Sitting on the bench outside the courtroom, it became obvious my case was an inconvenience. I sat silently, passively listening to the conversations of jurors passing by. "I am so glad we got a lunch break, I don't even know why we are here," one woman said.
"I doubt he hit her," replied her companion. "She's obviously not afraid of him."
It hurt me to hear their comments. I had simply stated the facts, unaware I should have given an Oscar-worthy performance on the witness stand. Nothing had gone according to plan that day. After my husband was arrested for assault, I was busy picking up the pieces of my life and had trusted that the detectives handling the case were thorough. But the case was unravelling during the trial.
I knew what the jurors were thinking; my husband was petite and not visibly intimidating.
Even with visible scars on my body, the blurry photos of my injuries on the day of the attack cast doubt amongst jurors. How hard was it to take photos? The detectives had not even gotten that part of the investigation right. I knew what the jurors were thinking; my husband was petite and not visibly intimidating. Sure, we were equal in size, but he was still capable of hurting me.
What could I say to appease the jurors who were angry to be forced away from work and home? That my husband was small in stature, but full of anger — with demons I had yet to understand. That he had violently attacked me weeks earlier, prompting my decision to end our marriage, news he didn't take well. That I had no idea of the depths of his darkness, until he held a knife to my throat one morning.
When he angrily stormed out of our home, I did not know when I would see him next. I woke up the next morning with a knife to my throat. Disoriented from sleep, I experienced moments of confusion and fear as he threatened to kill me, choked me, and dragged me around our bedroom. He tore my nightshirt from my body, scratching my skin in the process. I tried to reason with him, though he did not seem sober; he was quickly scanning the room to identify objects that could be used as a weapon to stop him.
Eventually, he grew tired of beating me. When he left, I called the police. That was the last time I saw him before the trial. Fortunately, the jurors were convinced and he was barred from contacting me due to a restraining order. He was also forced by the military to pay the rent for the duration of the lease. I was more fortunate than most women.
A Long Road to Healing
I told a few close friends and relatives what happened. I grew overwhelmed with sadness for him — and for us. For years afterward, I lived in fear. Despite the restraining order, I would come home and find items missing from our apartment. I knew he had been there while I was at work. I kept a suitcase full of clothes and valuables in the trunk of my car until I could afford to move out. My mother asked me to move back home, to heal, and to start over.
Eventually, I moved into a new apartment. I opted to sleep on a converter couch in the living room, where the drapes were thickest and the air conditioning unit drowned out frightening sounds. I grew accustomed to checking each closet when I returned home from work. I rarely ventured out at night, because I never felt safe.
One night, however, my paranoia was justified. He had parked his car in my cul-de-sac overnight as a visual threat to me. And as soon as our divorce was final, I moved across the country.
Every corner of the earth seems unsafe once you have allowed a monster into your home.
Eventually I came out of hiding, but I did not speak about the experience again until my ex-husband began to harass me online a decade later. In my heart, I always felt that if he felt true remorse, he would offer a sincere apology. I never got one.
Nothing can prepare you for the trauma of being abused by the person you love most in the world. Every corner of the earth seems unsafe once you have allowed a monster into your home and realized neither your family nor the police can fully protect you from his violence.
Life was never the same, but I have adjusted to a new sense of normal. Years of introspection and a mental health counseling education helped me understand how my abusive childhood contributed to attracting abusive partners as an adult — and how to stop the cycle. Above all, I learned that no relationship is worth sacrificing my mental or physical well-being.
This post is part of an ongoing series of stories about domestic violence and abuse. If you or someone you know is at risk, reach the National Domestic Violence Hotline at 1-800-799-7233. If you are in danger, call 911. More information and resources are available at the National Resource Center on Domestic Violence or the National Online Resource Center for Violence Against Women.