“At least he doesn’t hit you.”
My friend meant well, but what she couldn’t see, what no one could see, was the destruction inside. Hell, I couldn’t even see it, much less truly acknowledge it. For nearly a decade, I hid behind a pieced-together facade of professional success, kind-heartedness, and a precariously strong faith. No one would have ever guessed what was happening at home—the emotional exile that nearly drove me to suicide, the words that left me crippled to the point where I struggled to function professionally, and even privately as a grown-ass woman, and physical threats that haunted my existance, paranoid to use the phone, to ask permission to go out with friends or visit family, or to dress up and look “too good.” How do I live like this? It was a question I never entertained seriously because to do so would assure a sort of self-destruction. Much like a character in a story, my reality was often held captive by a personality who loved delivering plot twists—cruel and demeaning were the tropes. If I’m making comparisons, he would have been an award-winning author. October is Domestic Violence Awareness month, and it would be easy to get lost in all the other “awareness” packed into a month that’s also full of the first crisp mornings of fall, pumpkin spice everything, and hayrides, harvest, pumpkins, and the spooky fun of Halloween. But domestic violence very often dons a mask, and it comes in many forms, not just the physical variety. A skilled abuser is always a manipulator. In my case, what challenged people in believing me (and why I never said anything for a long time), was the fact that my partner didn’t need to put his hands on me because he was a master at manipulating. I did the dirty work of running with it, letting all good sense and boundaries fall by the wayside…for love. But dammit, love shouldn’t hurt, and I hurt a lot, for too long. Writing erotica, and writing in general, was my escape. In my subsequent “escape” and recovery, some people have asked rather obtuse questions in regards to writing about sex, BDSM, morally gray, etc., and don’t I feel a little like I want to have my cake and eat it, too. My answer is always very simple: one is a choice you make and like within the confines of a healthy loving relationship and one is most certainly not. While the victim almost always has some work to do, being abused is not a victim problem. It’s a manipulation problem of the abuser. Peering in from the outside, it’s easy to look at someone’s issues and feel exhaust, disgust, disbelief, or even anger at the abused, especially if you’re a safe person or a friend. I get that. I no doubt wore out my two favorite safe people who waited on me to leave like they were waiting on the apocalypse. Separating yourself from your abuser is a wicked unwinding of a tenacious vine, its tentacles wrapping twofold for every one that is loosened. It takes a lot of internal work and support, but it’s worth it because it essentially breaks potential generational cycles—for the would-be abused and the would-be abusers. It’s the baby steps or the slow trickle of a stream that make big changes. Someone will appreciate your patient support. I promise. Thanks to my angels, I was able to leave and to thrive. I’m happy, confident, and a successful author because I was able to turn a shitty situation into fodder for my artistic expression. Thanks, asshole! It wasn’t the visible part of the iceberg that sunk the Titanic, it was what people couldn’t see that ripped a gaping hole that doomed it. Be an ally, be someone’s safe person, be aware that with domestic violence, it’s not always what you can see, but what you can’t. #loveshouldnthurt
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STELLA GRAEAuthor of the novel Just Call Me Confidence from The Wild Rose Press. Archives
June 2023
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