Rebirth
By now, most everyone knows that I survived mental and emotional domestic abuse that was so debilitating, I suffered an aneurysm. Even as I lay in ICU from July 21 through the 24th of that month back in 2009, I was unwilling to speak the fact that I had landed there because of the unending mental thrashing I had been subjected to for the near 16 years prior to that. I wasn’t willing to admit defeat in the constant fights with the man I was married to. You see, I suffered from Angry Black Woman Syndrome, but that’s not actually what I called it back then.
There’s a saying in the Black community that no one on the planet is as strong a Black woman. We’ve shouldered everyone and their problems from the beginning of time. From the days of slavery when our roles included everything from the master’s side-piece (both willingly and not) to the field hand picking cotton, we’ve done it all. While we were expected to be submissive, we were also allowed to discipline the plantation owner’s children. We’ve always helped others while maintaining that stoic, no-nonsense persona. All that resilience and fortitude finally became known as the “Strong Black Woman” stereotype. As stereotypes go, it’s not a bad one. The problem was, though, the line between being strong and angry somehow became blurred for me and I confused the two.
The anger from all those years of abuse finally swallowed me whole. I was angry because I had been mistreated. I was angry because I had allowed myself to be humiliated. I was angry because I was not receiving the love I deserved from the man I was married to. I was angry with everything and everyone, but more than anything, I was angry with myself. I refused to let my marriage go because I had been taught that once those vows were exchanged, you stayed, period.
That anger would not allow me to express my feelings freely so no tears flowed. There were no cries for help because that would have meant I was not strong or smart enough to handle my own business. At no point did I allow myself to lean on anyone. Everyone applauded my strength. Little did they know that there was nothing but hollowness and devastation on the inside. All they saw was strength.
On July 21, 2009, that wall of perceived strength came tumbling down when the headache of all headaches landed me flat on my back. Where I had been unwilling to reach out for help with the real issues in my life — the abuse, the fear, and the shame — my body decided to expose it all. The perpetual anger that had dictated my every move finally did what it does best: it destroyed its host body. That day when I realized I wouldn’t die from bleeding on the brain, I decided I would become what I had fooled everyone into thinking I was. I decided to use all the strength I had and rebuild the woman who had been lost.
No, I didn’t leave immediately following my recovery. What did happen immediately, though, was my refusal to accept the continued abuse. In my case, that meant no more arguing; it meant that I would never again expend energy trying to prove that I was worthy of another person’s love and attention. If it wasn’t given freely, I didn’t need it.
In the end, I was divorced in April 2013. There was no pomp and circumstance. There was no ticker tape parade. The day the judge’s gavel struck the table releasing me from that hell was one of the greatest of my life. Everything that I endured strengthened me to be the bridge that I am today for others to cross over on. I fully believe we’re all capable to being so much stronger than we think we are. Tap into it.
