My Life as an Abused Wife
Domestic Violence: A personal experience
Thirty years ago, my boyfriend hit me for the first time.
We were arguing in the rented bedroom of his mother’s house. I was twenty-one years old, six months pregnant, and working myself through nursing school, with his help, of course.
The argument was something ordinary and forgettable. I was under a lot of stress, with a baby on the way and in a race to finish school so I could share in the responsibility of supporting a budding family.
He was intelligent and educated, having graduated college in engineering and had a new full-time job with responsibilities. He was also emotionally unpredictable and had an increasingly violent temper. He’d finally lost it.
That day I learned very quickly what he was capable of doing to me.
I’d felt trapped and unloved. My self-esteem plummeted with each degrading word that came out of his mouth:
I didn’t appreciate him. I didn’t respect him. Nobody except him tolerated me. How could anyone ever want to be with me and a baby? I wasn’t even attractive; I was fat and gross. How did I expect to succeed in this world? Look at me. I was a loser without him.
