Surviving Domestic Violence Pt. 5

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

My Kids

Those who know me personally know that I am a mother of three daughters. I believe my prayers kept them safe and protected through all of this.

I pray a simple prayer over my children most days:

“Dear Heavenly Father, please keep my children healthy, happy, and safe.”

To my recollection, my daughters only heard Frank and I argue once. It was my oldest daughter who heard us, and she told him off. He apologized to her and told her he didn’t mean to get loud with me, and that seemed to be sufficient for her.

After that incident, I had a very stern talk with Frank. I knew I couldn’t control him; however, one thing was clear —for whatever reason—he was afraid of my ex-husband. You see, my ex-husband is built like an NFL player. He’s 6’5” and somewhere between 260 and 300 pounds. I don’t know exactly, but that should give you a good visual.

Frank, on the other hand, was about 5’10” or maybe 5’11”, and he was scrawny. He definitely couldn’t fight a grown man—and he absolutely could not fight my ex-husband.

With that being said, I warned him one time, and one time only, “You better not ever put your hands on me in front of my kids, because if they tell their dad, it’s over for you.”

And that seemed to be a good enough warning for him—because he never did.

Most nights when I had my children, we were gone—at the movie theater, the park, skating, or basically anywhere away from that house. My girls were also very active in extracurricular activities, so we always had a practice or a game to attend. It kept us busy and away from him. On most nights, Frank worked late at the barbershop because he attended barber school during the day.

It gave me a lot of alone time with my daughters—time to make them feel safe and, in some ways, protect them from what they didn’t see when they were away.

I think that’s why I clung so tightly to normalcy. I was terrified of my cover being blown—of my children finding out what was really going on. Truth be told, the younger two only have good memories of Frank, to my knowledge. But my oldest daughter and I have mutually decided that we don’t talk about him. We don’t even say his name.

After the Breakup

I was so proud of myself when I finally broke it off with him. And truthfully, I planned it very thoroughly.

Frank was placed on house arrest because of the previous incident, which meant he couldn’t stay with me anymore. He moved in with his friend—let’s call him Jay. Jay lived in a house with a studio-style basement that functioned like a small apartment. It had a living area, a bedroom space, a full bathroom, with its own walk-in entrance.

And I know what you’re probably thinking: This would have been the perfect time. Why didn’t she break up with him sooner? That was your opportunity.

But when Frank was put on house arrest, we actually weren’t in a bad place. He hadn’t put his hands on me in a long time, and the storm felt calm. Even though I still wanted to leave him, things didn’t seem that bad. So, I decided to support him. He was in a bad spot—no place to go, still in school, working, trying to balance everything. I felt like he needed my help.

While he was on house arrest, he also had a breathalyzer. This is an important detail because he could no longer drink (well, for a few months anyway). I truly believe that was one of the main reasons why he wasn't as violent throughout the following months. It gave me a false sense of confidence. I know. I know.

It was also the holiday season, and I just… I can’t fully explain why. I have a lot of reasons, but none of them would make sense to anyone else. I just didn’t. But I knew I would need to—soon.

On the weekends when I didn’t have my girls, I would go see Frank. I’d bring him non-alcoholic beer, run groceries for him, and help keep the basement apartment clean—because Lord knows he didn’t know how to clean.

A couple of months went by, and I realized Frank was cheating on me again. This was after Christmas and New Year’s. After the holiday, Jay decided to sell his house and move out of state, which meant Frank had to find an apartment quickly.

He waws absolutely clueless about applying to apartments, so a friend and I decided to help him. We drove around to different apartment complexes in search of his new spot because he simply didn’t have the capacity to do it himself.  But I helped him get that apartment because I wanted to make sure, he—and his children—were okay before I ended things.

By then, Frank had passed his breathalyzer tests consistently and was deemed less of a risk, so they removed him from house arrest.

Once Frank got settled into his apartment, I broke up with him.

But of course, it wasn’t that simple.

One Night in February

When I officially broke things off, it really stirred the pot. I now understand why they say that after a victim leaves her abuser is the most dangerous time for her.

Frank would call me over and over again—so much that I almost changed my phone number. Sometimes he would call over 100 times a day.  But my entire life was tied to that number.

Business, contacts, money.

I had it since I was a sophomore in high school. So, the thought of losing my phone number felt like losing a piece of myself, and I just didn’t have it in me to lose anything else at that point.

One night, I answered his call and he invited me over to his place. He wanted me to see the new apartment and how he had gotten everything together.

He finally has his own spot. Somewhere his kids could sleep. He was supporting himself with the trade he chose. He had graduated from barber school that October, and I genuinely was proud of him.

I went. It must have been right before Valentine’s Day— I’m not completely sure.

I remember exactly what I was wearing though: a mock-neck, long-sleeve body con dress that hit mid-thigh. I remember the bra too. I still have it. It’s still broken.

When I got there, he cooked dinner and we watched a movie. But I made it clear I wasn’t staying the night. I was just there to see the apartment and calm the storm.

But Frank wanted me to stay.

I tried to leave. He wasn’t having it.

A lot of that night is a blur, and I apologize for that—but the important parts are vivid. If I remember correctly, Frank picked me up from my house or maybe I was already out with a friend, and they dropped me off there. All I know is that I didn't drive there myself. I remember this detail, because I tried to call an Uber so I could go home—and that’s what sparked our argument.

I wanted to leave; he wanted me to stay. I told him I already called an uber and he didn’t have to drive me back home—no big deal. But he snatched my phone and pushed me down on the bed. I tussled with him to get my phone back so I could leave—the Uber was already waiting outside at this point—but he wouldn’t let me go. By now, he won the tussling match and had my phone in his hands. He canceled the Uber and I felt defeated.

It happened so quickly.

Frank grabbed his Glock from on the TV stand and placed the tip of the barrel against my left temple.

He then told me to take my clothes off and dance.

I didn’t know if this was a joke or some crazy power trip—but having a gun pressed against my head was no laughing matter. I tried to act like I wasn’t scared, but truthfully, I was petrified.  

I took a breath and firmly said, “I’m not taking my clothes off, Frank.”

And then I did what I had done so many times before…. I played along.

He gave me an option, to dance or to clean his room.

So, I said something along the lines of "OK, fine."

I slowly slipped away from him and went to sit on the other side of the room. I kneeled on the floor, folding clothes, staring at him with this smug look—like, are you seriously f*cking doing this right now?

He went to sit at the corner of the bed directly in front of me. He stared at me for a few minutes, in silence, as I folded the clothes.

Eventually, he laughed. I know how insane that sounds, but that’s what happened. When he laughed, I threw a shirt at him then I laughed. The mood completely shifted.

He grabbed me, started kissing me, and then we had sex.

Now, I don’t remember if he took me home the next morning or if I ordered an Uber. What I do remember is completely breaking down the moment I crossed the threshold of the door when I arrived home.

What the actual $#%& just happened?