Last week I received word of an event that should have been met with absolute delight. My former husband, and former abuser, is finally going to prison. Not for any charges from me (I was never brave enough to press charges). Instead, for about 5 years worth of mounting assaults and violating protective orders against two other women who found themselves in his sights, and an assault on a disabled family member.
I'd always thought that when this day came (and I always knew it eventually would) I would finally breathe that sigh of relief, knowing I would never again have to be fearful of seeing him in my workplace, on the street, at events of those in-between kind of friends. What a delicious delusion that was while it lasted. No. My ability to deny every lasting effect he marked me with seems to have dissolved, and the rage I have suppressed for years now demands a voice, not only for itself, but also for the myriad of conflicting emotions I've swallowed over and over.
The anger I didn't expect, but I understand. Awful things were done to me by him. I deserve to feel angry about them. The part of the anger I didn't anticipate was the anger towards those who knew. After more than 6 years away from him, after finding a new life, after finding a love for myself that was previously lost to me, I was these people to know one thing: I am still not okay. And I still hate you.
Sure, sure. He didn't exactly beat me on schedule. In fact, the beatings were rather infrequent. But they still happened. Not as often as The Other Things, but they still happened. The Other Things, you ask? Like the time he pinned me to the floor with his full weight, wrapped his mouth around my ear, and screamed and screamed until I was disoriented and vomited all over myself. That was a gem. Or when he grabbed me by the hair and dragged me, neck twisted and violently cocked upwards, through the house. Or when he slammed my head into the stairwell wall a good dozen times upon learning I had started to see a therapist. What was it I was told? Oh yeah. It's not like he's actually beating me or anything.
For most of you, this history of violence in my life was only unveiled after I finally mustered the strength to get away from him. And this is where I get truly angry. You knew. You knew what he'd done. So why would you continue to seek out his companionship, one of you in particular after you had to stop him from killing me that night? Why would you tell him where I am, where I work? Why would you break into my bedroom when I'm gone, take pictures of the contents, and send them to him? Why would you defend him to me, tell me that I need to accept responsibility for my role in provoking him? Why would you bring him into my home when I was away and let him sleep in my bed? Why would you casually tell me all about how much you really like him, despite all the things he did to me, and that you look forward to hanging out with him again because he's actually "really cool to hang out with". Why would you tell me that I should be grateful to be "getting some" when I bared the humiliating and uncomfortable details of the sexual abuse I suffered?
Really, why? What in the actual fuck is wrong with you?
Those of you to whom this little piece apply know who you are. I want you to carry this with you, and always think of this in case you find yourself watching yet another person you "love" scraping for support and protection. I flinch at every raised voice now. I cringe when there are too many people in one area because I don't know who will get angry and start screaming first. I fly into a wild panic when I even slightly feel like I'm being trapped somewhere. All of these things you knew I was going through after I left him. All of these things you acknowledged. And you still helped him perpetrate further abuses with your dismissal of the seriousness of abuse. With all of this in mind, I want to leave you with this: FUCK YOU.
I am STILL not okay.
And I still hate you.
