Uncategorized, Warrior's Voice

Temporary Relief

I entered the court house my daughter now a grown woman, at my side. The bursting file I held in my hand, evidence. What was supposed to empower me hindered by my thoughts of doubt. Were his words harsh enough? Would the judge read between the lines and hear the threatening tone ringing in my ears? Was the one threat against my husband enough? Had I filled the papers out correctly.

Certain I would be turned away, again, my hands began to quiver. My stomach all a flutter, not in the good way as is when anticipating a date’s arrival or the phone to ring when your lover calls. The slight flutter before the churning begins. My spirit trying to tell my mind to remain calm, stick to the facts. Trust the process. Trust the system.

I assured myself I had done things right this time around. Eighteen years later, each time the verbal harassment ensued, I wrote it down, printed it out, and called the police to file a report. Each incident a separate packet complete with the officer’s card and incident number. And yet, doubt filled my mind. My heart torn between beating fast and holding its breath, waiting.. My body, fight or flight, on high alert. One moment the urge to flee out the courthouse door before the judge could say the words I dreaded to hear. The words condoning his actions and making a mockery of my fear.

By the time I filed the papers with the clerk, court was in recess. We were asked to return to the courthouse at 1:30 PM for the afternoon session. Two hours to kill. We, my daughter and I, left the building. Now 27 years old, she was here to help me, strengthen me. Eighteen years ago, I took her and ran in the night. I was protecting her then. I went to court then as well, in hopes of obtaining a Protection Order. It was denied. Having never called the Police, it was his word against mine. Not once had I so much as lifted the phone when he destroyed our home, barraged me with verbal insults, nor the times that he hit me so hard and told me I was lucky to be alive. Too afraid to call, ashamed to call, embarrassed of my life, my marriage, my failures. And confused, always so confused. His words of condemnation swarming my brain, blaming me. Followed by acceptance when I resorted to apologizing for my behavior, my lack of submission.

“We’ll be back.” The security guard was less than amused by my lame attempt of Arnold Schwarzenegger impression.

We contemplated lunch knowing full well what we both wanted to do. Drive to the neighborhood my ex had been parked in the night before to see if he was still there. Not in hopes of seeing him, just to make certain he was not somewhere else. Somewhere we couldn’t find him. If we couldn’t find him, how would the police find him? How could he be served if I obtained a Protection Order?. Without service the order was moot.

“I want to drive by where his van was parked. As much as I want him gone, I want him there so I know where he is. If I get this order, I want to be sure he can be served.” Laurie nodded at my words, she had known, expected them.

She drove. I focused on my breathing pressing out my thoughts of doubt and rejection. Court houses still fill me with fear. The day my divorce was final, I fully believed until the judge hit his gavel of decision, he would deny my divorce and make me stay married to Don. Divorce was wrong. I had been told this since I was a small child. A wife is to cling to her husband. Honor him. Obey him. Follow his leadership as he is the head of the home as Christ is the head of the church.

Oh, the crazy insane things my husband had made me do in honor of his leadership In the name of submission. The sins he justified as long as they stayed in the marital bedroom. The abuse he claimed was his ‘right to lead’ and my ‘duty to submit’ to. The blame ever ending on my shoulders when choices turned out bad and life as we knew it fell apart. If only….. If only I would try harder, be a better wife, love him, honor him, be more submissive, not question his authority, believe in him as my husband. If only, then we would have a successful marriage and life. God would be pleased.

Laurie and I drove around Ravenna. Street by street. Looking for the van Seattle Police had confirmed was registered to him. Our hope dwindling, stomachs growling, we gave in and headed north for sustenance.

“It’s such a sunny day, he probably went to Green Lake or something.” Laurie steered the car towards the lake. We would drive by on the way home. Just in case.

We sat on her front porch and ate our lunch. The sun soaked into our winter clothes warming our bodies. Laurie shed her sweatshirt as I unzipped my black coat to let the breeze in. The tension in my body reminding me I was on high alert. The sound of tires bringing my gaze to the street. A car, not a van, passed by.

The minutes ticked off my watch. Time to head back to the court house.

I wish I could say when I sat down in Court Room 1 I felt certain the order would be accepted. I didn’t. As much as logic supported the motion, at least a temporary order, my experience did not. I quickly realized we were in Traffic Court, we werethe only non traffic related order.

‘Ms Reddy, are you in the court room?” The judge scanned the nearly full benches.

“Yes”, I raised my hand as his eyes followed my voice.

“Okay, I have a fairly full docket today which I will start with, but I will get to you soon. I will not make you wait until the end.”

“Thank you, your honor.” I massaged my hands, twisting my ring. A reminder I am happily married now. I am not alone in this.

A little more than an hour passed. the judge explained that he had finished the 1:30 docket and would begin the 2:30 docket shortly. He let us know he had online court from 3:00 PM to 3:30 PM. Due to the nature being an attorney and clients in jail it was a set time and no matter what he was doing at 2:59 PM he had to log-in to the online court at 3:00 PM. He thanked us for our patience.

“At this time I would like to call Ms. Reddy up. I will begin with your order and see how far we get before 3:00 PM. I highly doubt we will finish, so I may need to ask you to wait and we will finish as soon as the online court is complete. I apologize.”

I nodded and headed up to the table and two seats where I had seen others contesting their traffic ticket sit when representing themselves.

I was sworn in and the judge proceeded.

“First I want you to know I have reviewed your Petition for a Protection Order. And – “

He paused to make eye contact with me. His eyes held my gaze as I held my breath. The compassion in his eyes sent a flutter of hope through me.

“And, as difficult as it was, I read all of the documentation that you provided. All of it.” Tears welled up in my eyes at his words. I heard them correctly and yet, this is what I actually heard.

‘I believe you. I read the papers you submitted. I read the words your ex husband wrote to you. I believe he did it. I believe it is NOT OKAY that he did this to you and to your family. I believe that what he has done, and is doing, is wrong. I believe you.’

He didn’t say those words, but I heard them. My shoulders relaxed. My chin lifted.

For the record he read my petition and then told me he would have to ask me a few questions. My full name, my date of birth, my relationship to the respondent. He asked me about the timeline of the incidents that I had documented.

“It does appear his behavour is escalating.” The judge confirmed it was getting worse, not better.

He glanced at the clock on the wall.

“You have my full attention. My apologies for looking at the clock. I do not want you to think in any way what we are looking at is not serious or does not have my attention. I just cannot miss online court.” Again, the judge look directly into my eyes.

‘I hear you. I see you. Your abuse is valid’, His words, the ones said and the ones I interpreted, causing a flooding sensation through my body.

I wanted to cry, full on, shed the tears welling up inside me. For years held back knowing I needed to remain strong. Unable, un-allowed by myself, to give in. I would carry on. I would live my life. His words, the Judge’s words, opening a crack in the dam I had built to protect my spirit, that his words, my abuser’s, sought to destroy. Words past and present spewed at me through the waves of technology, hit upon hit, blow upon blow, attacking when I least expected it, when vulnerability left me susceptible. Once again be pulled back into the depths of his rage. His manipulation powerful, threatened to strip me of who I had become, my growth.

Not today. Today, I was heard. Today, I was believed.

“My apologies, I must set this aside and log-in to the online court system for the jail. I sincerely apologize. Please take your seat and we will continue with your Order upon my completion. I do not want to rush and make any errors on your Order. Again, I am sorry.” His words exemplified the compassion seen in his eyes. As much as he hated to make me wait, he also hated to rush something of great importance.

That’s what I heard. My Order was of great importance. My request deserved to be heard. I deserved to be protected. He, my abuser, deserved to be stopped.

I took my seat and waited. I half listened to the online court. Case after case of request for bail or for charges to be dropped. My thoughts trailed off, I couldn’t help but wish for every woman, everywhere who has experienced or was currently being abused to be me in that moment. I knew, the Protection Order would not in fact completely protect me from potential harm from my ex husband. I knew it was an Order, one like any other boundary, rule, law, only works if it is in fact obeyed. One that if broken comes with legal ramifications, but also great risk for the victim as the result of it being broken could bring physical pain or even death. Even with that knowledge, the joy of being heard, in this moment, out weighed the impending possibility that my Protection Order could be ignored.

“Okay, Ms Reddy, let’s continue your Order for Protection. Thank you for your patience.”

He continued asking questions to clarify locations where we worked, went to church, etc. to indicate in the Order location where Don would not be allowed to come within 500 feet of. The judge went to the extent of hand writing the address of our home, the schools of my children, each place of employment and our church. He added ‘anywhere any person listed in this Order works, attends school, plays sports or worships’ to the hand written details.

“I know this is taking a lot of time, but I want to be certain I leave no detail to misinterpretation. Please bare with me.” He continued writing on the Order.

Bare with you? If ever I questioned my hearing, it was now. If ever I felt more validated, it was now. If ever I wanted to jump up, run over and hug a judge, it was now. My heart was bursting with joy rather than squeezed with anguish.

“Okay, I believe I have all of the pertinent details of the locations. Just so you know in the legal realm I could just have wrote ‘schools’ and ‘ church’ in general and all schools and churches you attend going forward will in fact be covered, but for the sake of expressing my sincere agreement that you are to be protected, I wanted to be specific.” The length of which he was going to make me feel heard was more than I could absorb. Every nerve of my body was tingling.

“Thank you Your Honor. I can’t express what this means to me. Thank you, for everything, from the bottom of my heart.”

“You are welcome. Okay, two more things. One is to determine the length of the Protection Order. And the other, well it is the more difficult one.” Tension crept back in as I felt the hesitation in his voice.

“In as much as I fully believe you have a right to this Protection Order, and I have written all of this out, what I have written is only temporary.” He paused, letting it sink in, or to gather his thoughts. Likely that latter, but it did sink in, to the pit of my stomach. I nodded my understanding.

“These documents, which include all of the pages you submitted, will need to be served to him in person. My understanding is he lives in a van, correct?” He rifled through the pages to find the one with the street coordinates penciled in the place requesting a Physical Address for the Defendant.

“Yes, he does.” I confirmed.

The judge cleared his throat and shuffled the pages back into order before looking at me.

“I will sign this Temporary Order of Protection. In doing so, the local Police will received instructions to serve the defendant with the order and a date of appearance which you will set with the clerk. Detectives will do their best to find him and serve him, however, all they will be able to go off of are these cross streets.” Once again he paused before continuing.

“It will be difficult at best, and quite honestly highly unlikely they will find him. As much as I hate to say that, it is true. It is doubtful the police will in fact be able to serve him.” Silence filled the courthouse. The others awaiting their turn with the judge gripped by the motion at hand, sat intently listening.

“I’m going to tell you what some have done to help the service be successful. It may not be something you can or are willing to do, but well, who knows. Some people drive around and locate the automobile and once having found it they call 9-1-1 and let them know they have found an individual that has an Order to be Served. They then request an officer come to the location and provide that officer with the papers to be served. I am going to give you extra copies of the paperwork and the court for the officer would need to fill out upon serving the packet.” Once again, he paused in the silence.

“I have to warn you, you might call 9-1-1 only to find they are experiencing a busy time and be unable to send an officer for an hour or two or more. Or while you are waiting, he may drive away at which time you would need to call 9-1-1 back and cancel the request. It’s definitely not easy or convenient, but some individuals have had success with service this way. You may want to consider it.”

“Thank you Your Honor. I appreciate the advice.” The tension returning to my body battled with the sense of peace pushing back.

“Okay, now for the duration of the Order. Today I will sign a Temporary Order into effect. You will then have 2 weeks to have him served. Now, I know 2 weeks is a very short period of time and it is very unlikely to happen. I will set your return date for 3 weeks out so the temporary will hold until then. When you return and in the event he has not been served I will extend the Temporary for an additional 30 days. Hopefully in that time, with some luck, you will be able to have him served. Okay?” I nodded my understanding once again.

The judge signed the Temporary Order and handed it to the clerk. I was instructed to proceed to the clerk’s desk for my documents and to set my date of return.

A battle raged within, each emotion fighting for Alpha position. I had been heard, believed, confirmed, validated, and empowered. And then I been heeded, cautioned, more was yet to come. More was needed to finalize what I had set out to obtain. For today I would take hold of the strengthening sense of success, even if it was only Temporary.

Kristi Lyn Reddy, Author, published in True Stories Volume 1 is in the process of writing her Memior (Untitled). Through trauma, uncertainty and the burden of secrets, Kristi Lyn found the strength to carry her towards her ultimate redemption, Living Loved – beyond and in spite of ongoing fear.

Warrior's Voice

Giving Way to My Voice

‘Daddy, why are you so angry? Why do you have to hit me with a belt? If I promise I won’t do it again, do you have to hit me with the belt?’

‘Why does mommy lock herself in the bathroom and cry?’

‘Mommy, what’s wrong? I’m sorry that daddy hit Bill. I’m sorry that Bill made him mad.’

‘Mommy, why does daddy hit us with a belt? It hurts when he hits our backs and our legs.’

‘Get married? I don’t want to get married. I don’t even know if I want to keep the baby.’

‘I don’t want to look at porn. Aren’t I enough? Why do you want to look at that woman instead of at me while we are making love? How is it love, if you need to look at them having sex?’

‘I believe you are the head of the home, the man of the family. I believe that God put you there for a reason. You can make all of the big decisions, but why does that mean I have no say? Can’t I tell you how I feel, why I think what you are about to do is not a good decision for our family?’

‘Wait, you want me to do what?’

‘You want me to be naked in front of a camera that other men are going to be watching?’

‘It’s okay, because it is in our marital room and we both agree to it? What if I don’t agree?’

A running list scrolls through my mind as I lay awake at night. I should be sleeping, but I cannot.

Why do I want to write this book?

The question people ask me. The question I ask myself. The need for a simple answer haunting me again. ‘I need to create an elevator speech’, I tell myself for the umpteenth time. A well thought, canned response to the burning question everyone asks.

‘You deserve better than him.’

‘He shouldn’t speak to you that way.’

‘Don’t listen to his words. You are smart. You are beautiful. You have the potential to do great things.’

I have said these things to girls, women I have come across while out for a walk. From a distance I hear her boyfriend, her partner, ridicule her, defiling her with words of hatred. Tearing her down, beating her into submission, not for the first time nor for the last.

I should remain quiet. Mind my own business. I can’t.

I must speak out. I have to defend her. I need to be that person who will speak up for her, to her. Oh, how I longed for someone to speak up for me. To tell me, he was wrong. His words were wrong, I didn’t deserve to be treated that way. No woman deserved to be treated that way. It was not because of my sin. It was not because my heart was not right with God.

If I don’t speak up, who will?

If I give it too much thought, it overwhelms me. I cannot possibly save them all. I understand many do not want to be saved. Some do not know, yet, their need to be saved. Rescued. Many, so many, have tried to leave, only to return. Leaving is hard, unbelievably hard. Going back is easier. I know. How do you help those who do not want to be helped? How do you find those who need and want to be helped? Once you find them, how do you possibly help them? Their needs, all very different, are more than I could take on.

It would be easier to go forward in my own life. To count my blessings and move on. To accept if I am needed, if they come to me, then I will help, if I am able.

Easier.

It was easier to go back. It was easier to stay. Easier to live with the hidden knowledge that I would most likely die. By his hand or my own.

It was harder to leave. Scarier to step out. Difficult to accept that leaving was my only chance to ever know if what I believed, what I questioned, was right, or wrong.

I left. I survived. I am alive.

That should be enough. Only, it’s not.  A purpose burns within me. It began as the smoldering embers of the fire that destroyed me. The fire of his words. The fire of his beatings. The destruction, the mayhem my daughter and I endured. Furniture broken, plates smashed against walls, hair pulled, evil spewed from his mouth, day after day. The flames put out when we escaped, not turning back, in the middle of the night, one last leaving, never to return.

The embers remain, smoldering, white hot, a reminder of all we survived. His words, his abuse reduced to ash, still there, in our hearts and our minds. For years a reminder, giving me strength to continue on, no turning back. The flames sparked when fear crept in, only to be put out once again through therapy sessions, through new found understanding, healing and love. Fear turned to anger a less vulnerable emotion. Anger raged within, crying out for resolution. Resolution, brought healing, forgiveness. Forgiveness, releasing me from the grip of my past. My pain, my hurt, my shame.

And yet, the embers, the ash remain. Eighteen years later, still there. Time heals all wounds, they say. My physical wounds have healed. Much of my emotional wounds have healed. The embers there, inside my heart, lingering inside my soul are giving way to my voice. They glow when I see abuse, when I fall into my own anger, they ignite when I write. The cries within me, silenced for years, rising up, longing to be heard, to be shared, to fulfill a purpose I have shied away from.

Telling my story, is not to shame my ex-husband. It is not to destroy him. He is but a human with faults and pain of his own. Telling my story is not to hurt his parents, his family, those who knew him. Many of them are family to me, to this day, people I admire, people I love, deeply. Telling my story is not to shame my family, my parents who are deceased, my siblings, who are alive and do not understand my need to share, to tell our family secrets. Telling my story is not for sympathy. I do not long for any one to feel sorry for me.

Telling my story, sharing my life, is to give way to my voice. If my voice can help one woman, awaken her inner voice, strengthen her to get help, to leave, to live. If my voice can help one child, open the eyes and ears of someone in their life who can extend the help they need. If my voice can awaken a young girl seeking love in all the wrong places. If my voice can open the eyes of an abuser to seek help, or a friend to call the abuser out. If my voice can open your eyes to the abuse around you and compel you to use your voice to help even one victim. If my voice can do that, then I must give way to my voice.

 

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May the embers of my soul never go out. May they spark in me the fire to speak up, to speak out. May them embolden me extend help to someone in need. May they live on, in others, long after I am gone.

Warrior's Voice

It’s (not) Just Verbal

“Sticks and stones may break my bones but names will never hurt me.”

This little limerick rings clear in my head. Kids all across America have grown up chanting this on the playground, in their neighborhoods, or sneering at their own siblings.

“I’m rubber, you’re glue, whatever you say bounces off me and sticks on you.”

Another limerick, one of the most common responses to a mean word when I was a child. We were taught this by our parents, our teachers. ‘Words are just words’, they would say. ‘Words can’t actually hurt you’, they told us over and over again.

Growing up, we were taught a bully, was someone who beat up kids on the playground, after school, or at the local park. Bullies picked on kids littler than themselves. It wasn’t their words you had to worry about, it was their fists.

‘You might need to defend yourself some day, if a mean kid, bigger than you, traps you in the school bathroom and won’t let you out. You gotta come out swingin’.’ My older brothers taught me that one.

If we told our teacher a kid was calling us names, we were told not to tattle-tale. Nobody likes a tattle-tale. If we persisted, we were often called weak, someone with thin-skin. A good amount of energy was spent on strengthening our resolve to words. If we would only let the words go in one ear and out the other, surely we would be okay. They were just words. In strengthening our ability to let the hurtful words of others roll off our backs, we were taught our pain didn’t matter. It wasn’t real. It was weak. We were weak. Our voice, the one inside of us crying out, “That’s NOT okay,” was silenced.

I grew up checking myself, so as not to be a tattle-tale. Questioning my hurt, needing to justify my pain. Without adequate evidence of wrong doing by the other party, something more than words, it was better left alone. Time after time words, hurtful words, filed away in my the recesses of my mind. My inner voice wanting to call them out, but knowing better, I kept quiet.

“The words of the wicked lie in wait for blood, but the speech of the upright rescues them.” Proverbs 12:6

Words are powerful. Words can build you up. They can tear you down. Words can put a smile on your face, or rip your heart out of your chest. They can free you from a misunderstanding. Or they can can cause division, destroying relationships, communities, governments. Words have the power to silence. To manipulate. To control. To kill.

While intentions were honorable, our parents and teachers were wrong. Sticks and stones may break bones,yes that is true. Words, can paralyze, hold captive, destroy, and even kill a person. By teaching us to ignore words, devaluing their power, we were taught to ignore our inner voice which protects us from potential harm. We were taught to second guess our ability to determine when we were being mistreated, manipulated. We were taught to ignore the early warning signs of abuse, to disregard our own voice.

Now, decades later, it is common knowledge that abusers first groom their victims. One method of grooming is to create a relationship that feels safe and provides a need the victim has. Establishing a dependency on their abuser allowing the abuser to get what they want while seemingly providing what the victim wants or needs. Another form of grooming is to use words to slowly tear the victim down, bring them into a place of submission. Initially the abuser will use minor insults which they will often reference with, ‘Oh, I was just joking. You know that, right?’, to put the victim at ease. This resonates with a person who grew up with ‘Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me’ philosophy.

As time goes on the grooming takes hold of the victim and creates the perfect environment for abuse. Many people share stories that begin with, “He never hit me, it was only verbal abuse, but……”

Verbal abuse.

Emotional abuse.

Verbal abuse, emotional abuse has the ability to alter the victims day to day state of mind. To change or stop altogether their ability to function at school, their job, in their home, and in many social environments. Over time and repeated abuse, the victim loses their ability to make decisions, causing them to question their judgement, knowledge and understanding. In many cases, verbal abuse, leads to brain washing, changing the victim’s perception of themselves, their beliefs, and the view of life and the world around them. It is under this control. this abuse, where many victims find them in a helpless position.

Overcome by low self esteem and self worth, they are unable to get a job with an income to provide for themselves (never mind if they have kids, other mouths to feed). Having been convinced by their past experiences as a child, no doubt reiterated over and over by their abuser, ‘they are only words’, the victim has never called the police to file a report. Ashamed of their inability to have a loving and happy marriage and out of fear of reprimand, the victim remains silent. Not sharing their plight with friends and family. They are isolated, beaten down, scared, alone, hopeless and stuck.

It’s not just verbal, it’s Abuse.

It’s time to stand up and speak out against all forms of abuse.

Warrior's Voice

Smell of Rain

On the walk to the bus stop I noted it must have rained in the night. The gravel beneath where my husband’s truck had sat light grey whereas the gravel around it was dark.

“Mama, I can smell the rain. Isn’t it strange, how we can smell the rain?” My son said as we walked hand in hand to the bus stop.

Strange, yes it is strange. And yet, every time I step outside after rain has fallen through the night I inhale, welcoming the smell of rain. Not as intense as freshly cut grass, a subtle scent all its own. The smell of rain is scent anew.

The scent is fresh. Like the removal of stale air that has consumed any sense of goodness in the oxygen which we breath. The air we had previously become accustomed to, not knowing it was anything but fresh and in fact was no better than day old bread left out to dry. Each day we had come out for a walk, inhaling deeply, satisfied. All the while filling our nostrils and our lungs with less than. Okay to be satiated, by stale air.

And then, rain falls. Our senses awakened. Eyes close, shoulders drop then rise, lungs expand, spine lengthens. Scent anew fills our nostrils from the freshly fallen rain having cleared all pollution.

 

 

“I’m sorry you have to live in this hideous apartment. You deserve better than this.” My brow furrowed as I watched his eyes scan the room.

Inwardly I chastised myself for opening the door to him. It was after midnight. I was alone in the apartment my daughter and I had fled to in the middle of the night just a few short weeks ago. The knock had startled me as I tip-toed around the lonely apartment. My daughter was at her first sleep over with a girl from her new school. She was only half a block up the street. I assured myself I could go get her if she needed me at any moment. I quickly realized it was I who needed her.

He stepped towards me. I backed away.

“You don’t have to stay here, you know. You can come back home. I forgive you.” Once again, I was in the wrong and he was here to assure me he would take me back.

I scanned the room just as he had. Mouth closed, words caught in my throat. Our living room had a full-size sofa and matching love seat, an oak framed glass coffee table and two matching side tables. a large tube television sat on a stand across the room from the sofa, antenna sticking up, reaching for the connection floating in the air above our home.

My hand slid across the clean surface of the dining room table in front of me. Large oval dark brown formica surface with heavy metal legs holding it up. Four solid chairs reminded me of captains seats on the Star Trek Enterprise I used to watch on Sunday nights as a kid. He stood behind one of the faux leather chairs, staring at my face. Our eyes connected. His full of question. Mine, empty.

“What are you thinking?”, he asked.

I shook my head.

“Come. on you can tell me. Really. I’m here for you. You and Laurie can come back to me. Like none of this ever happened. You can leave this dump and we can be a family again.” His eyes sparkled, pleased with himself.

I hadn’t understood what he saw when he first walked into the apartment. His words condemning what felt and looked beautiful to me. Each day I walked into this space, ever amazed at what my eyes beheld. The apartment was simple, comfortable, safe. A few photos of Laurie and I in frames I had purchased at Fred Meyer sat on the side tables. New memories we had created going on bike rides, just the two of us.

He spoke again, and it hit me, the air was growing stale. Each word he spoke emitting toxins into the space around us.

“We should watch a movie together. Maybe you could cut my hair.”

I glanced at the stack of papers on the table.

“I need you to sign these papers.” It was the first I had spoken since letting him into my home.

I slid the papers across the table toward him and grabbed a pen.

“What papers?”

“Divorce papers. It’s not final. I mean, if you go to counseling like you said you would, we can talk about working things out. But, for now, I need you to sign these papers.” I stared at him. He was silent. I willed him to respond, praying he would sign them.

“If I go to counseling, you’ll come back to me?” Don asked, his brow raised as he waited my reply.

“If you keep your word, we can talk about it. But first you need to sign these. I won’t file them yet. Please, do this one thing, for me.” I extended my hand offering him the pen.

He took the pen, looked into my eyes one more time before leaning over the table. I watched as he signed, tapped the pen on the table two times before setting it down.

“Can I have a hug?”, he asked.

I stepped towards him and allowed his arms to encircle my body. I kept my arms wrapped tight around myself, my body stiff to his touch. He held me for what seemed like an eternity. I cleared my throat and moved to step back. His arms released their hold on me.

“I’ll call a counselor tomorrow. You’ll see. I mean it.”

Don turned and walked towards the door to leave. I followed him, several steps behind.

His hand on the knob, he paused.

“I love you.”

I remained silent. He turned the knob, opened the door and left.

I closed the door behind him and turned the deadbolt. My heartbeat raced inside my chest. I turned back to the table and picked up the stack of papers, checking each page for his signature. Ninety days after filing, I would be free.

I inhaled. The air, like after freshly fallen rain, filled my lungs.

Warrior's Voice

My Dilemma

The battle rages between my mind, my heart and my fingers as I sit here ready to type. Three blog posts started, words flowing, fingers flying across the keys. One click is all it would take. In that moment, finger hovering over the button, the arrow floating above the word, ‘Publish’. My heart says yes. My mind says no. My finger, waits.

And so I ask, What Would You Do?

Or even better, What Would You Tell Me To Do?

I am compelled to post so many thoughts, truths of my past, current happenings, many of which would reveal circumstances that some would prefer left unknown.

What holds me back: 

  1. A desire not to hurt those I love, who while related, are themselves innocent.
  2. Fear of retaliation. Until now (if I do this), I have ignored, not engaged with my abuser.
  3. I know my abuser follows this blog, my business and author facebook pages.

Why am I compelled to write about these things:

  1. I believe my purpose is to use my story, my past, my present, all I have lived through to help others be able to speak, speak out against abuse.
  2. A survivor of domestic violence I cannot be silent.
  3. I believe if something is Not Okay, we have an obligation to say so.
  4. My abuser thinks if he hides behind the internet, pseudo names, he can continue to get away with abuse.

What do I want to do:

  1. Speak the truth
  2. Reveal the past
  3. Expose my abuser and all he has done and continues to do.

Why:

To live up to what I say and believe, That is NOT OKAY! To take a stand for myself and for others like me. To put a stop to abuse. One life,one post, at a time.

 

So, my question is, What would you do?