I am a 27 year old woman with 2 kids. The jewelry I wear are the bruises my husband gives me.
He needs neither drugs nor alcohol to bless my body with his fist. His anger is a constant volcano. Luckily our kids never get hit. They only hear my wails and screams; they only see the waterfalls flooding out of my eyes. They only walk around the blood and hair decorating the floor. In the corner they weep silently in fear. I tell them that “I am ok”, “mommy is fine,” “go hide in your room when daddy is mad.”
Anyways, I gave up after the first year he abused me. Now I tip-toe around everything. I try to make everything perfect so he won’t beat me. I am in constant fear. I am too scared to tell anyone. What if he kills me? What will he do to the kids? I always make sure the table is set the way he likes it, that there is enough food for seconds, and that it’s not bland. At family parties I fake my smiles and force my laughter. If only they knew the prison I was living in. My family asks sometimes, “What’s wrong”? “You look tired”, and I usually respond “oh just had a tough day with the kids”. In my mind though, I am shaking the bars, I am screaming, HELP! HELP ME, FOR GODSAKES!
When I shower I sometimes weep. You wouldn’t know if it was the water pouring from the faucet or from my tear ducts. I think to myself, what happened to the man I married, the charming, loving, and romantic Casanova? He disappeared the day we moved in together and peeks out when people are around. Oh how I yearn for family members to sleep over because that’s the only time I am safe. His pride would never allow anyone to see him hit a woman. The second they pack their things and leave in the car,….agony. He reminds me of all the things I did wrong while they were visiting, and out of respect to them he didn’t want to argue. You should know what comes next.
When the bruises are so bad, I avoid seeing anyone. I wear thick glasses to cover the eye shadow he puts on me with his fists. I wear turtle-necks to disguise the art he paints on my neck.
I remember one day I got a new recipe from the food network that I was excited to try. I was sure he would like it after a hard day at the factory. I thought it might bring out his good side, and maybe, just maybe a compliment. I cooked, chopped, baked, and cleaned for hours; it was a complicated but delicious French dish. I just wanted to make dinner special that night. He came in and I rushed to him, gave him a kiss and a hug and told him he was going to love dinner. He sat down and I served him a plate. He said, “What the hell is this shit?” “Can’t you fucking make something normal?” He took the plate and shattered it against the wall behind me. He followed with, “That shit better be clean when I get back”. “I’m going to eat real food you useless bitch!” The only sounds that I could hear besides the sobs of my kids and mine were the sounds of a slammed door and shrieking tires.
These occurrences are a commonality for me. But that day, that one day, my soul withered away and died. It was the day that I gave up, the day I knew the purpose to my life; to be this man’s outlet for anger, to slave in the kitchen and laundry room; to lie there lifeless and in fear with my legs open so this man could release his poison in me; to hold in my tears while he thrusts and sweats on top of me. To think, that long ago I actually enjoyed the sex. It was intense and passionate. Now, I just beg that my swollen face and bruised body would make me so unattractive that he wouldn’t want to fuck me. I feel like I am getting raped by a stranger every time.
This is going to be my life except for the few moments of joy my kids give me. I accept my role in life; maybe it will change the day he dies, unless he kills me first of course. If it weren’t for my kids I would kill myself now. I would tie a noose around my neck, stand on a chair, cut my wrists vertically, and kick the chair over. It’s my babies who keep me strong, they need their momma, and it’s tough for them as it is. They are my solace, my escape, the light to the sun, and the clouds to the sky.
I sometimes dream of traveling the world, having different lovers, going on romantic getaways at exotic locations. I quickly stop myself from having such fantasies — it’s torture, and that life is not something I deserve. I‘m not worthy of such things. I’m just happy he doesn’t hit me hard enough to send me to the hospital. A bruise here and there, a bloody lip here and there, that’s all. I would be so embarrassed to go to the hospital.
Last night, I asked God to kill him. Not a painful death, something peaceful, I wouldn’t want him to feel so much pain as I do. He is the father of my children after all. I wouldn’t know what to do without him, he does provide for us. But, maybe that wasn’t the best thing to pray for? I just don’t want my kids to see this anymore. His death would be my only escape.
I am not his “honey” or his “baby”. I am HIS “useless thing”, HIS “bitch”, and HIS “slut”. I wish I could fast forward life and press play at my death. Maybe then I’ll know peace?
I am a mother of two. I am 27 years old, and the jewelry I wear are the bruises my husband gives me.
***Thank you for taking the time to read my work. If you enjoy what you read; please share, like, and comment. All of these details help me drastically and will allow me to write more often. Thank you for your support!***