Surviving Domestic Violence Pt. 3.1

Trigger Warning- This post contains explicit descriptions regarding domestic violence, emotional abuse and substance abuse.

If you or someone you know is in a dangerous situation, please don’t wait. Call the National Domestic Violence Hotline 1-800-799-7233

Back to Normal

After I Lysoled the blood away from the walls and the floor and the bathroom cabinets, things seemed to fall back into place.

Frank was angrier, though—I could tell. There was a feeling of distrust in the house we lived in because I didn’t trust him as far as I could throw him, and now he didn’t trust me because I was the one who opened the door to law enforcement.

But what else was I supposed to do? I don’t know.

It would be another year before I learned that the case file had been incorrectly processed, and the domestic violence case went untouched until the next incident.

For the next three months, things weren’t good, but they were bearable—livable. I could operate. My life didn’t feel impossible.

Even though he came right back to the house after all of this, Frank started cheating on me with the mother of his youngest child. But if I’m being honest, I didn’t care. I found out because I read a text message that came through his phone. Truthfully, I enjoyed the time he was away from the house. He acted like he was working late or spending time with his kids, but I knew what he was really doing.

I honestly hoped she would woo him well enough that he’d want to move out, get it his family back and leave me. I was kind of hoping he would dump me—but he never did.

So, I was stuck with Frank, and his mood swings became more aggressive.

Taco Tuesdays

I love a good date night. And Taco Tuesday became our thing.

On Tuesdays, we would go to a taco place off 39th Street. It’s closed now, and I don’t remember the name, but I do remember they had really good shrimp tacos. And being a pescatarian, I only had two options—fish or shrimp. Every Tuesday, like clockwork, once the weather warmed up, we’d go to this taqueria off 39th and Midtown and eat tacos.

Sidebar: there was a local rapper who used to hang out at this taqueria. I only knew of him because he used to mess around with one of my old girlfriends. He was known to keep the cocaína on him. That was my first inkling that maybe there was an ulterior motive for going there every Tuesday.

On this particular occasion, I didn’t feel like going out for tacos. I was tired from work, and I noticed I had a harder time getting up, going to the gym, and being attentive at work if I stayed out late on a Tuesday. So,I told Frank I didn’t want to go.

But he insisted.

I really, really didn’t want to go that night. But I knew what happened when Frank got upset, so I obliged.

We went to get tacos, and the local rapper wasn’t there. But we ate anyway. After we finished, Frank told me we were going to Velvet Freeze on 18th and Vine for drinks. I had already told him I had a headache, that I was tired, and that I wanted to go home—but Frank didn’t care.

In the midst of it all, I texted my homegirl Tay and told her we were headed to Velvet Freeze. She told me she was already out, and she would meet us there.

Tay and I had a cynical sense of humor. She had been through the kind of relationship I was in, so a lot of times we laughed to keep from crying—if that makes sense.

I knew when Tuesday rolled around, Frank became most aggressive. It was actually a running joke between Tay and me that on Tuesdays, I knew Frank was probably going to end the night badly.

A terrible joke, I know—but it was the truth.

Tuesday was supposed to be fun. Taco Tuesday. And honestly, looking back now, maybe that’s why I had the headache. I think my body knew what was coming next, and I just wasn’t in the mood for it. It was making me physically ill.

Nevertheless, Tay showed up at Velvet Freeze. We grabbed a drink, and I tried my hardest to look happy—but I couldn’t. I had a headache, I was tired, and I wanted to go to bed. I had work in the morning, and I AM HR. I have to be on my Ps and Qs.

Frank was socializing—walking back and forth, talking to his peers like usual. But he wanted me to look happy, and apparently my face wasn’t meeting his standards. I could tell my mood was messing up his groove. The more he looked at my face and saw that I wasn’t smiling, the more agitated he became.

Tay tried to lighten the mood. She overheard Frank telling me to smile, to get it together—people were watching. And I tried my best.

She said, “Come on, let’s take a picture.” I pulled up my Snapchat filters, and we took a selfie with a smug smile—almost like, here, are you happy now?

Frank jumped in and wanted to take a selfie with me too, but I couldn’t find it in myself to smile.

I really did try my best.

But that set him off.

Heading Home

I don’t remember the car ride home. What I do remember is getting to the house and him going on and on about how I post subliminal messages on Facebook about being unhappy, and how me not smiling in pictures makes it look like I’m not happy in our relationship—and that it makes him look bad.

I’m sorry I’m not good at faking my happiness with you. Please forgive me, is what I was thinking.

I probably said something like that somewhere down the line.

Sidebar: Frank knew that I bruised easily. I’m fairly light-skinned—lots of yellow undertones. So when I get hit, I bruise badly, and he knew that. One time after an incident, my legs were completely covered in bruises. Ever since then, he knew not to touch my face and not to hit me. So the next “best” thing was to restrict my airways.

You’ll hear that a lot.

He threw me around the couch, restricted my airways, and yelled at me. I don’t remember the play-by-play—it’s all a blur. But I do remember that it was raining outside.

I know this because usually, I would just wait it out. A lot of times, he’d wear himself out. If I could just hold on long enough, he’d stop, and we’d go to bed.

But that night, Frank wasn’t stopping.

He just kept going and going.

So, I did what I thought I needed to do. I ran.

I ran out of the house. I ran across the street. I don’t know where I thought I was going—I didn’t even have my phone. I just knew I needed to get out because I couldn’t breathe.

Frank stood in the doorway. I was across the street, looking back at him, and he yelled, “Where are you going?”

I didn’t know.

Then he ran after me.

It was almost like the rain snapped him back into reality. He chased me, caught me, ushered me back into the house, and then wrapped me in a blanket.

(Who said chivalry is dead?  Ok, ok. I’m sorry, that’s that dark humor I was talking about before.)

But I didn’t want to be touched.

I curled up in the corner of the living room with my back against the wall. I closed my eyes and fell asleep.

Halfway through the night, Frank woke me up and told me to come to bed. So, I did.

I hoped it would all be forgotten by morning.

***