I am enjoying a rare day at home, relaxing with one of my favorite activities…a Netflix documentary. I have been missing my sister-in-law Jane terribly (she passed away a year ago from pancreatic cancer) and this was a perfect answer, as she loved Taylor Swift. With no warning, due in large part to my wandering mind, I was jolted to an emotional state that had my heart racing, the anxious feelings back again like it was yesterday, trying to squelch everything inside of me until I was literally nothing…until I disappeared, did not exist, obsolete. I hate it, I hate it, I hate it!
What was it? Taylor was discussing her sexual assault case from 2017 that occurred following an initial lawsuit by a radio host who claimed that Swift was trying to get him fired. Swift wanted the matter to simply go away but pride has destroyed many a person, including her attacker. Not only did he lose his initial lawsuit but he lost to Swift as well when she countersued for sexual assault. She was not suing for monetary gain, seeking $1 in punitive gain. Rather, she responded,
“I am not going to allow your client to make me feel like it is any way my fault, because it isn’t.”
I have tried to post about what happened to me so many times, only to delete it. Why? I have every excuse possible. My children…let the past stay in the past…I am healed…Take the high road…I have more excuses than you have time to read so why this pressing need to share my story?
I know that the more times I am silent, the more I allow fiction to become reality. The more my silence occurs, I condone shame. I condone violence. I condone all the inhumanities committed against me. Am I ready to share all of that today in this space? No. But have I worked up the courage to say ‘What happened to me was not my fault”? Yes. Yes, I have.
I have previously mentioned that I am a regular subject of someone else’s blog, something that continues still. I would like to be like the former Taylor Swift who just wanted to play nice, get along with everyone, don’t make waves. Meanwhile my silence only perpetuates the theory that there was no abuse and why all the fallout? For example, there are specific shoutouts that he was forcibly removed from his own home and separated from a lifetime of personal belongings. What is not mentioned is the terror leading up to this point. A gun that he had purchased for my safety, years earlier, while he was traveling had now been removed by him and he admitted he had taken for practice in case he needed to use it. Not only that, he refused to return it for some time. Why? The paranoia of meth had convinced him that now the one person left in his life who was still loyal and trustworthy had in fact turned on him and would possibly use the gun on him. Me? Yes me, who had never actually fired it. The feeling that came over me when I learned he was going to target practice in case he decided to use a gun against me? It still does damage to my psyche to this day. I did not even know at this point that he was a meth addict.
Each day became a greater and deeper spiral downward into sheer terror, wondering what had happened to my husband of thirty years. He had now confessed to having an affair with a woman that was younger than our children but I had no idea of the magnitude of what he was struggling with, nor would I for some time.
So why would I have my own husband removed from our home? What brought me to the breaking point after several physical altercations by him over the years? Beth Moore was in Springfield, MO for a women’s conference on June 10-11, 2016. I had attended on Friday, June 10th with some of my friends. I left feeling quite encouraged. So encouraged that I bought a men’s devotional on CD for my then-husband in hopes that he might find encouragement from it as well. We were physically separated but staying in opposite parts of the same home. As I left the next morning, I left the CD outside his bedroom.
For some idea of the level of fear I was currently experiencing from him, I would not go to sleep any longer unless I was wearing an outfit with pockets. That way I could always keep my keys in my pocket so I could escape more quickly. He had called the police on more than one occasion for erroneous reports, who were now very leery when they would arrive at our house. I felt a very strong unease about my car, and having shared this with a neighbor, she agreed to hide it in her extra garage bay a few houses away. I felt pretty confident he would not damage my mother’s vehicle that I used to drive her around on errands. Still, I slept on pins and needles at all times with the deadbolt on my bedroom door locked and a backup plan always in place. It was disheartening when I called my backup plan one frightening night as he threatened me through the door and they were sound asleep. Eventually he sauntered back to sleep. It was my last night alone in the house with him.
Back to the second day of the conference…I returned home with such anticipation. I had not shared with anyone in the world except for two close friends that there was anything off-kilter in my world. To look back at the photos, you would think I was on top of the world. Still, I believed with such faith that something had radically changed back at home. I walked through the door to all 73 inches towering over my considerably smaller, weaker frame as he was enraged. Again. Why? I quickly determined it had something to do with the CD? Everything happened so quickly it was chaos, sheer pandemonium. I was literally running away from him in our own home, doing circles from the kitchen to the family room, quick to the living room…OH MY WORD YOU COULD HAVE GOTTEN OUT THE FRONT DOOR AND ESCAPED!!!…now through the dining room to the kitchen…it was too late. He was stronger and faster and knew his plan long before I had entered the home. I certainly had felt the force of his hands around me before but not like this. He was literally going for the jugular.
He had his hands around my neck. This is how you are going to die.
No. No, I am not going to die. I will not.
I remembered thinking in that moment of all the times we used to watch Dateline. We actually called it The Husband Did It. Oh the irony. In a flash, I prayed. What do I say?
In the days and weeks after the death of George Floyd, it was contested if he could actually be near death if he was still able to speak. I have almost no medical experience but I knew at that moment that he could very well be near death and yet still be able to get a few words out. How? I had been there. You can definitely speak, with difficulty, when someone is trying to strangle you.
I whispered, ‘They will know it was you.’
He let go. Keys in my pocket, I stumbled. I ran. Before he realized what was happening, I was gone. Monday morning I was in a courtroom, and he was served a few days later. The judge agreed to a year-long restraining order in part because of the reports provided by police that showed how many times they had been sent to our home to harass me without any cause. The one time I called, I had physical evidence. Then again, there were reports from years past where he had been removed from our home as well for attempted assault. I am not proud that I took him back in but I am a work in progress.
What I do know today is that I no longer allow anyone make me feel like any of this is my fault. It isn’t. I also do not identify as a victim. I am an overcomer. I am a survivor. I am a champion.
I am no longer silent.