Yes, I tend to write about abuse a lot. It is the only way I have dealt with it so far. I don't talk about it in detail with anyone. Although there are times when I would really like to talk about certain memories I can't shake. But I've found that it's better to write at these times. Understandably, those close to me don't like to hear stories about violence inflicted on me, particularly the vividly graphic tales that I keep reliving in my head lately.
They definitely don't want or need to hear about what I am thinking when I think of Chad. It's unfair of me to expect anyone who cares about me to want to listen to detailed accounts of the shit that I put myself through with him. I don't like to censor myself when I write so it's the best medium for me to expunge the flashbacks from my thoughts. My poetry writing rule since college has been that if my writing feels at all "inappropriate" or like it would make someone uncomfortable, I know that I've got something. I know that I need to pull the thread further to see what's there.
Monday, November 10, 2008
Real Abuse
People throw around the word abuse way too much in my opinion. A serious drama queen who is also a server at Morton’s actually told me that she felt like she was a victim of “domestic violence” after a fellow server screamed at her during a heated argument.
I bit my tongue hard, thankful that she expressed this thought in a text message and not in person. Her inflated claim stung me especially hard because she knows that I was involved in a very violent abusive relationship. A relationship that was so dangerous and destructive that it necessitated my relocation from DC to NY.
I was in a relationship with a man who once locked me in the kitchen for the evening because he was angry at me for something I can’t remember. I can’t remember the arguments that preceded the violence much anymore. I do remember that Chad had been pushing me while we were fighting in the kitchen. This morphed into a situation with him standing in the doorway, his square shoulders blocking the door frame verbally belittling me while telling me I couldn’t leave the room.
Each time I got up and tried to pass him, he would block me with his body and push me back out of the doorway. I was pretty hysterical after the 10th or so attempt at getting out failed. I resigned myself to the kitchen floor where I stayed for awhile. I was sitting on a small rug on the kitchen floor. I don’t even remember how or when I finally was allowed to leave the room. I was on the kitchen floor for awhile; until I had “calmed down.”
He would pull that on me quite often when we would argue. He would “restrain me” on the floor, push me out of his way, or confine me to a specific space – all intensely physical, until I had “calmed down.” He would always have a cool, eerily detached justification for his actions. No matter the circumstance, no matter what he did to me - to him I was responsible because I had pushed him to do it. My mistrust of him, my anger, my jealousy, my impoliteness on various occasions were all reason enough for him to verbally abuse me, repeatedly hit my head on the ground, push and punch me, give me a black eye and a fractured nose.
I know that I am one of the fortunate ones. I am out, away, free. The cycle has been broken - at least for now. But I can’t help but get angry when I hear people equating verbal arguments or uncomfortable, disagreeable situations to genuine abuse.
I bit my tongue hard, thankful that she expressed this thought in a text message and not in person. Her inflated claim stung me especially hard because she knows that I was involved in a very violent abusive relationship. A relationship that was so dangerous and destructive that it necessitated my relocation from DC to NY.
I was in a relationship with a man who once locked me in the kitchen for the evening because he was angry at me for something I can’t remember. I can’t remember the arguments that preceded the violence much anymore. I do remember that Chad had been pushing me while we were fighting in the kitchen. This morphed into a situation with him standing in the doorway, his square shoulders blocking the door frame verbally belittling me while telling me I couldn’t leave the room.
Each time I got up and tried to pass him, he would block me with his body and push me back out of the doorway. I was pretty hysterical after the 10th or so attempt at getting out failed. I resigned myself to the kitchen floor where I stayed for awhile. I was sitting on a small rug on the kitchen floor. I don’t even remember how or when I finally was allowed to leave the room. I was on the kitchen floor for awhile; until I had “calmed down.”
He would pull that on me quite often when we would argue. He would “restrain me” on the floor, push me out of his way, or confine me to a specific space – all intensely physical, until I had “calmed down.” He would always have a cool, eerily detached justification for his actions. No matter the circumstance, no matter what he did to me - to him I was responsible because I had pushed him to do it. My mistrust of him, my anger, my jealousy, my impoliteness on various occasions were all reason enough for him to verbally abuse me, repeatedly hit my head on the ground, push and punch me, give me a black eye and a fractured nose.
I know that I am one of the fortunate ones. I am out, away, free. The cycle has been broken - at least for now. But I can’t help but get angry when I hear people equating verbal arguments or uncomfortable, disagreeable situations to genuine abuse.
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