Those Faces
Around 5:15 PM on Thursday, October 19, I walked through the doors of the chapel on Centenary College’s campus. Although I grew up an hour from that institution, I’d never been there before that day. I wasn’t sure I wanted to be there that day.
As I left work and headed in the direction of the college, I felt my anxiety level rising. I found myself having to pace my breaths because I knew if I didn’t, I would stop breathing altogether, as I’ve done many times before. Before that day, I’d had my anxiety under control for the most part, but the closer I got to Centenary, the more I began to shake.
I had been there about five minutes when I saw a few familiar faces headed for the doors, so I made myself get out of the car and blend into the line with those who were there for the Project Celebration’s Domestic Violence Memorial Service and Balloon Release. I almost turned around. It took everything I had not to get back in my car and drive away. I was shaking so badly, I could barely sign my name, but as always, the fact that I was shaking was only known to me. I steadied myself good enough to sign in the guest list.
I found myself doing what I do best — hiding my emotions, hiding my fear. I did an excellent job, as always, because no one there would have suspected that my insides were as mushy as jello. I’m good like that. Or not…
As I stood in that foyer waiting in line, I couldn’t help but see the collection table at the front of the church. To be honest, I was taken aback. I couldn’t see those faces clearly from that distance, but I knew that once I stepped into the sanctuary, they would become all too clear. I almost turned around.
THOSE FACES
As I walked down that center aisle, I kept my eyes averted because I didn’t want to look at the pictures on that table. There were so many images of women up there. There was a photo of a man up there, too. There were so many of them. They were all victims of domestic violence. Some had been shot, some had been stabbed. They were all dead. My picture could have been placed at the center of that table. I could have died because of domestic violence.
I was supposed to die on the morning of July 21, 2009, as the result of an aneurysm. Had I died that day, it’s unlikely anyone would have known that thing was the end-result of the domestic abuse I’d endured for the 15 or so years before that date. Most everyone would have chalked it up to a horrible medical tragedy. That’s the thing about mental and emotional domestic violence — it’s SO easy to hide it on the surface — the scars are invisible to the naked eye. I hid it for many years.
The day I landed in Presbyterian Dallas’ ICU, everything I’d thought was normal up to that day, was nothing more than a mental and emotional bloodbath. I had been living in that earthly hell for so long, and my abuser had so thoroughly convinced me that I was the problem, it would take intensive counseling for me to understand that nothing I’d experienced during that time with him was normal. None of his actions was my fault. Nothing about abuse is normal.
I could have easily been one of the faces of fatal domestic violence. With the exception of two incidences of spousal rape that occurred when he was sky-high on cocaine, there was no physical abuse. Trust and believe, though, that the mental and emotional abuse he subjected me too was just as deadly as any physical punches he could have thrown.
ABUSE IS ABUSE IS ABUSE
Just because you can’t see the exact spot where a blow landed, doesn’t mean it missed its mark. If there was a way for scars from mental, emotional, and verbal abuse to show up, I would have been black and blue from head to toe. So would millions of other women who are experiencing the “invisible” leg of domestic violence. You can’t see the bruises left to the mind and soul. There are signs to look out for, though.
I stopped caring about my appearance. As someone who would get up an hour early just to make sure my makeup was flawless and my hair was laid, one of the most obvious signs that I was under an inordinate amount of stress was the fact that I’d stopped wearing make-up and my hair was in a sloppy ponytail all the time. I also stopped dressing for any occasion. I wore sweats everywhere. I stopped caring about my eating habits and gained a tremendous amount of weight. I just didn’t care, and the farther I fell down that rabbit hole, the more ammunition my abuser gained to drag me down. In my mind, I’d become exactly what my abuser said I was — worthless. I looked and felt the part.
WHERE YOU CAN HELP, WHERE YOU CAN GET HELP
If you suspect a friend or relative is being abused, reach out. Don’t be demanding and don’t be overly aggressive, but let that person know you’re there to help. If you are being abused, there is help out there. I’ll list some numbers and websites below. These people can and will help you. There is no need to suffer. There is no need to feel alone, because you’re not. Help is just a phone call away. Domestic violence is not normal in any sense. Domestic violence is not your fault. Get help.
National Domestic Violence Hotline
1.800.799/7233
www.thehotline.org
Louisiana Domestic Violence Hotline
1.888.411.1333
www.lcadv.org
Project Celebration, Inc.
318.221.8003
www.projectcelebration.com
