliation presses down on my head so I’m forced to crouch, to curl up in a ball. Bound across my mouth is a gag of shame. I cannot speak about what the person who is supposed to love me the most in the world does to me.

And I cannot escape.

My husband, Jackson, hits me in all the places no one else can see—the ribs, my lower back, my thighs.

Each time it happens he comes to me, curls up behind me, pressing his body against mine. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he tells me. ‘Why do you make me do these things to you?’ As though this is my fault.

Yet in many ways I feel responsible. The abuse didn’t start until after I lost our first pregnancy.

We’d both been so excited about the baby, but then I woke one morning with blood in my underwear—too much blood—and a visit to the doctor confirmed our worst fear, I’d lost the baby.

I blamed myself and saw the accusations in Jackson’s eyes. Ruining one of our pans while cooking dinner was enough of an excuse for him to take his loss out on me.

Afterward, he’d been so apologetic. We cried in each other’s arms and he promised it would never happen again. Except I would hear those words many times in the years to come.

Then I fell pregnant a second time and, once again, lost the baby. With the next I managed to reach twenty weeks gestation but, at the twenty-week scan, the technicians were unable to locate a heartbeat. That one had been the worst. I gave birth to the child, an impossibly tiny, doll-like baby my body had killed.

The next time I became pregnant, I kept the pregnancy a secret. When I lost that one at eight weeks, I sobbed in private and tried to act like nothing was wrong.

My life has no meaning. Incapable of nurturing a child inside of me, what is the point in my existence? My body kills my own babies; as though I’m poisonous, toxic. I hate myself for it.

Consequently, the beatings I receive on a regular basis are nothing less than I deserved. I can’t blame Jackson for hating me. After all, my body has denied him a family.

Ironically, Jackson doesn’t tell me he hates me. If anything he is vocal about his adoration. ‘I love you, I love you, I love you’, he tells me over and over, as though those three little words will heal my wounds.

I start each day judging the mood of my husband. If he’s in a bad place, his temper radiates from him like heat. On those days I do everything I can to avoid setting him off, but he’s a tightly wound spring and looking for a fight, a release to purge his anger.

One time, he dragged me out of the shower by the hair and beat me with the shower head until I passed out. I woke up naked and freezing on the bathroom floor. In so much pain, I had to drag myself to the bedroom. I couldn’t even get on the bed, so I just lay on the floor with a towel over me, trying to stay warm until Jackson came home. When he finally rolled back from the bar, I asked him to help me and he laughed. He told me if I behaved like a dog, I should sleep on the floor like one.

Do you know what really got to me?

To this day, I have absolutely no idea what I did to deserve that beating. I wracked my brains for weeks wondering if I’d left the breakfast dishes out or if I hadn’t cleaned the floor well enough. I was so paranoid, whatever cleaning I did, I checked, and checked, and checked it again to make sure I had done the job right. I didn’t question my husband’s state of mind to beat me as he did; I questioned my own ability to do the God-damned cleaning!

I know people will never understand my position. You’re probably thinking yourself, ‘Why doesn’t she get out? Why doesn’t she leave?’

All I can do is bring you back to that box, the one I’m trapped inside. I cannot see a way out so I hide here; hoping and praying one day things will change.

That one day, someone will help me out.

Thank you, Marissa, for sharing such a powerful piece.

Now let’s meet the author behind Serenity’s words:

Marissa Farrar is a multi-published horror and paranormal author. She was born in Devon, England, loves to travel and has lived in both Australia and Spain. She now resides in Devon with her husband, two children, a crazy Spanish rescue dog and four hens. She has a degree in Zoology, but her true love has always been writing.

Her dark take on a vampire romance, Alone, was first published in 2009 and has now been re-launched by Red Hot Publishing. The sequel to Alone is scheduled for an October 2011 release.

Her short stories have been accepted for a number of anthologies including, Their Dark Masters, Red Skies Press, Masters of Horror: Damned If You Don’t, Triskaideka Books; and 2013: The Aftermath, Pill Hill Press. Her own collection of paranormal short stories, Where the Dead Live, is also available.

If you want to know more about Marissa, then please visit her website at www.marissa-farrar.blogspot.com. You can also find her at her facebook page, www.facebook.com/marissa.farrar.author or follow her on twitter @marissafarrar.

She loves to hear from readers and can be emailed at marissafarrar@hotmail.co.uk.

Here is a look at Alone, where you will find Serenity’s story:

Caught in a violent and abusive relationship, Serenity thinks there is no escape.

Upon meeting a stranger, Sebastian, she is shown the possibility of a different future.

Only Sebastian has a dark secret; he is a vampire.

As Serenity’s life takes a terrifying turn, she finds herself drawn into a world she never knew existed; one of murder, love and immortality. She is forced to confront her own weaknesses to save both her own life and that of the vampire she has come to love. But in the end all that matters is; can she find the strength to be Alone?

You can find all of Marissa’s books on Amazon:

Thanks for reading.

Welcome readers! Continuing on with October’s theme of Domestic Abuse Awareness Month, today’s guest is sharing her personal story. We will know her only as Jennifer. The story she shares, a brief outline really, is something you might expect to see on the big screen, in the type of thriller that sets your teeth on edge. You might read this and think, “I would never let it get that far.” I’m sure she would have said the same thing. Please remember that.

Here is Our Story:

I didn’t know the man I fell for would end up being the devil. He was my protector. Six pack abs and prison tats, granted he was not the usual kind of guy I fell for, but there was something passionate about him, having just regained his freedom. It was summer and he always had his shirt off, I couldn’t help but notice. I was 19 and we lived in a townhouse with three other people. One day he came out on the deck I was sitting on, put his hand over my mouth, held me down, and said, “That’s how easy it would be for me to rape you.” No one can hurt you when you have a pitbull on your side. Growing up, I was powerless to help my sister who was sexually abused, and I was a victim of a crime when I was fourteen. Besides, one of the male roommates had become aggressive toward me, would pick me up and twirl me around against my will, or dive on top of me when I was on the sofa. All that stopped with him. He convinced me to get rid of the potentially abusive roommate, not knowing I was trading one for another. I thought I’d found the perfect guy. But everyone makes mistakes; that’s how we learn. And mine was a big one.

He then persuaded me to get rid of all the other roommates, and one of their parents knew him, and warned me of his violent temper, but I don’t even remember listening. When everyone moved out, he lit candles around the bath tub and made a bubble bath. For Halloween, he carved a pumpkin with our names. I was breeding purebred cats at the time, and when I had a bad day, he would bring me a baby kitten to hold. Once, I came home and he’d left a trail of cards leading to a bouquet of flowers on the floor, and in each card was my horoscope or something special. And then on my 21st birthday, he brought me alcohol to celebrate. In the words of Chuck Palahniuk, author of Fight Club, my boyfriend became “Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Jackass” when he drank. On his birthday, I cooked him a meal, and he said no one had ever celebrated his birthday before. On Valentine’s Day, we were drinking on the sofa together. He kept pulling me close, and locked his arm around my neck, holding me that way. When I got free and ran to the steps, he asked, “Where are you going?” and why was I leaving him, and pulled my legs down the stairs. I ran up again, and into the bedroom. He kicked the door open and slammed his hand down on my throat, and choked me until I couldn’t breathe. I managed to say, “I don’t want to die.” When he let go, he’d been pressing on my carotid artery and I felt my heart that had slowed start pounding as I gasped for air. I crawled under the bed.

When he was gone, I looked in the mirror. I had severe bruising around my throat, which looked worse than pictures of Nicole Brown Simpson I’d seen in a tabloid paper before she ended up dead. It reminded me of my friend, who hung himself, and of the purple blue bruise on his neck that the coroner had not been able to conceal at the funeral. I realized my boyfriend could have killed me. I called the police, and they made a report and pressed charges for me. It was considered First Degree Assault. At court, I said, “I can’t recall” to every question they asked me. He’d convinced me to stay. I’d found out I was pregnant. The charge was put on a Stet Docket, meaning if he did anything wrong for a year, the court could re-open the charges. I’d feel hopeful when he was sober, that things would get better. He was ordered into a Domestic Violence program and I was told to go to a victim program. They showed a video of a woman set on fire by her abuser and I couldn’t relate.

Before the Stet Docket was up, he started drinking heavily again. He ripped the phone off the wall when I was talking to a friend and it hit my face. She called police. He told me not to show up for court because they couldn’t prosecute if I wasn’t there. Then he beat and kicked my face before the trial to make sure I stayed away. I was scared police would show up looking for me, so I went to the mall. I had a Clinique lady do my makeup and she said, “Oh my God,” when she saw how bad the bruises were under my makeup. She redid it again so it wasn’t obvious. In my absence from court, my best friend thought I was dead and testified. He was sentenced to ten years in prison. A lawyer suggested we get married and on appeal, the charges would be dropped. When I went to get him out of jail, a sheriff printed out his rap sheet and it was one long sheet that hit the floor. He asked, “Are you sure you want to get him out?”

We remained together because I thought he was a good father. He stayed sober for a while, and then he got drunk and started yelling and cut down our child’s helium birthday balloons. He threw the knife at me, and it hit the wall so hard the handle broke. I didn’t fully realize what it was he threw, until I picked up the pieces off the floor. The next morning, my son cried when he saw his balloons missing. It’s like he knew, because he refused to stay home with daddy, opting for the babysitter and not even looking at him the next morning before I went to work. I already had accumulated a long list of reasons to divorce him, including his holding my hand over a hot stove burner and threatening to burn me. He threatened to kill me if I left. He punched holes in the wall by my head. He hung up on my friends when they called. He’d totaled the car I paid for. He’d taken my school books and ripped them up when I had a six page report due and a final exam. He’d hit my head on the tub. Countless ice bags, doctor visits, Tylenol, and tranquilizers. I was terrified to stay, and terrified to leave. I got a restraining order. He broke it.

In all, I was married to a violent alcoholic for two years which left me with post traumatic stress from severe terror and abuse after a hostage situation where the SWAT team had to come and kick his ass. I never thought I’d say I’d be happy to see guns pointed at me but really at him when police came and he was about to stab me. He’d broken into the house but the worst was yet to come, the hostage situation lasted all night when he tried to kidnap our son. I have never been so scared in my life and I still can’t sleep at night. I’m afraid. I’m afraid to say he then held a thirteen inch butcher knife blade to my son’s throat, because someone out there in an abusive relationship might say, “I can’t relate,” as I did. If you’re in a relationship, at the first sign of abuse, bail.

Thankfully, police tackled my husband when he switched the baby from one hand to the other and dropped the knife. When paramedics finally finished treating my son, they brought him back to me ice cold and pale. I thought he was dead. He threw up all over my shirt. I went upstairs and changed him, and changed my shirt, and he threw up again. I changed him, and when he threw up a third time, I left his shirt off and wrapped him in blankets. I brushed back his blonde hair and he had blue bruises from having fallen. He would cry when I touched the side of his head. Later, I was advised that if I wanted to keep custody, I could never go back to my abuser. We were lucky we made it through alive. I divorced my abuser while he was in jail. I hope this story will save a life.

Thank you, Jennifer, for sharing your traumatic story. You are a lot stronger than you realize.

Thanks for reading.

I’m continuing on today with my tribute to Domestic Abuse Awareness Month. Today’s guest is author Sharon E. Cathcart. She is sharing her personal experience and, while the details are unique to her, I think many abused women will see themselves – and their abusers – in this story. Before we get to Sharon’s story, here is some information on the strong woman she is today:

Books by internationally published author Sharon E. Cathcart provide discerning readers of essays, fiction and non-fiction with a powerful, truthful literary experience.

A former journalist and newspaper editor, Sharon has been writing for as long as she can remember and generally has at least one work in progress.

Sharon lives with her husband and an assortment of pets in the Silicon Valley, California.

Learn more about Sharon’s writing here: http://home.earthlink.net/~scathcart1964/sharonecathcart/index.html

This is Sharon’s story of abuse and survival:

I remember clearly when I first spoke publicly about my own experiences as a survivor of domestic violence: October 2003. I even remember what I said. I recorded a telephone announcement for a continuing medical education activity at the hospital where I managed the program.

“October is Domestic Violence Awareness month. Today’s activity is near and dear to my heart, because I am a domestic violence survivor. My colleague, Stephanie Rodriguez, was not so fortunate. She was murdered by her abuser. “ I then went on to give particulars of the activity, which trained physicians and staff on screening for domestic violence.

In September 2003, Stephanie escaped from her abuser. Despite Leo’s (her estranged husband) numerous arrests for spousal abuse, he successfully sued on grounds of parental alienation because Stephanie had taken her two minor children with her when she got away. She was ordered by the courts to return to the town where her husband lived and keep him apprised of her address. Two weeks after the move, she was dead: shot at point-blank range with her own pistol, which Leo had stolen when he broke into the apartment while Stephanie was at work. Leo next turned the gun on himself.
These are the barest facts of Stephanie’s case. However, that was what finally inspired me to talk about my own experiences.

I wrote in detail about my experiences in “Les Pensees Dangereuses” and “You Had to Be There: Three Years of Mayhem and Bad Decisions in the Portland Music Scene.” Today, I’m sharing a more condensed version of my story.

When I was 18 years old, I met a fellow named Tom at a Billy Idol concert in Portland, Oregon. He was tall and handsome, and seemed very nice. Tom was 6’5” and 220 pounds; I was 5’1” and weighed 100 pounds if I had rocks in my pockets. He was literally two of me.

I later learned that Tom was thrown out of the concert for hitting a girl and breaking her nose. If I had known that at the time, I might have saved myself some problems. Maybe.
Tom asked me out for a movie date and we wound up seeing each other regularly. Eventually we were engaged to be married. I was nineteen years old by that time and had never had a serious boyfriend. My parents were very strict with me and I didn’t have the tools to understand the warning signs.

At first, I thought he was just attentive. He called all the time, brought flowers to my office for me pretty often … that felt pretty nice. When he overheard me mention to a gal-pal that I had always been most attracted to blondes, he bleached his dark hair. He worked hard to present himself as the perfect boyfriend.

The problems started in earnest with verbal abuse that eventually escalated – as is the case with so many abusers. He gave me a hard time about reading too much. He accused me of “using big words just to piss him off” and demanded that I dumb down my vocabulary. He became increasingly physical with me, swatting my bottom so hard when I walked past him that he left a bruise. He would grab me on the dance floor so hard that he let marks on my arms. He called and told me that my baby hamster, who was not yet fully tame and whom I had possessed for less than a week, was dead in her cage although she had been healthy when I left for work – and that he had already disposed of the remains. To this day, I suspect that he killed her.

Abusers frequently kill (or threaten to kill) their victims’ pets – or children – if they leave or speak to anyone about their home life. They like to keep their victims close at hand … and silent.

I decided I’d had enough of him and broke things off in a nightclub where one of the bands I worked with was playing. Tom punched a hole through the wall of the dressing room. That should have been a warning to me, but I took him back.

By the time I dumped Tom for good, I had taken him back eight times. I was afraid to be without him, and so beaten down emotionally that I would acquiesce to his tears and begging. Things would be fine for a while (the proverbial honeymoon period) and my hopes would be raised that he really meant it this time. This is what makes it so hard for victims of domestic violence to leave; we are already exhausted mentally and emotionally before the beating starts that we tend to stay.

I went to a pastor for advice and assistance and was told that if I would just go home to be a better, more submissive woman, that Tom wouldn’t “have to” hit me. I subsequently learned that this is an unfortunately common response by clergy to domestic violence victims. So, I figured I was on my own.

I was mortified and ashamed that I was being hit so frequently; I figured I must be doing something wrong. I hope that all victims of domestic violence who may be reading this will get this message in particular: the shame is not on *you.* The shame is on the person who is abusing you.

I was able to get away for good after Tom hit me in the face at a party that he crashed. I had a black eye that I did not hide well enough with makeup. My mother told my father, who rang Tom up. To make a long story short, my father told Tom that if he ever laid a hand on me again that my dad would kill him – and he wasn’t kidding.

I hadn’t told my family or my friends what was going on until the last incident. Then, I didn’t talk about it again until Stephanie was murdered. Now, I talk about it. I write about it. I did nothing wrong. I lived to tell my own story, unlike my friend Stephanie.

We as survivors need to stop sitting in silent shame if we are going to end domestic violence once and for all.

Thank you, Sharon, for speaking out about your personal journey. As difficult as it is, I believe these stories help many women from becoming victims themselves.

Thanks for reading.

Welcome back to my blog’s journey through Domestic Abuse Awareness Month. My guests are courageous people, sharing their personal stories of abuse. These stories are meant to educate and inspire and, hopefully, prevent someone else from becoming a victim.

Today’s guest is an author who wishes to remain anonymous. This is a powerful story, mixing religious fanaticism with child abuse. Sadly, this is not an isolated event. Similar stories are happening all over the country, all over the world, as you’re reading this now. If you know of a child in trouble, please do whatever you can to help, before it’s too late.

I won’t admit to using this subject as a theme in one of my books. I prefer that you wonder; and prefer to remain anonymous with my experience. All the principals are still living, and though we haven’t spoken in years, some witness protection is still in order. Such wounds never truly heal. We only mend them.

My family background is Theocratic. The current generations have some sense, to an extent. But a few generations ago, there was madness in the adherence to the strictures of the Bible. If you did not follow the word of God to the letter, you were branded evil. A few generations back, that evil would be cast out. Nowadays, we mostly just stop talking to one another.

I wish there had been silence when I was but sixteen. My parent, into their second marriage, had a relapse into the madness of demon hunting, and terrorized a child in that poorly cobbled second family. An innocent child – branded demon possessed! For two years that fight raged.

I had meals with a kid who was not allowed to speak at the table. We endured endless lectures in the family car after church, because there was a holy certainty we had not truly listened that morning. I knew a parent, my very own, who could lapse into rages at the slightest incident involving that poor step-sibling of mine and wouldn’t cease shouting about it for hours. We had heard the word exorcism so many times we expected it to happen. There was no marriage there; the whole group of us kids understood that very well. But such is the power of godly abuse; when one parent is narcissistic, and deeply religious, the other parent becomes insignificant. Being only sixteen, I was insignificant, too. I’m ashamed to say I accepted it, because it kept me out of trouble.

Gladly – sadly – the abuse was never physical to the child. But the threat of it hung in the air when we were together. On my monthly visits, I prayed that perhaps the behavior was better, for appearances sake. But, that only allowed me to remain quiet longer. After forty years, I am humiliated at my submission during the rages. I enabled some of it to continue. And, would you believe, I still would not be able to go near that subject with that person? Someone who gave life to me, showed me what little value another life could have. That is a terrible thing to witness at any age.
That marriage dissolved, and for years, my parent carried on until the rages just became tired stupidity. That parent never knew my involvement in breaking the abused out of that environment. I have since hated moving anyone’s belongings, even my own, because of that frightened day we cleared out the house at last, and those poor people escaped. We believed someone would die if we were discovered.

I eventually stopped any pretense of a relationship with my own parent. We have not spoken a word in more than 15 years. We won’t again, if I remain firm, because those wounds have never healed, and I only witnessed it, I was never the target. The target was an eleven year old child. I haven’t a clue what became of that poor kid, but I hope, for my heart’s sake, they began to thrive after we parted.

What advice could I possibly give, because of those horrors I witnessed but submitted to? Tell the police. Certainly tell them, if there is a possibility of injury to a family member. The police will be prepared for situations like that, and your family friend or distant relative will not be. Neither will your minister. Your minister might walk quietly away, and leave you in the darkness alone. Mine did, when he stood with me in the bushes and heard what was going on in that house.

This story is truly shattering. The author’s experience also stresses the fact that domestic abuse touches and changes everyone involved. We know the victim suffers. But so do those within the environment, whether they are directly abused or not.

Thanks for reading.

My first guest this month is author C.J. Ellisson. But she’s not here to discuss her books. We’re at the start of Domestic Abuse Awareness Month and C.J. is courageously sharing her personal story. If you missed my post this past Saturday, please scroll down to the previous post or click on this link for information on my blog’s purpose this month: http://quietfurybooks.com/blog/2011/10/domestic-abuse-awareness-month

Now, allow me to introduce my guest:

*C.J. Ellisson* writes contemporary fantasy and erotica. Her vampire series, *The V V Inn*, mixes a heavy dose of erotic elements with suspense, action, a little bit of mystery and some light humor. She lives in northern Virginia with her husband, two children, two dogs, and a fluffy black cat who makes her sneeze. To learn more about C.J.’s books (where you can read half of the novels for free), please visit her website at www.cjellisson.com

Now here is C.J. with her story. This might seem unbelievable to some but this is not fiction. This is the shocking truth of many women’s lives:

I know a lot of women who have suffered at the hands of a man they “loved” and I’m writing today to share my own personal journey through the lies we allow ourselves to live.

I came from a loving family with both my parents still married (they celebrate fifty years next June). They were excellent role models on what a marriage should be. I wanted what a lot of us want – someone to love me for who I am and to build a family with him or her.

We married just before I turned twenty and within two months moved out of the state to a military base in a remote area of Maine. Within weeks, the fighting began. The man he looked up to the most, his sergeant, didn’t care for my “attitude” or me. While waiting for our housing to be ready we lived in this sergeant’s house, and it’s where my ex and I first started to clash.

The sergeant often ordered his meek wife around and treated her like a doormat. I never waited on any man who had the audacity to say, “Bitch, get me a beer”, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to start. I never back talked my ex in front of others, but when we were alone I didn’t hold back.

That’s when the verbal abuse began. I was berated for how I acted, what I wore, harassed to exercise to keep my bikini body up to snuff, and ‘oinked’ at in public when I ate in the company of others. It was so shocking at first I wasn’t sure what to do. It seemed no big deal to change my outfit and dress the way he wanted; little did I know it would only get worse.

When he complained about his problems with me to his sergeant, he got the advice to “slap me around a little bit” to keep me in line. I was appalled when I heard—my ex told me to try and point out what other men were doing to their wives, so wasn’t I lucky he never hit me?

Next, it became a nasty game of keep-away with the checkbook. Controlling the money and my access to it became an obsession for him. I hadn’t realized at the time it was his desire to control me and not just the money. Little by little he broke me down until I became a shadow of myself.

A few months into life on the military base and our argument to allow me to do the grocery shopping with the checkbook got out of hand. He followed me outside, picked me up, and threw me down on the ice-covered sidewalk. He was apologetic of course, sweet as pie, begging me to stay and promising it would never happen again. I warned him if he ever harmed me physically again we were done, that no begging would ever save him and he’d be lucky if my father didn’t shoot him.

I became increasingly worried. The relationship had progressed to a horrible state in such a short time, and I suggested marriage counseling. My bruises were still fresh and he knew he had to get on my good side, so he agreed.

We only went to one session together. I’m not sure what he expected. The minister sat us down and told us both what we were doing wrong. Walking out, I felt hope. Walking out, my ex only heard what his faults were and he refused to go back again.

I returned and was told, “It’s nice you’re here, but it will only help if he comes, too.” Our fighting grew worse and the controlling and mental cruelty became more overt. The verbal abuse progressed to calling me fat, insulting my intelligence, making me feel unworthy, devaluing my opinions, and undermining my confidence in myself.

When we fought, he’d later punish me. He’d rip me out of pictures and put them back in the frame on the wall, or start leaving other hateful displays for me to find—like blank divorce papers. He was insanely jealous of the men I’d dated before him, made me feel like a whore for not being a virgin when we met, and often accused me of flirting with other men. No matter what I did or how I tried to change, it was never enough. Who was this man I’d married?

I soon feared he sensed the secret lie I breathed every time I uttered the words “I love you”. I remember crying, huddled into myself, knowing I didn’t love this man any longer, was growing to hate him, and not knowing what to do. He refused more counseling. Day to day, I lived an utter lie.

About twelve months in we argued over a simple disagreement on where to hang a picture. He grabbed me and threw me on the stairs, not letting me go, but shaking me and banging my head on the steps. My terrified cries of pain prompted him to loosen his grip and I raced up to our room, locking myself inside. He followed, broke open the door and grabbed me again and shook me. Our yelling and my ex’s physical actions agitated the dog. She barked wildly and sensing a threat to me, went after him. He dropped me to retaliate and I stepped in, grabbing him so he wouldn’t harm her.

The movement of rearing back to punch the dog seemed to pull him out of his fury and he became aware of his actions. Later, he confessed to thinking if he never hit me he wasn’t being physically abusive to me—but, my bruises and swellings said otherwise.

I told him to get out and we were done. To pack up and move out or I’d be calling the MPs to have him arrested. Only the threat to have his military career stained by his behavior convinced him to grant me a divorce.

Anyone who has suffered in an abusive relationship will have a different story to tell. Some women have been verbally and mentally abused, broken down daily without ever being hit. Others have been punching bags. Every person has their own breaking point.

It took over twelve months of mental and verbal abuse and two escalating physical events for me to decide enough was enough. Once I made my mind up, there was no going back. I stuck to my guns, no begging or pleading was going to make me change my mind this time, and trust me, he tried for months and months. But I wasn’t stupid. I suspected things would escalate and I wasn’t going to waste my life on him.

I know there are many other women out there who suffered far worse atrocities than I did. No, I was never beaten with his fists. And you know why? Because I got the hell out before it ever got to that point.

When I look back on the shell of a woman I had become, it almost seems like the entire three-year relationship (from initial date to divorce) happened to a different person. It took me a long time to bounce back and find myself.

Life makes us who we are today. I’m a strong, confidant woman, who doesn’t back down from a challenge and isn’t afraid of getting hurt. I survived at twenty-one what most woman never have to go through.

I vowed to never be with a man again who prized my looks and my size above all else. I was determined to find love again and not make the same mistake twice. I interviewed men on dates (because they really love to talk about themselves if you phrase things right) to cover all the important things that mattered to me: kids, religion, politics, money, the relationship they have with their mothers, how they treat people, and what their dreams are for the future.

I’m now happily married to my best friend, Pete. We’ve been together for sixteen years and I’ve known him for twenty-five. Once I knew he was the right man for me, I hunted him down like an endangered species. He never had a fighting chance in hell of resisting my womanly wiles and grim determination.

He showed me not all men are created equal—and some are downright spectacular. Never forget, it’s only the rare few in this world who need to demoralize and victimize a woman to feel like a man.

Out of the mouth of my main character, Vivian, “Love is a choice, and I choose to love everyday. The day I knew that, and that the choice was always mine, was the day I became a strong independent person.”

You can decide not to love someone when they treat you like crap. You can make a choice to walk away. You are indeed worthy of much, much better.

Simply put—never settle for abuse of any kind.

~~ C.J. Ellisson ~~

***

Thank you for sharing this, C.J. I know how difficult it must have been to go back and relive it all in your mind as you wrote. Your strength is an inspiration to all of us, whether we’ve personally suffered abuse or not.

Readers can step into C.J.’s fictional world at any time for a little fun and diversion. Here are her books on Amazon, in both print and Kindle format:

C.J. and I would love to hear from you. Please share your thoughts and comments with us here.

Do you need help or know someone who does?
National Coalition Against Domestic Violence provides anonymous and confidential help 24/7:
1-800-799-SAFE (7233)
1-800-787-3224 (TTY)

Don’t forget to join me again on Thursday, for another personal story that you won’t want to miss.

Thanks for reading.