"That Man Did Everything But Kill Me"

“That man did everything but kill me.” I use that sentence a lot in an attempt to describe the extent of abuse I experienced with my son’s father without having to relive it in detail. Most people hear that and say, "He put his hands on you?" I reply, "Yes" and that's as far as the conversation goes.  But when I say that man did everything but kill me, I mean that very literally. I was abused financially, emotionally, sexually and physically.
 

He’d take all of my money.  I never got to keep my paycheck, only enough to pay the bills.  I’d have to ask him for some of my money back if I wanted to buy something for myself.  I found out he took money from a few of the women he dealt with.  That was how he “took care” of me…with MY own money and maybe even some of the other women’s too.

It was no secret that he cheated on me.  He slept with many other women.  But still, when I’d refuse to have sex with him, he’d take it from me.  He raped me quite a few times.  Sometimes, I’d just lie there, and other times, he’d grab me by my hair and say, “Act like you want it, bitch!” and I would to keep him from getting angry with me.

I detailed the first time he put his hands on me in my last blog. I can't recall how many times he hit me after that. Whenever he was angry, that's what he did. He didn't even have to be angry with me. Sometimes, I think I just served as the punching bag.
 

One night, I remember, he had gotten into an argument with another woman he was involved with. He came to my apartment beating on the door. As soon as I opened it he pushed me to the floor and immediately began punching me, kicking me. He even spit on me. He kept yelling, "You ungrateful bitches!!!... I take care of both of you bitches!!!” He dragged me outside by my hair. I started screaming and yelling, and he kicked me so hard it took the breath from me. "Shut the fuck up! You gon send me to jail bitch?! HUH?! You gon send me to jail?!" I was supposed to protect him, even when he hurt me.  But it was nighttime and I could see the light from my neighbors’ windows as they were peeking out their blinds.

By the time the police came, we were back in the house and I remember still being afraid of him even though they were there.  He ended up having a warrant and they took him away.  I denied the assault but I knew the officers could tell by my disheveled appearance and teary eyes that I was lying.  I spoke very few words to hide the blood I could taste on my lip.  My son’s father stared at me the entire time, reminding me he’d bond out by morning… that he’d be back.  Somehow it became my fault he was sent to jail and in doing so, I had committed the ultimate act of betrayal according to him.

A supervisor at work, who also happened to be a friend of my family, called me in the office the next day. He lived in the building next to me. He had heard the screaming and eventually learned they were mine. I didn't deny it, how could I? I showed him my bruised legs and busted lip. He gave me the "leave him" speech I'd hear countless times over the next four years. 

He even beat me in front of his daughter once.  She cried and yelled at him to stop but he didn’t.  I felt so ashamed and my heart hurt for her.  No child should have to see things like that.

Why didn't I leave though? I honestly don't know. Fear played a major part. I went to the YWCA a couple times and sat outside thinking about entering their program for battered women. But our city was so small, the thought that he'd still know where I was kept me from going inside.

I never had to tell him I wanted to leave.  I think he knew I was miserable and he’d say, "If you ever leave me, I'll kill you."  To prove it to me he would pin me down underneath him and force a pillow over my face. He'd hold it there until I couldn't breath. The scariest feeling I've ever had in my life was gasping for air, desperately trying to catch a breath. My throat would burn. I'd be in panic because I couldn't catch any air. He'd stand over me and laugh.  That scared the shit out me.  To the point where he could just pick up a pillow and I’d begin to cry hysterically and beg him not to do it.  But that never stopped him.  I never realized until telling my current boyfriend this story a few weeks ago that he could’ve killed me.  He could’ve held that pillow over my face a second too long and that would’ve been it.

I used to pray to God that He’d take me from that situation because even though I wanted to leave, I didn’t know HOW.  I couldn’t figure out how to break myself away.

TO BE CONTINUED…