Surviving Domestic Violence Pt. 7

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

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God has a way of covering you in your time of need.

And I was in need.

Between the post-traumatic stress- from the abuse, the anxiety and paranoia- from the stalking, the depression- from the weight of it all, I was in a bad place.

To top it all off, Frank was going around town telling people that I was obsessed with him, that I had fabricated all of these lies and that he hadn’t done anything to me—even though he was the one with a house arrest anklet on.

But honestly? It did look crazy.

Less than a year prior, people had seen us together. He had to do something to “save face” because questions were starting to arise.

Why was he on house arrest for so long? What were the charges? What did he do?

He painted a picture of me as someone with a vendetta, someone who wanted to see him go to jail for no reason at all. He told people he was saving up for a lawyer to fight “the case.” Well—cases. Plural.

None of which was true.

Frank was spiraling. The thought of going to prison was eating him alive. And I’ll tell you why: with the charges he had incurred, he was facing up to 20 years in prison.

If his cases went to trail, he most likely would have gone away for that full 20 years.

All I had to do was agree to sit in court and testify.

The Covering

At this point, Frank was blocked… actually he blocked me on social media.

Right before he went to jail, for the last time, Frank went viral on Facebook. He and his new girlfriend, the one I ran into at The Daiquiri Shop—had a fallout on Facebook Live. It was recorded and shared all over the internet. I didn’t see it, but friends sent me screen recordings of the live video- which to me, was triggering.

About two weeks later, Frank was arrested in Kansas City, Missouri. One of his bail conditions was that he had to stay out of trouble. This arrest resulted in him being transferred to the Johnson County jail where he would sit until his hearing.

A few days after his arrest, he went viral again.  

The mugshot from his arrest was shared on the Johnson County mugshot Facebook page, and it got a lot of attention. Three-hundred and twenty-six shares.

I think it was the perfect storm—his loud presence on social media, the viral video, the public fallout.

This is where God stepped in.

You see, Frank had been telling everyone that I was out to get him. But when people saw the video and then read the charges, they automatically assumed it had something to do with the new girlfriend. Not me.

The charges were:

• Aggravated Battery / Reckless Great Harm – Felony 5

• 2 Counts of Aggravated Domestic Battery – Felony 7

• Aggravated Domestic Battery – Misdemeanor A

• Criminal Restraint – Misdemeanor A

• Domestic Battery (No Priors) – Misdemeanor B

• 4 Counts: Violation of Protection Order – Misdemeanor A

• Aggravated Sodomy by Force- Felony 1 

But their assumptions, covered me. I felt like the blame had shifted off me onto someone else and I could finally ‘hide out’ away from the drama.

God covered me- so I could begin to heal.

The Hearings

Still, mentally, I was not okay. I was in a very dark place. I knew I needed safety, not just for myself but for other women too. I wasn’t the only one who had suffered at the hands of Frank.

But talking about my personal experiences with him was hard. The thought of sharing my story in a court room terrified me.

I expressed this to the prosecutor. She told me straight up: if I didn’t testify, he would walk. The thought of testifying made me sick to my stomach but the thought of him out on the street plagued me more.

The prosecutor called me about 2 weeks after his arrest and asked if I would be okay with a plea deal. This option meant all I had to do was write a witness statement and I wouldn’t have to testify in court.  I accepted this offer, however, today, I regret it.

The prosecutor spoke to his attorney, and he responded by proposing probation.

Probation? PROBATION??

Seriously, did he even read the files? Did he understand what this man had done to me?

I said absolutely not. He needed prison time. I wasn’t safe. I knew that the moment he was back on the streets, he would come for me. Just months earlier, he had flattened the tires on Ron’s truck.

I needed to feel secure. I needed peace to heal.

So, I stood firm: no, he needs prison time.

The prosecutor working this case was relentless and went back to the attorney. I’m so grateful for her because she knew what he had done to me and she really fought for me. Had I taken the stand—if the cases had gone to trial—he would have gone away for a long time.

But I had no more fight left in me.

I had fought for my life.

I fought for my sanity.

I fought for my peace.

I fought for soooooo long.

I was still fighting, mentally, day in and day out. Asking me to testify in a courtroom full of strangers felt… insensitive.

She reassured me the choice was mine. That I didn’t have to agree to anything. That the power was in my hands.

Pause here.

After all those years—after everything he took from me—the power was finally mine.

Revenge would have tasted sweet. And it would have been justified. Every charge he faced?? He earned tenfold. There were photos. Evidence. Screenshots. Witnesses.

There was no way a jury could deny what he had done.

Or could they?

Doubt crept into my mind.

What if they didn’t empathize with me? What if they believed him? What if the evidence wasn't enough? What if he walked?

I sat in those questions for a few days. What if I went through all of the court hearings, Lord only knows how long the trail would have lasted- weeks, months even- just for him to walk free.

I couldn’t take that risk. I couldn’t give him another opportunity to lie and twist the story like he had so many times before.

So, we settled on two years in prison.

I remember that phone call like it was yesterday. I was staring out the window of the Americo building, where I worked—maybe the seventh floor, I’m not sure. I remember looking over downtown while going back and forth with the prosecutor about charges and the sentencing.

It didn’t feel like a win.

It didn’t feel like justice.

It felt like a loss.

By the end of our back-and-forth exchanges, he was going to prison.

And he accepted the plea because he knew the truth—and so did I.

Three months later, it was finally time for court.

My homegirl Tay came and held my hand. But I had no family to come support me. I hadn’t told anyone. Only my mom, but she didn’t come. That hurt more than I can explain.

In her defense, I really hadn’t told her what I had been through. Not in depth, anyway. Actually, to this day she only knows bits and pieces.  

I had written a victim impact statement. But when I approached the podium, my body started shaking. My voice was shaky and I began to weep. I had to cut it short.

Even now, there is something in my body that responds before my mind does.

It’s not fear—it’s pain. A deep, physical ache that starts in my chest and takes over my body.

I felt it that day. And I still feel it now.

But he was gone.

And I was safe.

Left with silence.