Abuse Is Not the End

My story has a beginning, a middle and an end. But in order to accurately describe what has happened, it might be best to start in the middle.

On Nov 19, 2017, I escaped an abusive relationship with a boyfriend of three years. Escaped, literally, in the middle of the night, in a matter of six hours as he worked his third shift job. It was scary, exhausting and spontaneous—not part of the original plan I was brewing, but a concerned friend had contacted my parents and they came to the rescue.

The night started as any other, feeling uneasy, unsure and honestly hopefully waiting until he would finally go to sleep to catch a few hours of shut eye before leaving for the night shift. But, being a Sunday night and having slept through the night on Sat, sleep eluded him.

He sipped on his fifth of whiskey as we watched TV. With every sigh and gulp he made after his lips touched the bottle, my stomach knotted more and more and I could feel my skin tingling with anxiety. I knew what was coming. Knew. But wasn't ready to accept or to submit again, like the day before. My body felt sick, vulnerable and open. He inevitably turned to me, with eyes shining like jewels, and mouth held open in a crooked smile, He gave his request.

"I really don't feel up to it today, please," I said softly, "I'm sorry."

I closed my eyes and anxiously waited to feel the electricity of his guilt-trips, demands, threats and manipulation penetrate my body. I waited for them to carry me upstairs as the night before.

Penetrating.

The word was white, on a yellow back drop.

It advertised the great pain relieving ability of a capsasin-containing lotion. It stared me dead in the face where I laid trembling on the bed. It laughed at me, mocked me. I cried under it's power.

Penetrating.

I guess in all technicality I consented to this? I agreed to anal sex in order to avoid negative consequences and keep him happy? Keep him from yelling, harming one of the animals or throwing a fit. Regardless, it didn't feel consensual. But I also wasn't being tied down and forcibly handled—like I was always told rape was like. I don't know what this grey area is coined, but I do know if I didn't feel like I HAD to be a part of it, I wouldn't have been.

So mentally I tried to convince myself I wasn't really there. And maybe that's why some of these things are so hard to remember. I cannot forgot, however, that white word that stared down at me like an unloving god, breaking my mental state and for a few fleeting moments at a time, reminding me what was happening.

I only confided in two people about the things I endured. For at least two years, these friends were my diaries and advice hubs. Though farthest away in distance, they are closest in heart. After hearing this latest development in my tale for two nights in a row, unbeknownst to me, one of my friends reached out to my parents for help.

Finally it was 8 PM and he was sleepy. We laid down on the couch together so he could get a few hours of rest. His arm was wrapped around my waist. I felt suffocated but too afraid to move it. After what felt like hours I heard a rumbling noise and my fingers quickly flew to my phone.

My dad was calling. I didn't answer. I didn't want to wake him. I didn't want to rouse the dragon. I let the phone drop to the floor, though still held precariously in my fingertips. A few moments later, I felt it vibrate.

"Call me now."

"It's about Omi."

The two texts were short, sweet and to the point but aroused a new anxiety and fear within me about my grandmother.

As quietly as I could, I slipped out from under his grasp and ran upstairs to call my father, my heart was pounding. Inevitably, he woke up and grumbled like a bear in hibernation.

My dad's voice will always penetrate my soul. It was shaky, fearful and hurt. He said Omi was headed to the ER and that he was coming to pick me up in a few minutes as things didn't look good. I agreed to come along, but dreaded telling him what was happening.

"What's wrong with her?"

"I don't know. But he sounds very upset and wants me to come too. I'm scared."

"Well if they don't know what's wrong it can't be too serious. Why can't you wait and go until after I leave at 10:40?"

He glared down at me from the top of the stairs, angry that I had woken him and angry that I was leaving. To my knowledge, my grandma was on her way to the grave and my dad wanted me to say goodbye. I didn't understand why he was acting that way; trying to hold me as a hostage, a prisoner.

He yelled, argued and whined. I saw the headlights of my dad's truck dance across the walls of the kitchen and I turned to the door to leave.

"I'm sorry," I was close to crying, "It's Omi."

He yelled more demands at me as I went through the door and trekked to my father's vehicle. Immediately upon entering, I knew I had been told lies. The atmosphere was thick and eerily heavy but it's as if I could smell exactly what was happening. Omi was fine. No one was in the ER. Somehow my parents knew the things that were happening and were here to help get me out. I knew all this before my dad even spoke, though I don't know how I came to this intuition.

I was scared, relieved, confused, embarrassed but strangely calm.

That was the night I escaped.

That was not the end of my story.